There is a severe lack of good Harry Potter x Viktor Krum fanfictions on this site, and it is devestating! So, I'm going to do my part, and adding some!

Title: Anthem of the Angels
Summary: Horribly abused, Harry knows his days are numbered—and it is only made worse when his name is pulled from the Goblet of Fire. Hiding secrets he's never told anyone, one Bulgarian suddenly finds himself very interested in the Boy-Who-Lived, and the other Champions are eager to help and befriend Harry when he's given up hope.
Warnings: Abuse, gore-like descriptions, toying with the canon time line.


The compartment was silent, only the sounds of the Hogwarts Express chugging on the rails echoing in the heavy air with the occasional turn of the page from Hermione. Ron was gazing absently out the window, drumming his fingers against his knee every now and again as his eyes flickered to his two friends. The dark haired boy who shared the compartment was asleep, his head resting against the window while he curled into the corner as much as he could. He had told his companions that he hadn't been getting sleep, that nightmares of You-Know-Who were plaguing his subconscious, but it was a lie. In fact, the teenager hadn't dreamt in weeks; in reality, he was suffering from heavy blood loss, his veins not carrying enough oxygen through his body. He managed to make a blood replenishing potion at the Dursleys, in his little cupboard late at night when they were tucked safely in their beds, and it sustained him for a little bit. Judging by the way his abdominals were swelling, he was suffering from internal bleeding—at least, that was what he read in one of Petunia's dusty medical books.

"Harry, wake up," Hermione called, shaking his shoulder. The pain from where her fingers brushed was enough for his consciousness to rouse, dulled emerald eyes blinking open slowly as he sat up but didn't dare stretch his body. Instead he nodded his thanks, though the bushy haired girl had already turned away, and stood up to leave. Immediately, a light headed feeling met him, vision going black for several seconds before he managed to get ahold of himself and follow Ron out, neither friend none the wiser. It was dark out, the first years chatting loudly in both excitement and nervousness, and Harry found them to be far too loud, an ache the size of his fist growing in the left side of his head.

The walk to the castle was uneventful, though with every step Harry found himself more and more thankful he was finally to the place he called home. Where stone walls and the touch of magic would comfort him, where he wouldn't be called a freak and beaten without cause, where he could occupy a space larger than a closet and eat actual food. Yes, he had a scare that he wouldn't survive this summer, what with Vernon acquiring a hunting knife from a friend at work, but here he was, walking between Ron and Hermione and feeling the fresh air of the night. He was alive, and he had survived.

By the time they reached the castle, his breathing was labored, and he was sure he was going to pass out, the aggravating ache of his right ankle becoming all he could think about, all he could focus on so he didn't lose his consciousness. The lights of the Great Hall brought a warmth to his heart as he took a seat at the table with Ron beside him and Hermione across from him. They had made small talk along the way, bringing up summer or who they had heard from, but Harry couldn't bring himself to focus or participate. Instead, he was quiet, nodding or shaking his head when a question was directed to him, speaking only when absolutely necessary because of how terribly hoarse his voice was, vocal cords damaged from strangulation. The first time he spoke, to answer Hermione's questions of what classes he'd be taking, more questions arose, his friends wanting to know why he sounded the way he did. He lied, naturally, telling them it was from a muggle cold.

When Rupert Hagrid had shown up at the little house on the rock in the sea, and told Harry he was a wizard, the truth of his entire life seemed to make sense right at that moment. Petunia always told him he was worthless, a freak, lucky she dared even look at his disgusting persona. Vernon was no better, worse, in fact; always saying he'd beat the 'freak' out of Harry, before punishing him for just breathing with a belt, lighter, anything he could get his grubby hands on. Dudley was a nasty combination of his mother and father. The reason for their cruelty was suddenly so obvious, it was a wonder he couldn't figure it out before—they hated magic. He was hated, beaten, starved, just because he could do something they couldn't. He made odd things happen, so he couldn't even claim their reason was unjustified.

