Chapter Text
Make Me Feel Alive
A Yuri on Ice/Harry Potter Crossover
By Sif Shadowheart
Disclaimer: Yuri On Ice and Harry Potter and their accompanying characters and storylines belong to their legal owners. This is a work of fanfiction created without compensation.
Author’s Note: Well…this happened. I’ve pretty much thrown characters and plot from two stories into a blender and hit puree. This is very non-canon compliant. Also SLASH, since it’s me. I’ve also changed the ages a bit with the YoI characters Viktor and Yuri to make them a bit closer in age as well as closer in age to Harry, so there’s that. I should also mention that the events of HP were moved up to make Harry’s age more realistic.
Chapter One: Completely Oblivious
Viktor Nikiforov was the odds-on favorite to win another gold at the Men’s Single Figure Skating Grand Prix, which was set to begin at Sochi in two days. It was familiar territory for Viktor, at twenty-four he’d been competing at the men’s single figure skating senior division for eight years and had four golds at this competition to show for it, as well as four gold World Championships, and golds from the European championships, the Russian National Finals, as well as many others, even an Olympic Gold, though the last had been the hardest-won gold of his career as he’d been going through puberty – and his subsequent Gold Medal drought in the “unspeakable years” – at the time of the last Olympics, which were coming up again next year. He wasn’t completely unbeatable, but at this point the Senior Men’s division was well-aware that winning for Viktor Nikiforov was more likely than not.
Frankly, he was rapidly approaching boredom and already considering that perhaps next year would be his last year.
He was approaching his late twenties, turning twenty-five this Christmas, which even for the best figure skaters was usually the death-knell for their careers – and that was barring any extensive injuries.
Viktor’s knees hurt more than they used to, the same with the rest of him.
And if there wasn’t a challenge anymore…why bother putting himself through it?
Viktor loved winning as much as the next competitor but it was the competition, the challenge of keeping everything fresh and new and surprising that he lived for…and that was starting to wane.
Coming up on twenty years into a skating career, he honestly didn’t think the skating world had much ability left to surprise him, and there was always someone younger and hungrier than you once you reached the top of the mountain just waiting to knock you down.
Maybe ending on a high really was the best way to go…
But, in the end, those were all worries for another day, for on this day it was two days until the beginning of the Grand Prix and the Men’s Short Programs and Viktor needed to join the others in his three-skater group 2 for their warm-up and practice sets.
At the Grand Prix Finals, like with many competitions, the lowest ranking skaters went first with the first-ranked skater going last, meaning Viktor was paired with the second and third ranked skaters for this first round, which might – and often did – change for the Free Skate programs two days after the Short Programs were complete and a new ranking took shape.
If that wasn’t enough to distract him from his troublesome thoughts, then the sight that met his eyes once he left the locker room in his plain black workout clothes was as along with himself and his friend Chris, the top men’s senior skater from Switzerland who was ranked second this time for the opening short program, there was someone Viktor had never seen before taking the ice…and after watching the stranger skate a moment, that was the only way he could think to describe it.
The man – strong and almost too muscled for a sport that tended to emphasize elegance over athleticism – was dressed in unrelenting black. But where Viktor claimed short silvery-blond hair, pale skin, and sparkling blue eyes to contrast with his standard all-black workout wear, the stranger had black hair pulled back in a tight braid and golden skin, Viktor unable to see his eye color from a distance. And he skated like every move was a challenge.
Not to himself, but to the ice.
He didn’t elegantly glide or smoothly coast for his warm-up, no.
He took the ice, as if challenging it to keep him grounded as his force and speed – for the few moments Viktor watched undisturbed – threatened to send him leaping into the air.
Viktor would be willing to bet, just watching him for those scant moments, that when this one took to the air, he didn’t fly or soar, but defied gravity to pull him back down.
The only person in recent memory Viktor could compare it to was either JJ Leroy from Canada who was infamous for his consistent jumps and verve or even the premier danseur from the Bolshoi he’d seen performing before the start of the skating season…other than himself, of course.
“Hey, hey Viktor!” Chris called out in his attention-grabbing way as the Swiss skater came over to meet him as Viktor stepped onto the ice, the stranger tilting his head a bit but never turning or deviating from his warm-up spins and spirals. “There’s my Russian heartthrob!”
