Bulgarian Bon Bon

Dear Hermione,

Everything is all set for your visit to take place in three weeks. Sorry to hear that Ron will be away with his family, but Harry tells me he will be coming with you. I think he will like the workouts with the Quidditch team. Bulgaria hasn't hosted the internationals for about ten years. Should be exciting. You will have a good box seat. Meet you both in London bright and early the 15th. You should love Sofia. The library is huge, and so is the museum.

Viktor

She folded up the letter and slipped it into the zippered pocket of her carry-all bag. She had read it dozens of times, wearing deep creases into the parchment. Hermione wondered if Ron was still sore at the two of them for agreeing to visit Viktor during the period when he and his family were going to be visiting Bill in Egypt and Charlie and his dragons. While Ron loved Quidditch, Hermione didn't think he had quite forgiven Viktor for being older, famous, and asking her to the Yule Ball. She could tell he had been torn when Viktor had written them and extended his invitation to both Harry and Ron, so Hermione wouldn't be alone in Bulgaria during her visit.

His owls had been somewhere between outright envy and outrage at the two of them for visiting the famous seeker without him. Stupid jealousy, really. Ron sometimes felt the same about Harry. She went and petted Crookshanks, telling him goodbye. He and Hedwig were staying here, with her parents. Later, when they moved on to the Weasleys before heading back to Hogwarts, Mr. Weasley had promised to Apparate here and pick them up. In exchange, Hermione's parents would also look after Pigwidgeon while Ron and family were gone.

Her mum and dad drove her to the Dursleys to pick up Harry. "Hermione, I'm so glad you're not going by yourself. Sure, he seemed like such a nice boy when he came here for that weekend, but I still feel better sending you to Bulgaria with someone else you already know. You are only fifteen," her mother said over the seat.

"Me too, Mum. Viktor will be practicing and playing a lot. Could get kind of lonely by myself without Harry. Wish Ron could have come too. He was all hot about me getting to see the internationals when I don't know the first thing about Quidditch, according to him."

At the Dursleys, Harry fairly flew out of the house, racing to the car. "Hey," he said, bouncing into the back seat. "You guys don't know how glad the Dursleys were to see you drive up. First of all, it meant they were getting rid of me well before I go back to Hogwarts, and cars don't arouse the suspicions of the neighbors, those dear, respectable folk."

"Where exactly are they?" Mr. Granger asked, peering at the still house.

"Oh, they're afraid to come out. I can't quite seem to convince them that you're mug-, I mean, non-magical types." Harry grinned at Hermione. "So, Hermione, where are we meeting Viktor?"

"He's going to Apparate near Charing Cross Road. He's given us an address, we're going to meet at a shop there. Then we'll take the portkey to Sofia." "Ah, so he has got his license then! I wondered if the ages were the same elsewhere."

"Yes, he Apparated here for a couple of visits, one a few weeks after school let out, a three day weekend, actually. We went to the movies and ate hamburgers and milkshakes, mostly. Oh, and he finally made a breakthrough on pronouncing my name. He kept apologizing for butchering it, but there aren't a lot of names like mine in Bulgarian. It was kind of cute anyway. Still sounds nice and foreign when he says it, but it's more recognizable. He makes it sound kind of exotic."

"Not many like it in English. Ordinary Muggle stuff, that seems all exotic to him, huh?"

She looked up and sadly shook her head, "More like things he doesn't get a chance to see in Bulgaria or at Durmstrang. Actually, his parents live, somewhere up north near the Russian border, sort of a small farm. Pretty rural, from what he said. And during the communist years, I don't think they had a lot of contact with Muggles outside of a very small circle. I got a hint that wizards there went pretty deep underground, kind of kept to themselves. He seemed pretty curious about Muggles from other places. I think his mother works with some Muggles, though. Even Muggles in Bulgaria have a tough time getting to the English films. He knows a bit about Muggle money. The pay he's getting for Quidditch with the Vultures, I get the feeling a lot of it goes to his parents. I gathered that maybe they're not that well off. He said something to the effect that he was lucky he was picked to play for the World Cup and with the pro team, since it earned more than enough to pay for his tuition and books for the year. Said it saved his parents the expense. I get the feeling he's not even at Durmstrang as much as you would think. He mentioned being tutored on the road."

"Oh," Harry looked embarrassed. He immediately thought of Ron, and how embarrassing Ron found it when people pointed out that the Weasleys didn't have very deep pockets. "I didn't realize ..."

