     It was nearly three in the morning, and Viktor Krum was lying awake in bed, unable to sleep. His eyes ached with the need to rest, and his body was sore from a hard week, but his mind was kept aroused by that one phrase.
     '...the gallant losers...Bulgaria, the losers...'
     He remembered the roar of the enthusiastic crowd as his name was announced, he knew that every wizard in Europe knew his name, and he knew that he was the hero of his sport, and of his country, and he knew that those things should have made him proud. But none of that mattered, because he, Viktor Krum, the Seeker of the top team in the league, often called the best Seeker in history, had lost the game that his team had been the favorite to win, the Quidditch World Cup.
     Resigning himself to a sleepless night, Viktor wearily dragged himself out of bed, took a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt out of his closet, and slouched into the bathroom, turning on the light. Squinting in the brightness, he splashed cold water on his face, and wiped it off with a towel. After pulling the clothes on over his boxers and tank-top, he turned to face the mirror.
     He could not be called handsome, but there was something in his strong jaw, his curved nose, his blue-gray eyes, and in the way his dark hair fell lazily into his eyes that might have been appealing, if not for the angry, unsociable scowl he almost always wore. He was very tall, and although he was thin, chiseled muscles were etched into his body from many long and rigorous Quidditch practices.
     He glared at his reflection. How could he have let this happen? In his eyes, all of the glory that his team had won—that he had won—were gone in a single night. He blamed himself for the loss. The Ireland Chasers were the most skilled that he had ever seen, but he still could have caught the Snitch before things had gotten out of hand. He could have won the game for his team. But he had not; he had not played his hardest, and he hated himself for it.
     But, then again, it was only one of the things he hated about himself. He hated how the way the world thought of him seemed to depend solely on his performance in the most recent Quidditch match, and that nobody really cared about him as a person. He hated how he always got unwanted attention, and how the crowds always pressed in on him whenever he went anywhere in public. He hated how he was so awkward around people.  He felt that he never even had anyone to talk to, and that was why he had fallen for her...Simone...
     He cursed under his breath as he stomped out of the bathroom. He shoved his feet into a pair of black leather boots, grabbed his Firebolt, and marched down the stairs, stopping to pull on a jacket and to write a short note to his parents to tell them where he was going. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the dim, flat light of early dawn.
     He took a deep breath of the crisp, cold air to steady himself before mounting his broom and kicking off. Now, he felt, as he lifted away from the ground, he was leaving it all behind at last. He felt again the exhilarating feeling he always got from flying. No one could tell him what to do. No one could hold him back. He was free.
     But the ride was all too short. He touched back to the ground at the top of the mountain. This place, surrounded by the quiet, peaceful, evergreen forest, was his favorite place on earth. It was the only place where he could truly be alone with his thoughts. Most of the time he enjoyed the solitude, giving him a relief from the endless questions and pestering throngs that followed him wherever he went, but today, his thoughts were all but relaxing.
     He had spent a lot of time thinking about her in the week that he had been home from England; Simone, the beautiful, dark haired French girl who had come to Bulgaria with her father, a high-ranking official in France's Ministry.
     It had happened a little more than two months ago: Viktor had met her at a cocktail party where all of the important Bulgarian wizards were invited to attend, in honor of the French ambassador. Apparently, someone had thought that being an eighteen-year-old sports star qualified as being important to enough to spend an evening with all of Bulgaria's most influential leaders. It had been extremely dull, wandering around, sipping his Champaign and listening to bits of conversations that were being held, but joining into none of them. He had regretted coming, and was almost ready to beg leave of his host, when she had spotted him.
     How fitting it must have seemed to her that the she, the daughter of the honored guest, should make him fall for her, Viktor thought bitterly. She had slowly made her way to him, and had begun making pointless small-talk with him, but something about her had nonetheless captured his attention. Perhaps it had been the glint in her dark, playfully wicked eyes, or how that she casually batted her lashes when she looked at him, or maybe it was the way she quietly, seductively, seemed to pull him out the door and into the garden without even touching him. By the end of the night, she had already laid a light kiss on his mouth, and he fell to sleep with her taste lingering on his lips.