“Hello, Chris.” Viktor smiled warmly at his friend as they started to skate idle loops around each other, Christophe Giacometti staying in step with him as they chatted. “Congratulations on your Gold in France.”
“Ah, thanks thanks.” Chris fluttered his eyelashes a bit at the dashingly handsome Russian, his heart giving a little flutter along with them, even though Chris was happily coupled up with his hockey player, even Theo would agree that Viktor was worth a bit of a swoon. “Double golds again for you this year, huh muffin? Rostelecom and Skate America, tsk.” Chris shook his head in mock disapproval. “So greedy.”
Viktor laughed along with his friend, Chris always knowing how to lift his mood as they both moved into a more intense warm-up, the two of them sticking to one end of the rink as the stranger stayed to the other side.
“Who’s that?” Viktor finally asked as their warm-ups wound down and it was time to do run-throughs of their Short Programs.
“Hmm?” Chris arched a brow then looked over at the dark-haired skater in surprise. “Oh! Viktor.” Chris scolded in dismay. “Why do you never keep track of the other competitions? Or the other competitors besides your friends and rink-mates?”
Viktor just shrugged. “You know I’m bad at remembering…”
“Yes, yes.” Chris sighed waving a hand. “If it doesn’t have to do with food, Makkachin, or your own routines, you have the memory of a goldfish. Honestly, I’m surprised you even bother keeping track of me somedays.” Chris craned his head around to check where the subject of their conversation was located then leaned in, whispering. “He’s an out-of-nowhere competitor this year, completely took everyone by surprise, eighteen years old, never competed in the Senior Division and stubbornly stayed local to make a mark on the British Novice and Junior divisions, has been the Junior British Champion for the last two years but never goes international despite invitations, then shows up and snags golds at both the Scotland Regional Qualifier and the British National in the Senior division and – glory of glories – accepting the invitation to move into the International sphere.”
Viktor raised his brows in surprise at that. Now that was odd, to say the least. Skaters don’t just come from nowhere and step up into the international level their first year in the Senior division, making it to the Grand Prix. It’s almost unheard of. Viktor had done it his first year, and Yuri likely would next year, but they had been Junior International champions before that. Not little national champions who refused to leave their little island home.
“Anyone know why?” Viktor asked, referring back to their conversation after they both were finished with practice and heading out to eat, their silent group-mate still out on the ice, likely trying to maximize his practice time before the officials shooed him away. Chris and Viktor both had solid Short Programs – and were veterans of this level of competition – not requiring every single second of preparation they were allowed.
“Hmm? Oh, the delicious dark horse.” Chris smiled knowingly at Viktor who blushed a little. They’d been friends since they were sixteen and fourteen, Chris was well-aware of what kind of boys – or girls – his Russian dumpling preferred. “Well, rumor – strictly rumor mind – has it that he was a rising star in the Novice division, much like you and Yuri were. Then just as he made the jump to Juniors at eleven, he stopped competing Internationally and stuck to British competitions, doing just enough every year to qualify for the National, usually either short events during a weekend or more challenging cups on school holidays.”
“School.” Viktor twigged it. “He was at a school that didn’t have a competitive skating program.”
“That’s what the rumors say.” Chris shrugged. “He’s eighteen now, and whatever he was doing at that school must have worked despite it truncating his professional career. Took Silvers at Canada and France, so I’ve seen him skate myself. Very athletic and powerful, lots of stamina, but a little short on making artistic flair and presentation combine with his athleticism.” Chris shrugged. “He’s a bit rough and raw, like you’d expect from a skater with his background. Needs a coach or a choreographer – or a better one if he already does.”
“What’s his name?”
“Harry.” Chris answered with a smile. “Only you could be so completely oblivious to your fellow competitors, Viktor. His name is Harry Evans, age eighteen, from either Wales or Scotland depending on who you ask.”
Hmm. Viktor thought. Very interesting.
…
The man in question was indeed squeaking in some extra rink-time.
Harry Potter-Black, known as Harry Evans in the skating world to buy him a bit of anonymity, needed every second on the ice he could get.
He only had two years after all, two years to decide if professional skating really was what he wanted to do with the next decade – give or take – of his life. That was how long he’d asked for a hold on his post-Hogwarts offers. And with Voldemort dead – really, truly dead – in his first year thanks to some help from his Dad Siri and Papa Remy, there really wasn’t anything to stop him other than himself and the expectations of the Wizarding World.