"I wouldn't dwell on it if I were you, he seemed a little, well, embarrassed by it when he told me. Not nearly as defensive as Ron, but he does seem a little overprotective of his parents. They all seem a bit... proud, I guess."

"Here you are darlings, Charing Cross, and there's the address. Let you out here, you can wait in the cafe there until Viktor shows."

"Thanks, Mum."

"Thanks, Mrs. Granger." They slammed the doors and stepped out onto the sidewalk, strolling into the cafe.

"We're early." Hermione observed.

The cafe was largely deserted, it being an odd time of day. Only one table was occupied, and they were quite surprised to realize who was occupying it. "Ron?" Harry asked, gaping, "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, waiting for Viktor. Mum and Dad asked me which I would rather do. Bill had been by for an unexpected visit, stayed at the Burrow for weeks, so we got our visiting in. Charlie, he managed to get away for a few days too and come while Bill was there. I decided I would like to see the internationals, more so than the dragons, even though my poor brother's heart was broken." Ron put his hand over his heart in mock solemnity. "Seriously, I just wanted to go with you two. So where is ickle Vicky anyway? Can't tear himself away from his adoring public long enough?" Hermione glared at him. Ron indicated the empty chairs. "Sit already. The milkshakes are pretty good. Muggle money does come in handy for some things."

"Ron! Not so loud!" Hermione admonished. Soon, the three of them were sipping at chocolate milkshakes, eyeing the door.

Shortly, they saw a tall, angular shadow walk by the side window, coming from the back alley. "Is that...?" Harry asked, trailing off when Viktor Krum pushed open the cafe door and walked in. They would barely have recognized him, if they had run into him by chance. He had put on ten pounds since Hermione saw him last, which filled out his slender body slightly. He looked more... healthy, she thought, even in those few weeks since he had last been to England. His dark, hawkish features were the same, but he looked less sallow, more tanned and ruddy, as though he had been spending long hours outdoors in the sun practicing. His longer black hair was slightly tousled, pleasantly unruly, but glossy. He was garbed in a plain black tee and slouchy jeans and hiking boots. Characteristically, his hands were firmly in his pockets unless he was using them, and the incongruous duck-footed walk was still there, but he looked shockingly at home in this completely Muggle setting. Even his shoulders were more relaxed. Somehow, he seemed less weighed down. He didn't even look grumpy, as Hermione had described him upon first seeing him.

He looked just as at home as Hermione. Harry, as usual was swallowed up in a sweatshirt that was a hand-me-down from Dudley and a good two sizes too big. Ron, not used to dressing completely like a Muggle, had actually managed a decent outfit of cargos and a buttoned shirt, but he was far too fascinated by the velcro pockets on them, electric lights, Muggle money and the milkshakes, he treated those like a newly discovered delicacy. Catching pieces of their conversation, the waiter had eyed them like they were hosting an eccentric exchange student. Funny, Harry thought, he's the only foreigner, yet he's more comfortable in this scene than Ron and me.

"So you are all here already. Good. Milkshakes?" Viktor pointed at their glasses.

"Yes. Milkshakes. Did you want one before we go? You need money for one?" she asked, reaching for her purse.

"No, no, I haff no need for one. And I haff money, just in case. Muggle, British and Bulgarian." he said, patting one jean pocket with his hand. "Vizard money on the other side. Not much time, anyvay. Portkey leaves in fifteen minutes." he said, looking at his watch. They finished their milkshakes, paid (after some quick explanation to Ron about which bills were which) and gathered their things. Viktor scooped up Hermione's bag, putting it on his shoulder. "Let me get that. Help?" he offered his empty hands to the boys, but they both refused. "Ron, I am glad you vere able to come. You vill like the internationals."

Ron stuck out his lip and looked at Viktor. "Yeah, I bet I will."

"So, where is this portkey?" Hermione asked as they went out onto the sidewalk.

"This vay," Viktor replied, steering them back up the alley he entered from. They walked over three buildings, and Viktor hunted behind a recycling bin for a few minutes before coming up with an empty milk jug.

"This is it." he declared, holding it out by the handle for the others to touch. In a few moments they all felt the familiar tug behind their navels. They found themselves in an alleyway very similar to the one they had just left. "Sorry to make you carry your bags, but there is a very good restaurant in Sofia. Ve can eat there and then take the other portkey to The Pavlova."

