iliya viktorov krum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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gooseberryhigh2018-04-25 07:36 pm
iliya) wrote in gooseberryhigh2018-04-25 07:36 pm
Entry tags:
Letters from home, for Iliya's birthday
During breakfast, an owl carefully drops a package in front of Iliya. It contains a musical pocket watch (silver in colour, with a glass back that reveals the workings of magical clockwork) that plays Clair de Lune, foldable steel pocket knife (with a 3 inch blade and a polished hardwood handle), and several bars of Honeydukes chocolate. Also included is a letter, written by Iliya's mother:
During lunchtime, another owl arrives—a pair of large owls, carrying a long paper-wrapped package between them. The shape of it is unmistakeable. The accompanying letter is written entirely in Bulgarian:
Unwrapping the package reveals a vintage Firebolt broom.
Dear Iliya,
Happy birthday, darling! Your nan and I are already planning the party for when you come home this summer (just the three of us, promise—unless you want to bring a date?) but in the meantime, enjoy your gifts.
How does it feel to be of age? Nan wanted to give you this heirloom pocket watch, but I insisted on something brand new. The last thing you need today is to be bogged down by reminders of where you came from and whose name you're upholding and how we miss you terribly blah blah blah. You're your own man now.
I always knew I couldn't keep you forever. For awhile there, Nan thought you'd be the retiring type, but I knew better. You've got a restless heart, like me. Nowhere feels like home to you, not even home. But if you're lucky, as I've been lucky, you'll find that feeling in a few special people. Maybe they'll end up on a whole other continent, maybe they'll disappear for five years and show up one day out of the blue, or maybe they'll be lost in a more permanent way. But so long as you hold them in your heart, you'll find your way home again.
For 17 years, no one was "home" to me as strongly as you. Wherever I wandered, you were always there to come home to. When you were at school, your letters provided the steady rhythm of my life. Now it's your turn to go off on an adventure, and to make the grand mistakes that you'll tell your children about when they're shy, easily embarrassed teenagers. But please save a few stories for your mother, for whenever you happen to be in England.
(The knife is a hand-me-down, though. Genuine Sheffield craftsmanship, it'll get you through whatever, whenever. Remind me to tell you the story of how I almost got mugged in Chile.)
Love,
Mum
P.S. Do try to share the chocolates with your friends instead of eating them all yourself.
Happy birthday, darling! Your nan and I are already planning the party for when you come home this summer (just the three of us, promise—unless you want to bring a date?) but in the meantime, enjoy your gifts.
How does it feel to be of age? Nan wanted to give you this heirloom pocket watch, but I insisted on something brand new. The last thing you need today is to be bogged down by reminders of where you came from and whose name you're upholding and how we miss you terribly blah blah blah. You're your own man now.
I always knew I couldn't keep you forever. For awhile there, Nan thought you'd be the retiring type, but I knew better. You've got a restless heart, like me. Nowhere feels like home to you, not even home. But if you're lucky, as I've been lucky, you'll find that feeling in a few special people. Maybe they'll end up on a whole other continent, maybe they'll disappear for five years and show up one day out of the blue, or maybe they'll be lost in a more permanent way. But so long as you hold them in your heart, you'll find your way home again.
For 17 years, no one was "home" to me as strongly as you. Wherever I wandered, you were always there to come home to. When you were at school, your letters provided the steady rhythm of my life. Now it's your turn to go off on an adventure, and to make the grand mistakes that you'll tell your children about when they're shy, easily embarrassed teenagers. But please save a few stories for your mother, for whenever you happen to be in England.
(The knife is a hand-me-down, though. Genuine Sheffield craftsmanship, it'll get you through whatever, whenever. Remind me to tell you the story of how I almost got mugged in Chile.)
Love,
Mum
P.S. Do try to share the chocolates with your friends instead of eating them all yourself.
During lunchtime, another owl arrives—a pair of large owls, carrying a long paper-wrapped package between them. The shape of it is unmistakeable. The accompanying letter is written entirely in Bulgarian:
Iliya,
Your mother says there are important traditions for when an English wizard reaches his majority. I am leaving those to her. If you are in Bulgaria for your name day, we will celebrate then.
Still, it is important, the day a boy becomes a man. For me, that was when I joined the Bulgarian National team. No longer my father's son, a boy playing on an old broom with friends, but someone whose name people would remember for me and my achievements alone. I wonder if my name has been a burden to you. I fear have not been the kind of father you needed, as I find myself failing, again and again, to know the right thing to say when you admit to struggling.
I understand my own father better now that my son has reached this age. He knew more about Quidditch than I know about music, but not much more. For my 18th birthday, he gave me a set of metal-charming tools, like he used in his trade. I was angry. There is little use for metal-charming as a Quidditch player, and I thought his gift meant he believed I would fail. Now I see the care he put into crafting each tool, and how they have lasted through the years. Still sharp, and the magic still fine and precise.
He was not the most eloquent man. Neither am I. This is the broom I was given when I competed in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. One of the finest brooms I have ever flown, it carried me through more than 100 games for almost a decade. I know, from seeing your cello, that you will take good care of it.
Regarding your last letter: there is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me ashamed to call you my son. Happy birthday, Iliya. Your siblings hope to see you in July.
Your father, with pride
Your mother says there are important traditions for when an English wizard reaches his majority. I am leaving those to her. If you are in Bulgaria for your name day, we will celebrate then.
Still, it is important, the day a boy becomes a man. For me, that was when I joined the Bulgarian National team. No longer my father's son, a boy playing on an old broom with friends, but someone whose name people would remember for me and my achievements alone. I wonder if my name has been a burden to you. I fear have not been the kind of father you needed, as I find myself failing, again and again, to know the right thing to say when you admit to struggling.
I understand my own father better now that my son has reached this age. He knew more about Quidditch than I know about music, but not much more. For my 18th birthday, he gave me a set of metal-charming tools, like he used in his trade. I was angry. There is little use for metal-charming as a Quidditch player, and I thought his gift meant he believed I would fail. Now I see the care he put into crafting each tool, and how they have lasted through the years. Still sharp, and the magic still fine and precise.
He was not the most eloquent man. Neither am I. This is the broom I was given when I competed in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. One of the finest brooms I have ever flown, it carried me through more than 100 games for almost a decade. I know, from seeing your cello, that you will take good care of it.
Regarding your last letter: there is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me ashamed to call you my son. Happy birthday, Iliya. Your siblings hope to see you in July.
Your father, with pride
Unwrapping the package reveals a vintage Firebolt broom.
no subject
The second gift, however... Iliya stares at the paper-wrapped package. He absolutely doesn't want to open it, because it's obvious what it is, and who sent it. But it's also impossible for Iliya to ignore any attention from Viktor Krum, so he glances down at the letter. It's more words than his father has even spoken to him in one sitting. Iliya reads the last few lines several times, remembering exactly what it was he wrote in his last letter.
He takes a deep breath, and unwraps the broom. Oh God, it really is his father's Firebolt. This is absurd. He needs to take it out of here before any of his roommates see him with it. Wait, too late. Fuck.