He tried to tell someone when he came to Hogwarts. First, he told Hagrid, who told him to tell the headmaster, Dumbledore. It took a while for him to get to the man's office, and at first, Harry was hopeful. The headmaster seemed kind, was pleasant to talk to, and acted almost like a grandfather—until the subject of Harry's abuse was brought up. The man kindly told him that he was young, exaggerating on what was obviously a disagreement in the family. The young boy wanted to shout, pull of his robes and show the Headmaster it was not a disagreement, it was wrong, but he chose to stay silent because of the steeled look in the wizards eyes. Dumbledore wasn't the only one he tried to tell, but they all essentially told him the same thing. He was eleven years old, didn't know what abuse was, or that he was the Wizarding World's savior, they'd never beat him. The worse response of them all had been someone accusing him of crying out for attention. So, he never brought it up with anyone again, and it got increasingly worse each year he returned to the Dursley's house.

The Headmaster gave the same speech he gave ever year, changing a few words here and there, but Harry didn't pay attention—couldn't, really. He was struggling to stay awake, propping his elbow on the table top to keep him up while his eyelids drooped. Ron elbowed him once because he had fallen asleep. But finally, Dumbledore concluded the feast, the sorting was complete, and dinner was served. As eager as he was to get food in him, the teenager knew his stomach could not handle something of large quantities, or very solid. So he settled with a piece of dry toast, and half a glass of pumpkin juice, quietly passing it off as not being very hungry.

Later that night, tucked under the safety of his invisibility cloak, Harry made his way through the halls with quiet, careful steps, the marauder's map open in front of him to monitor whoever might be out, since it was close to one in the morning. Avoiding teacher patrols, he arrived to the infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey was already tucked in for the night. He found the cabinet, and took all the supplies he'd need. Several blood replenishing potions, bone reparations, salves for bruising and burns, bandages and nutrient potions. With his newly acquired supplies, he headed back the way he came, and instead of going to the Gryffindor commons, he headed for the second floor girls lavatory, where he wouldn't be interrupted by anyone aside from Moaning Myrtle, and she was already sworn to secrecy.

This was his routine. Every year back since his second, he would sneak into the medical wing and take what he needed, before hiding away to tend to his wounds. Several blood replenishing potions were needed, and he oftentimes needed to go back for more because his healing magic was nonexistent. Bandages were his only hope for stopping cuts from bleeding.

Setting his things down on the counter, he was pleased the ghost was not present. She never said much when he came to mend himself, though she stared and stared, and it made him uneasy. He sighed softly as he released the glamours he'd been wearing, though made sure not to look into the mirror. It had been three years since he looked into a mirror. Carefully, he stripped the blood drenched robes from his body, having cast a sponge-charm on them so they didn't drip all over the floor in the transit to Hogwarts, before looking down at himself. Nearly every inch of his body was covered in bruising, ranging from blue to purple to a sickening yellow, and intermixed with the abrasions were cuts of different depths and lengths. Several of them were obviously infected, requiring disinfectant and no doubt healing potions, but that just wasn't something he had, or was willing to seek.

What if he went to Madam Pomfrey, asked her to tend to him? She would tell Dumbledore, and Harry was one-hundred percent certain that the man wouldn't help. He'd be treated, certainly, but Dumbledore would never solve the root of the problem—the Dursley's. Harry would be fixed, and sent on his merry way, until next year. Though Harry was certain he wouldn't survive another year.

Eyes cast down at his naked body, the teenager sudden felt ill with the disgusting state he was in, and barely managed to bend over the sink before he was purging everything in his stomach—the juice, dried toast, and blood, the latter liquid nothing new. With a dry heave, he leaned up, and set to work trying to prolong his survival just a little bit more.

Is there a fanbase for this pairing? If there is, I would love reviews on what you think of the story! Chapters will hopefully be longer in the future!