"Pavlova?" Ron asked. They shouldered their bags and set off, the unburdened Hermione and Viktor leading Ron and Harry by a few feet.

"Home." Viktor said simply. "It used to be an inn. Ve still call it by its name. It was passed on and on, down to my mother, by her family. My father keeps sheep on the land, my mother vorks in Sofia. She vorks with historical documents, keeping them whole, copying them..." he looked at Hermione, searching for the word.

"Ummm, an archivist?" she hazarded a guess.

"Yes! Archives! She does some translations from Russian, too."

"Your mother speaks Russian? Wow." Harry breathed.

"Not so impressive. Her grandmother vos Russian, and her grandfather. My father has Russian ancestors, too. She speaks some English but not much. My father, not as much English. I spend all my summers before the Institute either helping vith lambs or in the museum or library. Broom every night out in the orchard since I vos seven."

"Do you speak Russian?" Hermione inquired.

"I can get by. And Russian is the semi-official language at Durmstrang. Is a beautiful language. I only vish I spoke it as vell as my mother."

"Can't speak much less English than he does, can they? He doesn't speak much of anything, ole silent Vik there..." Ron stage whispered to Harry from the corner of his mouth.

"You speak a second language? Or a third?" Harry muttered back, annoyed now by his friend's negative attitude. Viktor had been nice enough to invite them, after all. Ron colored and his freckles all but disappeared into his flushed face.

As they emerged from the alley and onto the sidewalks of Sofia, the three Britons paused. It was a city so bright and clean it looked fairly polished. The buildings were cool white stone or plaster work, warm red brick, bright jewel colors decorating the insides. Small crowds ambled from shop to shop. It looked almost as though it were right out of the ancient Orient. "It...it's beautiful." Hermione breathed.

"It is a pretty place." Viktor agreed. "Come on, Korrina Sofia is down here. Best food in town."

They stepped into a small, dim cafe, lit with candles and lamps. A pleasantly plump woman with blonde hair strode over. She wore a flowing, silky robe, that suited her regal and commanding demeanor. "Viktor!" This was followed by a flood of excited Bulgarian. She seemed to be making a great fuss over him, so much that he shyly stared at his boots when he wasn't answering. She bustled them all into a back room, painted in a beautiful Moroccan red, accented with gold and silver here and there, calling "Priem! Priem!". Candles lit the room, and there was a small table set up.

"She velcomes us, you particularly as my guests," Viktor said, as she stood beside their table and beamed at them.

"Surely that wasn't all of it?" Ron said, "Sounds like she read you a chapter from War and Peace." Harry kicked Ron sharply under the table.

Viktor blushed. "She asked about how Quidditch vos going. She bets on Bulgaria vhen I play." Viktor lifted his shoulders in a "what are you going to do?" kind of shrug.

"Well, whoop-de..." but Harry pasted his shin again before Ron could finish. Hermione glared at him across the table. Viktor looked a bit puzzled, when Ron didn't finish, but let it pass.

"You all like roast mutton?" he asked. They all nodded in the affirmative. Viktor turned to the woman and let loose a torrent of Bulgarian, evidently ordering their entrees. He turned back to the three at the table. "Spiced cider to drink? No alcohol...." They nodded again. More Bulgarian. She bustled off, after patting Viktor on the cheek affectionately. He colored again.

They made small talk about their vacations until the woman came back with four plates. On them, a colorful wild rice, seasoned and speckled with sliced almonds, cushioning a thick, seasoned mutton stew. Alongside, roasted vegetables, hot from a grill. It smelled heavenly, and proved to be a hearty meal. Hermione noted that Viktor even had a generous second helping, though the rest of them declined the woman's pantomimed offers of seconds. Eating like that, it was no wonder that he was starting to fill out. Previously, he had been the only adolescent boy she had ever met that wasn't a bottomless pit when it came to food.

"Dessert?" Viktor asked after a respectful five-minute remembrance, spent staring at their empty plates. Ron had nearly scraped the design off trying to gather up all the broth. "What do you recommend?" Harry asked. Viktor cast his eyes upward, deep in thought. "Baklava." he said, after some consideration.

Soon after, the woman bustled back and took Viktor's order, and within minutes, they had bowls with mounded pastry, honey and walnuts, spiced with cinnamon and sugar, light as air, still steaming from the oven. On the side, fresh whipped cream. She also brought mugs of ice cold milk. By the time they finished, not one of them could eat another bite. The woman came back, pushing little takeout boxes of pastry on them "Vzimaite nego!" (Take it!) , despite their polite protestations. Viktor made his in Bulgarian, but even that didn't deter her. He quickly gave in and proffered thanks instead.