     Things had gone downhill from there.  He had thought that she enjoyed his company, but now he could see that she had wanted him only for two reasons: to lead around like a show dog, always clinging to his arm, and bringing him with her whenever she and her father went anywhere important in those two months that followed; and she had also wanted him to please herself.
     It had been pleasing to touch her, hold her, kiss her. She had been like a drug in the way that she made him forget everything--all his responsibilities, his worries, and most of all, she had made him forget himself. He had been so blissfully numb in their moments alone, that he made himself love her, however twisted the love was, and because of that, he had grown to believe that she loved him, too.
     After he had lost the World Cup, he could barely wait to see her again, to lose himself in her, but when he returned, she was gone. She had left a note explaining that she was disappointed in him for losing, for letting her down, and then she dropped all pretext and told him that she had never loved him. Cruel, spiteful, wicked Simone, he thought angrily, digging into the dirt with a rock. He cursed her, and cursed himself for falling for her, cursed himself for wanting her, wanting to feel the numbing power of her kiss. He hated himself because of her. He felt like he could never face himself again.
     The sun had risen now. He should have enjoyed the beauty of the golden light falling into the valley below him, but there was nothing but a smoldering anger inside him. He felt like all of it--the sun, the singing birds, the trees--was indifferent to him, to his suffering.
     Unable to stand this loneliness anymore, Viktor stood, mounted his broom, and began to fly, not home, but just to fly across the open sky, trying vainly to outrun his anger and his bitter resentment.
_______________
     "Viktor?" came a voice from the living room. "Is that you?"
     Viktor had just walked in the front door of his house from a long ride on his broomstick, soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his forehead. Though the sky had been clear when the sun rose, the unpredictable mountain weather had brought on a heavy downpour of rain that had come faster than a free-falling Firebolt.
     "My goodness, Viktor, you are very wet!" his mother said in quick-paced Bulgarian. "You ought to go straight upstairs and dry."
     He muttered something about changing his clothes, and when he was halfway up the stairs, his mother called:
     "And there is a letter for you on your bedside table."
     Viktor grabbed a towel from the bathroom to dry his hair, and then picked up the letter.  He immediately recognized the handwriting as that of his headmaster, Igor Karkaroff.  Puzzled, he tore open the envelope and began to read:
'Dear Viktor,
     'Something has come to my attention which I believe will interest you. For many months now I have been debating whether or not to tell you of this, and I have decided that it is for the best.
     'This year, which would have been your last at Durmstrang Institution, will be very different. Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of the British Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has spoken to me much of having more unity between our schools, and we have decided to revive the legendary Triwizard Tournament.
     Viktor stared at the words, unbelieving, and after a few moments, he sat down on his bed, continuing to read the letter eagerly.
     'I believe you know of this tournament between our schools, Viktor, but in case you do not, I shall tell you the basics. One student is selected from each of three schools, Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons Academy of France, to compete in a tournament of three magical tasks. The student who wins the tournament will receive a one-thousand Galleon reward, the Triwizard Cup, but most importantly, will be remembered throughout history as a champion of the wizarding world.
     'Viktor, I know that you will be the champion who is chosen from Durmstrang.  You will be the one to bring the glory to our school. I have confidence in you, as always. Prepare yourself, Viktor. I, along with all of your fellow students and fellow Bulgarians, will be waiting for the moment when you take the Triwizard Cup for Durmstrang.
     'Hoping you are well,
          'Professor Igor Karkaroff'
     Viktor read the letter over again, and then laid back on his bed, taking several  steadying breaths. It was all running through his head so quickly that he could barely straighten everything out. The legendary Triwizard Tournament...the champion of Durmstrang...remembered throughout history...he could bring glory to his school.
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And then it all fell into place. This was his chance to regain his lost glory. If he could win this tournament, if he could take the Triwizard Cup, then, maybe, he could find a way to forgive himself for all of his mistakes. Perhaps, finally, this could be the answer, the ray of hope that he had been starving for.