As far as that lot was concerned, including the majority of his friends, he was taking the next couple years to do a “Grand Tour” and sow a few wild oats before settling down into a Quidditch career or teaching or becoming an Auror or Healer or Unspeakable or something else appropriately impressive.
With, naturally, a spouse followed quickly by two or three children to carry on the Potter name, since his younger brother Romulus Leo Black-Lupin had the Black title well in hand…or would someday since at four years old, Rome was a little young for finding a good match to make Lady Black.
It had all started with his Mum.
Lily and James Potter had decided, however reluctantly, that it was too dangerous to have them both out in the field fighting in the War, and since of the two of them James was the more vicious dueler, Lily was nominated for stay-at-home researcher, spell inventor, and Mom.
Still, even with everything on her plate, Lily was worried about going barmy tucked away in their little house in Wales for months or even years on end until Voldemort was defeated.
Remus was the one to save the day – and Lily’s sanity – with the suggestion of the Mam & Baby and Mam & Me classes that had been advertised at the birthing center where Lily and the three-of-four Marauders had all participated in her pre-natal classes. A suggestion that Lily pounced on in a manner Moony would have been most proud of, signing herself and an infant Harry up for first Music and then a yoga class where until he was mobile Harry would hang out on Lily in a sling. And as Harry grew and eventually became mobile, more and more were added, even if they were just once a month or so, James even stepping up and doing some at-home classes with Harry on more “manly” things like fencing, dueling, and both horseback riding and flying while Lily kept going back to the center and having a ball with baby gymnastics, baby dance, and baby art.
And then came the Halloween after his first birthday.
…
Godric’s Hollow, Wales, All Hallows Eve, 1999
“Prongs! Lily! Harry!” Sirius shouted and screamed for them as he arrived at the wreckage of his best-friend’s cottage.
The Fidelius had been all well-and-good, but Sirius was a Black, as was his cousin James through his Mum, and to a one they were all a tree-full of paranoid bastards and bitches, leading the two of them to put up an alert ward that would warn him if anything violent happened inside the wards.
He’d been with Remus when they went off, the two of them hashing out some things that had seemed strange lately with their fourth friend, Peter’s, behavior.
Especially with Albus’s suspicions of a traitor in the Order.
It would have been easy – far too easy – for each of them to suspect the other, one a werewolf, the other a Dark Wizard, each drawn by nature to the Dark Lord and his Crusade and Cause more than their Lighter counterparts.
But they were mates, a bond deeper and stronger than family or friendship or loyalty.
And there was no way they would doubt one another for one moment, no matter what the others, like Peter, whispered.
“It’s down, Pads.” Remus yelled frantically as they piled off his enchanted motorbike, running pell-mell for the house with Sirius shifting into Padfoot to keep up with his enhanced werewolf speed. “The wards, they’re all down!”
Pads gave a responding mournful howl as they both knew what that meant – Voldemort had found them.
If they were lucky, they’d find the bodies, mostly undisturbed from the Killing Curse.
If they weren’t, the scene they’d be walking into could be so much worse than just losing their pack-mates and their only pup and cub in Harry.
A howl that turned into a human cry, quickly joined by Remus’s own, as they found the still body of James lying face-up at the base of the stares – but that stopped moments later when they heard an answering cry, a faint young voice crying and calling for “Mumma, mumma” coming from up the stairs.
Without a second glance at their departed friend, Sirius and Remus jumped the stair railing, rushing up the stairs in disbelieving hope, feeling another piece of their hearts break off and shatter at the sight they found in the nursery – Lily crumpled and pale, lips already turning blue in the cold early-morning air, and Harry screaming and crying with a cut upon his head, pushing himself as far forward against the crib rails as he could, trying in vain to wake his mother with one hand outstretched in supplication to the still form.
Silver eyes quickly spotted the empty black robe, the scattering of ash, and the terror-inducing wand in the room.
“Get Prongslet.” Sirius snapped as his mate as he rushed around the room gathering up a diaper bag, a set of clothes and jar of formula, and other things they’d need to take care of a toddler for at least a couple of days.
“Pads…what…?” Remus asked even as he lifted a snuffling Harry up into his arms, wrapping him in the blanket Lily had knitted for him while she was pregnant in mint green with a golden edge, softly shushing and soothing him, trying to rock him to sleep as he watched his mate in perplexity.