Viktor reached into his jeans pocket and produced Muggle money, to their great surprise, counting out most of what he carried into his hand. Hermione wondered if he had enough to cover four meals of that size in any currency. But why was he counting Muggle money? Mistake in picking the pocket? They all looked at one another. "We'll have to ask what we owe him when we get outside. I didn't think to ask about exchanging for Bulgarian money to help with the tab." Hermione whispered across the table.

Viktor presented the money to the woman, who began babbling back, shaking her head "no" vigorously, seeming to scold him for daring to pay with Muggle money. Surely, that was the problem. She wanted wizard money and Viktor had confused his pockets.

But Viktor insisted, "Vzimaite nego, vzimaite nego, molia. Molia!" (Take it, take it, please. Please!) capturing one of her flapping hands and placing the money in it, talking rapidly the whole while. She protested back all the more, firmly planting the full amount back in his hand, closing his fingers on it, and emphatically pushing it back to his chest.

"Ne, ne, sladko momche!" (No, no sweet boy!) She laughed and scolded him again in good natured fashion, a speech they took to mean "Your money's no good here", since she was making a big production of tearing up the bill where she had written down their orders, tossing the bits into a nearby rubbish bin.

He walked back to them, looking slightly stunned. "She says it is free, her compliments. You are my guests. Ve can go, she tore up the check."

"Hmph! Must be nice being famous, being in the World Cup gets you lots of freebies from your Quidditch fanciers, does it?"

"Ron!" Hermione glared at him.

Viktor looked taken aback. "Korrina Sofia... the couple who runs it, they are Muggles, last name Korrina. She used to vork at the gift shop in the museum vhen I vos small, she vos friends vith Mama. She even has a sister who vent to Durmstrang. Madame Korrina, she is adopted. She has not seen me since I vos sixteen, before I vent to train vith Team Bulgaria for the season... vell over a year...I should haff explained..." he trailed off as Ron slunk down in his seat.

"Sorry," Ron squeaked, finally. "I shouldn't have said it. You were going to pay. You tried to pay. It's not like you asked for it. You two don't ask to get fawned over everywhere you go. Between you two and Miss Brains here, it's a wonder anyone knows I exist. Heck, I used to fawn over you until I got jealous." Ron pouted.

"I haff had vorse. Forgotten." Viktor said simply. "Portkey is in back, just out the back door." They walked out into the narrow alley behind the cafe. Grabbing an old tire propped by the door, they waited a few seconds before being yanked by the navel again.

They all staggered to a stop at the top of a small rise. The sun was going down opposite, casting a purplish glow on the thick clouds, and a golden backlighting to a small orchard of fruit trees and a large stone building with a slate roof. Beyond the building, opposite the orchard stood a small barn, and some wooden fence, enclosing a herd of sheep. Taking in the scene the rise overlooked, Viktor smiled softly, his eyes softened, his shoulders relaxed, his face was as unclouded as they had ever seen. The three Hogwarts students didn't know whether to gape at him or the scene below, so they settled for looking at the small farm and sneaking peeks at him out of the corners of their eyes.

Finally he broke the silence with "Pavlova. Home." He looked round at them. "Best be getting in. They vill vonder vare ve are. It gets cool at night, and sometimes, there are volves."

"Volves! I mean, wolves!?!" Harry exclaimed.

Viktor chuckled softly. "Yes. Ve have sheep. Volves like mutton too. Mostly they howl and make noise, maybe valk by. Unless you corner one, it is probably more afraid of you than you are of it."

"I've heard that fairy tale before...sounds like something Hagrid would say about his skrewts..." Harry said doubtfully.

Viktor laughed out loud this time. "Not many volves hang around Ivan and Natasha. They might keep you avake, volves howling, not much else." He pursed his lips slightly, whistled loudly, and from around the barn, two enormous and muscular gray malamutes raced toward them. They skidded to a stop in front of Viktor, wagging and panting like a couple of excited puppies.

