vaznetti | possibly the most "me" meme ever

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vaznetti

As seen just now on

musesfool's livejournal:

Give me two characters from two different fandoms with which I am familiar, and I will invent a relationship for them. And if I'm not familiar with them, I will make something up. Hell, I'll make something up anyway, so...

This meme has "me" all over it. Seriously.

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From:

yahtzee63.livejournal.com

Jack Bristow and Viktor Krum.

From:

vaznetti

Viktor loves to go out into the Muggle world, where no one knows him. It's not something he can admit to, certainly not while he's still at Durmstrang, but once he's finished there, and once the war is over -- the war which leaves him doubly famous, the sports-star double-agent, and too many of his friends on both sides dead -- after that he gets away whenever he can, out on the anonymous streets of Bucharest or Belgrade, wherever he happens to be, the comforting shabby apartment-blocks rising in their socialist concrete on every side around him.

The war may be over but the habits which kept him alive through it don't fade: he watches the exits, looks in window-glass to check behind him, even keeps track of Muggle cars when he's out on the street. He's always been observant -- you have to be, to be a seeker -- and it's a skill he's honed on the Quidditch pitch and off it. His life has depended on it, in the past.

Now, he thinks, he sees too much for comfort. The older man, waiting in the Buda cafe where Viktor is sitting, wasting an afternoon with cake and a newspaper -- he doesn't quite fit. Too subtle for anyone else to notice, but his very casualness is a sign for Viktor. And once he's seen that man, he can't help noting the others, sitting against the wall, in the corners, their Muggle weapons cleverly concealed under their jackets; Viktor's hand goes to his wand even as he thinks that he should walk out of the cafe, pretend he saw nothing, no business of his. Instead he takes a bite of cake, drinks a sip of tea, waits for whatever signal will start the action.

It's not long; a man crosses the room to the counter, jostles the older man's table, reaches out to steady the cup. The older man stands up as if to apologize as the first man staggers -- for real, this time -- and slides into a chair. The other four men are slow to their feet but they're still blocking the exits. Viktor's in motion before he's had a chance to think, as someone shouts in German for a doctor. The older man is heading for the back door, and Viktor gets their first, petrifies one of the waiting thugs and just shoves the other one out of the way; the older man gives him a half-surprised glance as he goes. Viktor follows, out past the bathroom and through the kitchen to a dirty alley-way.

"Who sent you?" the man asks. "Not Sloane." German, and he has no accent, but that's not his native tongue. Viktor's sure of it.

They're out of the alley now, out on a busy street. Time to split up, certainly: this man's business is none of his. Viktor bows slightly, awkward in Muggle clothes, and answers in his rusty English. "Not Sloane," he says -- whoever that is -- "I'm one of Dumbledore's men, myself."