“Look.” Sirius pointed at the pile lying far-too-close to Lily and the now-empty crib. “He’s gone, but something tells me not dead, otherwise we’d be hearing the fights and cries and even celebrations all over the country by now as Death Eaters reacted to their marks disappearing. But they’re not so he’s not. And Albus is going to know that. You think he’s going to just blithely sit by and let this new “Prophecy Child” be raised by a Dark Wizard and a Werewolf?” Sirius snorted softly as he swung the packed bag over his shoulder. “I don’t think so.”
“What are we going to do?” Remus asked, panic kicking back up even as he kept his voice calm for the sake of the sleeping baby who had quickly worn himself out and let himself fade into sleep once his Uncle Moony had him safe in his arms.
Sirius gave one last pained look around the house before disapparating out to his motorbike, Remus right behind him, starting it up with a furious kick, he jumped on, Remus sliding behind him and maneuvering the pack into the saddlebags so it wouldn’t hit or jostle Harry.
“Gringotts first.” Sirius yelled over the roar of the engine as they took off for the closest branch, which for Wales was very much a split decision between Dublin and London. But then…why in the world would Sirius Black, let alone with Harry Potter in tow, ever visit Gringotts’ Dublin? Without another thought he turned the bike west across the Irish Sea. “Once the wills are ordered read and I’m officially recorded there as Harry’s guardian, there’s nothing Albus can do about it! And since the baby’s gone, they’ll have to look for both him and us before they try and lodge anything with either the Ministry or the Bank.”
The Black Retreat, Spain, Two Days Later
“Tell me, why have you come, grandson?” Lord Arcturus Black, still strong and vital despite his ongoing and seeming never ending convalescence on the Spanish coast, demanded an answer from his visitor. “Perhaps having to do with why Mims,” the Black Head Elf, “has informed me you have opened our most ancient stronghold and taken up residence at Castle Black with your mate and a child not your own in tow, hmm?”
Cantankerous old bastard, Sirius thought with no little affection.
“Always on top of things, even hundreds of miles away.” Sirius gave a small smile after bending and giving the Lord of his House a proper kiss to the cheek in greeting.
“Naturally.” Arcturus said as he waved his reprobate of a descendant down into one of the chairs in his sunny drawing room. “As will you be one day, when you take up the mantle of Lord Black.”
Sirius snorted softly. “Mother will do her nut when she finds out you never disinherited me, no matter what actions she took on her part.”
“Walburga is a hot-tempered and often unconscionable woman.” The Lord said bluntly. “I never should have given into my cousin’s request for a match between them. Two least suited people I’ve yet to meet in all my years than my Orion and Walburga. And I fear you and your late brother have paid a hefty price for my failure to rein them both in. Now, tell me.” He grew serious. “What has transpired?”
“Jamie is dead, grandfather.” Sirius reported, eyes and voice heavy with grief.
Arcturus lowered his head, shaking it slightly back and forth in the only expression of grief he would allow himself over the death of his beloved cousin’s son, then lifted his gaze back to eyes he’d given all his descendants in one shade of grey or another.
“And his young wife and son?”
“Lily…” Sirius’s voice shook with repressed tears. “She killed him somehow, Voldemort. But he’s still not gone and I fear he’s going to return and come for Harry.”
“He’s with you then, good.” Arcturus nodded firmly, feeling a large spark of respect for the pretty muggleborn witch his distant relative had married. It was a more than formidable opponent who could take down a Dark Lord – however temporarily – even at the cost of their own life. “And you will raise him at Castle Black, yes? If anything happens to you, he’s the next Heir.”
“What about Cissy’s boy or Andy’s girl?”
“Pah.” Arcturus snorted in disgust. “Malfoy may be rich and pretty, but that boy of his will be spoiled rotten, mark my words. And your cousin, well, she had to have her own way with choosing her husband didn’t she? Chose a muggleborn, which would have been acceptable if he had distinguished himself in anyway as a powerful wizard but no, not that ‘Puff. Until you and that mate of yours deign to have a blood-child to carry on the House of Black, Harry will be the Black Heir. Raise him to be as strong and great a wizard as his father would have been, as his grandparents were, my Sirius. That’s all the advice I can give you, seeing as how I failed my own descendants.”
…
Castle Black, Scottish Highlands
“How’s he doing, love?” Sirius whispered as he entered the nursery in the Lord’s tower of Castle Black, where he found his mate sitting and reading while keeping watch over a napping Harry.