He sat Hermione's bag on the grass and leaned over to give the dogs a ruffle on the neck and a scratch on the ears. He didn't have to lean far, since the two dogs were about waist-high when he was standing. "Ivan," he introduced the darker, silvery dog, obviously the larger of the two. "Natasha", he said, giving the slightly smaller female a rub on the muzzle. She was a lighter gray, white tipped hairs here and there among her fur. "Sheep dogs. They stay out vith the sheep to keep volves avay." The dogs circled the newcomers cautiously, suspiciously, letting out gruff growls as they prowled. Finally they stopped, staring at Harry with big, piercing blue eyes.

"Um, Viktor?" Harry asked, "They do know we're friendly...?" Viktor smiled again. "Pet them. If I don't tell them to eat you alive, no danger. They might lick you to death, othervise." Harry gingerly patted the two dogs, who were now crouched in front of him, motionless.

Like they were playing some bizarre version of freeze tag, the two dogs relaxed and wagged and panted as enthusiastically as they had for Viktor. They approached Hermione, who quickly ruffled their ears and was rewarded with the same enthusiasm.

Ron was more reticent, eyeing the dogs crouched before him for several moments before asking, "I won't draw back nubs, will I?" Viktor cocked a dark eyebrow. Ron reached out for Natasha slowly, and she barked, a sharp, echoing bark that caused Ron to jump.

Viktor chuckled again. "She is impatient. She thinks you are too slow." He ruffled the dog's thick fur with his hands, fingers buried in it, discreetly guiding the dogs back from Ron a bit. Ron was able to pet the dogs now, their tails beating out a tattoo on Viktor's jeans as they wagged furiously.

They gathered up their bags again and walked the last few yards to the house. The dogs never strayed far from Viktor, flanking him as though they were on short leashes. They entered a large wooden door, into a den, with a huge stone fireplace, high ceiling, and rough beams. They clustered their bags near the door, and Viktor called out in Bulgarian. From the back of the house, a woman emerged, wiping her hands on an apron. She untied it, tossed it onto a chair, walked slowly over to Viktor, reached up and placed her hands lovingly on either side of his face. Finally she ran one small white hand under the thick black bangs covering his forehead and ruffled his hair back affectionately, though she could barely reach, even on tiptoe. She murmured one word, "Sokrovishte," then dropped her hands and inclined her head to peek around Viktor and take in the three guests standing by her door.

His mother. She had the same thick black hair, the same thick, dark lashes and brows, the same deep brown, almost inky eyes. She was petite, Viktor towered over her, and she had an angular face, much like Viktor's, with one major exception. Her nose was very dainty, slightly upturned at the end. On her, the Slavic features were delicate and beautiful against her milky white skin. Her full flushed lips were curved up into a reserved but welcoming smile, but there was still something about her that seemed sad.

"This is my mother, Anya." Viktor said, rather unnecessarily. "Mama, this is Ron Veasley," Viktor seemed to make a point of introducing Ron first.

"Hello, Mrs. Krum. Thank you for having us."

"Hello, priem, velcome," she nearly whispered, nodding at him.

"This is Harry Potter."

"Mrs. Krum."

"Priem."

"And this is Hermione Granger," she seemed to take in Hermione a bit longer, then nodded and murmured a greeting to her as well.

"Velcome to Pavlova. Four rooms free upstairs, choose and ve prepare." she said softly, folding her hands in front of her. "Viktor writes much about you all."

She turned to Viktor and spoke softly in Bulgarian, indicating the three visitors. "Vould you like a bath, refreshment, anything before you go to bed?" Viktor translated.

"A bath and a bed, I think. I'm bushed." Harry stifled a yawn. The others nodded.

"You vont to pick your rooms?" Viktor asked.

"Is there much of a difference?" Ron asked.

"Not really, they all haff small baths and are nearly the same size. Some face different directions. The beds just need sheets and the baths towels and soap." Viktor replied.

"You pick then, Viktor, I'm sure it will be fine." Hermione interjected.

Viktor turned back to his mother, and began reeling off room assignments in Bulgarian. She hurried off to gather the linens. Viktor made to follow, but she turned and motioned him back.

"She loves guests," he shrugged. "She says it makes it feel like a real inn again." As he finished, they heard the back door thunk shut, and soon Viktor's father stood in the doorway. The resemblance to his father was also fairly apparent. He had inherited the reedy height, in fact, he was an inch taller than his father, and his father's hair was as dark and thick as his mother's, with a little wave. His father was a bit broader and sturdier in frame, even more heavily muscled, being more mature in body. He wore a slight frown, not the displeased and angry frown Viktor had sported most of his time at Hogwarts, but a small downturn of the mouth, as though he were studying something in his mind.

It was easy to see he had the same full mouth that Viktor generally scowled with. As he walked in, they noted his duck-footed gait. The slightly hooded, almost sleepy eyelids and hooked nose were his father's contributions as well. Hermione couldn't get over how much Viktor resembled both of his parents. Much like the Weasleys and their brood, it was hard to put your finger which parent each child resembled more.

His father's nose hadn't been on the receiving end of several bludgers though. Viktor's had been broken so many times he had nearly lost count, at least five, Hermione remembered him saying. His father shook his hand and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, the slight frown dissolving into a quiet smile. Again the introductions all around. His father, Nikolas, didn't bother with even cursory attempts at English.

Standing behind his father, listening to the words he was about to translate for them, Viktor slowly and subtly rubbed down the bridge of his nose with his index finger and simultaneously jerked his head toward his father, a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, his thick left eyebrow cocked up. It was all the three could do not to burst out laughing at Viktor's reference. Nikolas welcomed them in a flood of Bulgarian and let Viktor translate. Consequently, his welcome speech was a bit longer than Mrs. Krum's. He seemed somewhat more effusive than his shy wife.

"...and if you need anything, just ask." Viktor finished up as Mrs. Krum returned downstairs. "I'll valk you up," Viktor said, leading them up the stairs. He walked down the hall and worked his way back toward the stairs, dropping off Ron, then Harry.

Hermione laid a hand on his arm. "Where's your room?" she asked.

"Down there," he inclined his head to the room at the far end of the hall, furthest from the stairs and her room.

"May I see?" He nodded. They walked down the hall and he swung open the door. She almost winced, it was so painfully bare. It looked as though he was staying at a hotel overnight, not home. A few piles of books, some neatly packed bags on the floor, not much to personalize the room.

"Not much to see. I travel so much...school, practice, games, last year Hogvarts ... Vhen I could not just Apparate home, I did not get here much. No need to keep it too nice. I own a few books." He waved his hand at the stacks on his bedside table and a few volumes on the shelves.

"I understand. Must be hard on you. And your parents. The last couple of years, all that practicing."

" Hermione, I vos recruited into state-sponsored Quidditch my first year at Durmstrang, vhen Karkaroff talked to scouts he knew. I vent from Durmstrang to live and practice vith the national team. I spent two veeks home that summer. They vould have used me in the last Vorld Cup the next year, but I vos not old enough to play. Just practice. I did play in pro games at fifteen, though." It was the nearest she had heard him come to hearing him brag about his record-breaking play in the pro league. To hear him tell it now, he didn't seem to find it much to brag about.

"Oh," she said softly, "I didn't realize..."

He laid his hands on her shoulders. "Hermione, Bulgaria is very different from England. Ve haff more freedom than ve used to, more vealth, but being good on a broom at Durmstrang is still a lot like being a Muggle vith skill on a balance beam in Romania. A good vay to avoid starving... other things... haffing to make decisions. Famous seekers don't disappear easily." He blushed furiously, and looked away, as though ashamed of what he had just said.

"Viktor, is there something you need to tell me?" she asked softly.

He looked back. "Just this for now. Know things haff been very different here, and at Durmstrang. Not far over those mountains is Russia. Durmstrang..." He paused and inclined his head to the window. "Communism falling vos good, but painful to live through anyvay. Then the Death Eaters... You vill haff to be patient vith me. I am trying to change things for better. You should go to bed, now."

"Okay, I can take a hint." He gave her hand a squeeze, and walked her to her door. "One last thing. Why did you invite Ron and Harry? Not that I'm not glad you did, but you weren't particularly close and Ron..."

"Less pressure. Not as lonely for you. I am patient. Vith you. Vith Ron." he answered curtly.

"Goodnight, Viktor."

"Goodnight Hermione. Sveet dreams." He shut the door to his room softly behind him.

Down the hall, Hermione crawled into bed. She replayed the conversation in her mind. Viktor's life had been molded by the "state Quidditch machine" far more than she had known, then. Imagine being away from home that much at age twelve! Even boarding school allowed for holidays and summers home, Viktor didn't seem to have had much time, though. She had known that Bulgaria and Russia had a great deal of economic and political upheaval the last few years, and it seemed that even the wizard world was affected deeply.