“Fine, fussy from all the change, doesn’t quite understand yet, but fine for all of that.” Remus reported, setting his tome aside as Sirius lowered himself elegantly down onto his lap, wrapping one arm around his strong neck. “He doesn’t like the scar-removal paste from the Healers, but that nasty thing on his head is steadily disappearing, should be gone by the end of the week.” He paused a moment to receive a soft kiss from his handsome love then asked: “How did it go with your grandfather?”
“Got the go ahead to use the Castle, so that’s one worry taken care of.” Sirius told him as he cocked his head a little to read the title on Remus’s book. “The Grieving Child: A Parent’s Guide?”
Remus shifted a bit uncomfortably. “I know you don’t really understand the muggle psycho-babble that Lily and I talk…used to talk about,” he caught himself, feeling his heart clench just a little at the slip of his tongue. “But it has a lot of ways to help Harry deal with losing them Pads, especially since losing parents – and in such an awful way that he was witness to at least part of – so young and…” he hesitated a moment before finishing. “Since neither of us is the kind to go in for mind healing or a muggle therapist, I think it’ll help us, well, deal with what this war has done to our family too.”
“Ok, Moons, ok.” Sirius soothed him, turning a bit on his lap and wrapping his arms around his mate, looking at him without a drop of teasing or joking. “What does the book say we can do to help Harry?”
“We’ve already done part of it, making his new home as comfortable and familiar as possible.” Remus told him. “And there’s a whole list, but one of the big ones I think is keeping up his normal routine.”
Sirius nodded, understanding that bit. Kiddos thrived on routine, Lily had beaten that into his head when she first had the pup. Plus, and he’d never admit it to anyone, not even Moony, but he’d read a book or two about kids and raising them when Lily first got pregnant. Harry was the first child of their pack…and he’d been convinced he was going to completely bollicks it all up.
“Wait.” His trained of thought quickly derailed when something poked through from a conversation with Prongs. “You don’t mean all those…weird Mummy classes do you? Moony!” He whined, sounding far too much like his Animagus form. “We’re men! How are we going to take Prongslet to classes meant for Mothers and their children? And where? Cardiff is a bit of a jaunt from the Highlands you know…”
Remus laughed under his breath, Sirius’s reaction everything he’d hoped it would be.
“Yes, I mean those.” He said firmly once he’d gotten his voice under control. “But no, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal if we move him into ones in Edinburgh instead. And we can take turns.” He offered. “I’ll do the more “mummy-centric” classes while you can take over ones that are more mixed with mums-and-dads or heavier on the dads, yeah?”
“Which ones were you thinking?” Sirius asked, eyes still squinting suspiciously at his mate, sensing a trap.
“Well…”
...
Harry’s new guardians had kept their word, and Harry had started back up with his classes within a week, all the while oblivious to the political wrangling going on due to Sirius’s statement to the Wizengamot that Lily Potter had been the one to defeat Voldemort, not Harry and that he would not be moved to forfeit his guardian’s rights to the newly dubbed “Savior.”
Dumbledore had been pushing for Harry to be placed with his maternal aunt, in complete disregard for the wishes of his deceased parents who had explicitly forbidden that exact thing.
Then when he’d learned Harry hadn’t been affected at all – from what the old man could see – he’d spent months faffing about in frustration as all his attempts to work events in the favor of the Light were stymied by the guardians of the two most-likely bearers of the Prophecy.
Which his guardians – dubbed Dad Siri and Papa Remy within a year – told him as soon as they believed he was mature enough to understand it, about the time he was set to enter Hogwarts.
Remus and Sirius switched off squiring him to his toddler classes in dance and music and gymnastics, with Sirius taking up where his best-friend had left off with the boy’s “pureblood” education in the finer arts of the sword, dueling, and horseback riding, shaping him into a true all-around gentleman.
Harry soon became old enough to make his own wishes known, which was when his combined-style dance class was joined by ballet when an excited three-year-old pulled his Papa Moony over to the glass door of the ongoing class after Harry’s combined class and pointed rather urgently at the other little boys and girls in their tights and sparkly tutus. Sirius had thrown a holy fit, not wanting his pup’s whole life to be taken over by pretty little girls in tutus and tiaras…at least not yet. Harry had gotten his ballet classes, but he’d also been put in the tot’s karate class that was held at the same center as his gymnastics classes.