She wondered particularly about Viktor's comment on making decisions, and disappearing. If it was as sinister as it had sounded, it worried her a great deal. She shook it off by convincing herself that she was tired and reading too much into it. Viktor had probably, like Harry, gotten used to being recognized everywhere, and needed that affirmation in some way. It was sweet that he was making an effort to pander to Ron, even if Ron was being babyish sometimes. She nestled into the down comforter and down pillows, and slept.

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CHAPTER 2

The sunlight through the windows woke Hermione. It was still fairly early, judging from the misty sunshine coming through the last bits of dew burning off in the air. She dressed and headed downstairs. Viktor's door was standing open, and his room was obviously empty, so she went downstairs. Anya finished up her coffee, smiled, and indicated the kitchen table. "Eat now, or later vith Viktor?" she asked.

"Later, I think, but thank you," Hermione said.

"Viktor, out," Anya pointed out the back door of the kitchen toward the orchard, then went back to cleaning up her breakfast dishes.

Hermione stepped out into the morning sunshine. It was pleasantly warm, and quiet, there was little noise aside from the birds singing. She could actually hear the sheep munching on the grass. She walked toward the fruit orchard, and almost giggled out loud when she saw the familiar hiking boots Viktor had worn on his forays to England splayed awkwardly in the grass, beneath a pear tree. But breaking the silence seemed almost sacrilegious, so she suppressed it.

Dressed much as he had been yesterday, in jeans and a tee, Viktor lay near the trunk, his head pillowed against Ivan, his face tilted toward Hermione. Natasha lay at his side, her muzzle resting on his thigh. His long tapered fingers rested in the grass at his left, the right hand draped across his torso. She suppressed another laugh. Nature boy, she thought.

She studied his face for a moment. Without a trace of his usual scowl, the planes of his face were far more relaxed, his mouth almost slack. He very nearly pouted in his sleep. He had high cheekbones, and thick, dark eyelashes that matched his bushy brows. His forehead was unlined between them now. His longer hair suited him, and now with the tendrils flopping across his forehead in the breeze and around the sides of his face, it made him look younger, softer somehow. Even his nose, with it's hook and the battered, slightly crooked bridge, gave his face character, she decided.

For only the second time since they had met, she found it quite easy to believe his age, only eighteen, nearly nineteen. He was the grizzled veteran in competition of any kind, but he had seemed so naive when he had approached her in the library, awkward. Strange how he could have been pursued by so much opportunity to chat up those giggling schoolgirls, yet he had approached her with far more caution than he had the dragon in the first challenge of the tournament. She walked softly on the grass, noiselessly, she thought, since Viktor was obviously asleep.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he suddenly spoke her name, without even opening his eyes. He opened one eyelid lazily, and peered up at her.

"How did you know?" she asked, hand over her heart, trying to catch her breath.

"First of all, you make noise, and it is qviet. I sleep light. Ron and Harry clomp like horses. Second, Papa is in town, and Mama never leaves the kitchen before breakfast is done. Had to be you."

"Noisy, huh? You accusing me of being undainty?"

"Seekers use more than eyes. They use ears, too. Like scouts." He sat up, rousing the dogs, and leaned back into the tree, ear to the trunk as though listening, "One British girl... on trail...due east."

She laughed. "Why Mr. Krum, I do believe that was an attempt at humor. Making fun of that western film I took you to?"

"Never. Come. Sit." He patted the grass with great solemnity, as though he were a king granting access to his throne, then propped himself against the tree.

"So, did you get out of bed early to come out here and sleep?" she asked, leaning against the trunk beside him.

"Yes," he replied, grinning slightly.

"It's beautiful. I'm glad you asked me. I'm glad I came," she said, looking back at Pavlova.

"I am glad too. Ve can talk now, like in London. Not so much distraction."

"Viktor... I hate to ask you this, but the curiosity is eating me up. Durmstrang... what is it really like?" He stiffened a little and she wished she had bitten her tongue.

"Vot do you vont to know?" he asked, staring back at the house. Might as well press on now, so she asked the least offensive question on her mind.

"Is it... is it in Siberia? You talk about it being so cold, it must be even further north than here. North is Russia. Coldest place in Russia is Siberia. Pretty deserted too."

Viktor nodded slowly. "I think it is there, or at least near there. Many of the classes are taught in Russian. Many of the instructors are Russian. A few Germans. The founder vos German. Used to be mostly Russians and Bulgarians who vent there. So many come from all over now, though, they start teaching English as part of regular classes a few years after my parents left. Not many living close, Muggle or vizard. Hard to tell. Harder than Hogvarts. Karkaroff vos even more guarded than Dumbledore about vare ve really vere. The ship is not like the Hogvarts Express, no scenery, except undervater. Ve get on at a port up north, and don't see out for the entire trip. Hard to get your bearings."