A smart man, and a trained educator, Remus had taken over his schooling, while Sirius dug into all the “horrible lordly shite” he’d avoided like the plague before he found himself suddenly possessing a ready-made family that needed to know their husband and dad was going to come home at the end of the day. Harry had already lost one set of parents, and Merlin knew while he could be a giant prat, Sirius wasn’t going to deprive him of another. The Auror office understood his position, even though with all the losses in the war they hated to see him go.
But it was a good thing he did.
Because after almost ten years of being Heir and later Lord, Black, and watching his pup grow from tiny toddler into a handsome and very talented athlete, one day Voldemort came back.
And Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were right there when Harry called them in a panic over a loose troll in the school, arriving within minutes and launching an investigation that ended with the end of Voldemort in a four-way duel between fathers-and-son and the Dark Lord, who actually managed to stay dead this time.
…
Sochi, Russia, Present Day
None of that was on Harry’s mind that morning however, as he practiced his routine in the quiet of the rink until he was shooed out to make room for the next group to practice their routines.
No, all that Harry was thinking of was the decision he’d made to put his other life on hold, the life everyone wanted for him, while trying to create another life out of a childhood dream, the life that he wanted for himself.
Somedays, when his feet were bleeding and his whole body hurt from practicing the same jump over and over again, he gave thought to owling one of the professional Quidditch teams and changing careers – for all of a minute.
Then, his love of the sport and his ability to nearly make himself fly without a broom when he leaped from the ice took back over.
Two years, he’d promised himself.
Two years to either meet his goal of a gold in a major international championship or to go home.
With the British Gold under his belt in the Senior division and taking second at both of his qualifiers for the Grand Prix this year, he wagered he was well on his way.
It helped that his return to the international ice in the Senior division had been totally unexpected by the skating world after spending seven years stubbornly treading water in the realm of the British Juniors – much to the frustration of many, especially his former teachers and the coach whose summer camp he would attend before being kicked out for lack of commitment to the sport.
Though, he laughed to himself as he changed alone in the locker rooms, he supposed he could’ve picked a more realistic goal considering who he had to compete against on the Senior International level.
Viktor Nikiforov was a beast.
A beautiful, artistic, graceful skater, but a beast nonetheless known for being the first skater to land a quad flip in competition as well as for the height and distance of his jumps.
Harry was athletic, one of the most athletic figure skaters Britain has put up to the international level in years, and he knew that and played it up with high-energy and high-intensity programs that scored well technically but usually took hits in the performance scoring.
Viktor could do it all.
And worse, for anyone attempting to win against him, he did.
He wasn’t inconsistent like a lot of other skaters since leaving his two years of puberty hell behind, he didn’t seem to ever get nervous or to psych himself out. He just composed unique routines and then performed them flawlessly…usually, since even a near-perfect skating machine like Russia’s prince got marked down for mistakes every now and again. Performed. Harry mused a bit over the word as he shrugged into his heavy coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, shouldering his bag with his workout equipment as he prepared to brave the icy Russian winter for a cab back to his hotel.
Thankfully, with as many skaters with their teams, organizers, and other personnel coming and going, cabbies were spending a lot of time hanging out around the entrances at the rink and the official hotel.
That was it, Harry decided. Viktor performed. He was an actor, his routine was the story, and the ice his stage. It was no wonder audiences and judges alike loved him. He could become anyone based on the story he decides to tell each season.
This year he was being a bit morbid from what Harry’d caught of his gold-medaling performance at the Rostelecom Cup in Moscow, going with music from Requiem To a Dream and Motzart’s Lux Aeterna from Requiem.
The Requiem theme the Russian had chosen had a lot of fans and commentators worried he might be considering retirement after this season.
Harry didn’t really have an opinion on the matter either way.
Yeah, it would suck to lose such a talented skater, but it would make winning easier without Viktor to try and topple from his gold medal domination.
But then…
Harry startled the receptionist at his hotel with an out-of-character grin, having cultivated a reputation as a bit of a recluse since he didn’t really have the connections to other skaters that most of them did, what with taking a massive step back from the sport pretty early on.
What fun was winning if it wasn’t against the best?
And say what you liked about Viktor Nikiforov…he certainly was that.
Plus, it wasn’t like he was hard on the eyes, either.
…