She could have sworn he had shuddered a bit when he mentioned Karkaroff. "Founder?" she asked.

"A vizard named Gryndel. Durmstrang. Strang und Durm. Stress and storm. He meant it to be like a harbor from those things." Hermione could detect the slightest hint of irony in Viktor's voice.

She let the answer sink in for a moment. "Viktor...I...I...I've read that Durmstrang... they... well, they don't just teach defense against the dark arts...they actually teach dark arts..." Viktor turned to look at her, his big, almost black eyes distressed, his brows together. He nodded, slowly, one downward and upward bob of the head, then turned back to the house.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. You must think I'm awful. And nosy." He looked at his hands, dangling between his tented knees.

He slowly shook his head in the negative. "No. Curiosity is natural. I vould be asking qvestions if I had not been to Hogvarts. Many of the instructors, they are as kind and caring as most of your professors. Ve haff a few Snapes, as vell. To tell the truth, I do not know many people at Durmstrang well enough to pass any judgment on them. Karkaroff alvays had me practicing. Not much time for making friends, getting up at dawn, your whole day scheduled. Poliakoff, he is a decent enough friend, loyal, even amusing. He took it upon himself to act as a... barrier between me and... vot vos Ron calling them? My fan club?"

Hermione laughed and replied, "Well, he didn't seem to be doing such a great job last year, I didn't see him once in the library! I recall a lot of girls from three different schools who wanted to choke me. He could have taken several off your hands."

Viktor adopted a different mannerism, perkier, cheekier, which she presumed to be his take on Poliakoff. "Viktor, I am just vone man... I cannot possibly fend off three schools vorth of girls at vonce!" he said theatrically, indignation in his voice. "And Elena, she is vonting my attention! I cannot refuse Elena! Her heart vould break!"

He dropped the act and laughed. "Only thing is, the name changed and the situation changed all the time, Alexei is as fickle as some of those reporters." He adopted the strange mannerisms again, "Viktor, I vill help you fend off those vicious girls during practice. Elena vos not happy vith my birthday gift, and that Sasha, she is very nice, alvays eyeing you at practice. She is sad you do not notice her! If you do not vont her, I vill be glad to keep her busy for you!"

It was so comical, Hermione had to laugh. " Othervise, though, he vos a steady sort of friend. Steadier than I deserve. Ve did not get much time to spend together, maybe because Karkaroff did not approve of him, alvays picking on him. Probably because Alexei vos the only vone brave or foolhardy enough to do things like put tadpoles in his drinks," Viktor chuckled as he spoke, then his face hardened. "But... knowing something about dark arts and being evil...they are two different things," he said softly.

"I'm learning that," she replied, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Silly that we act like where you come from, where you study, is important. Voldemort came from Hogwarts. So did Dumbledore. And a lot of people who fall somewhere in between on the good and evil scale. I'm sure there are plenty of good people at Durmstrang, and plenty of bad ones at Hogwarts. A certain potions professor comes to mind..." she teased, knowing Viktor was no more fond of Snape than she or Harry or Ron.

He had once told her he disliked the theatrical way Snape picked on the slightest hint of weakness from the students in his class. So much so that he retaliated when Snape ridiculed Poliakoff as a stupid boy for not knowing what snapdragons were, never having encountered the English word in a lecture before. Viktor had made Snape look twice as foolish as Poliakoff when he innocently invited Snape to give them the term in both Russian or Bulgarian, so Poliakoff could remember. She remembered thinking that Neville could use Viktor on his side in potions. Viktor didn't answer, he just kept looking back at the house in the morning quiet.

************************************

CHAPTER 3

Inside, Harry and Ron met up in the hall, still yawning and stretching. They headed down to the kitchen, where Anya was laying out sliced apples in a bowl, with her wand, to add to the already loaded table. They sat at the table, and she rushed to bring them glasses, indicating the milk in a pitcher on the table. "Okay?" she asked, and they nodded enthusiastically. Anya finished off the table with an open jar of honey, stepping between them to lay it on the table. She reached out and ruffled Harry and Ron's hair from their foreheads, much as she had done with Viktor, and smiled.

Feeling the scar under her fingers, she paused, turning to Harry. She propped his chin on her other hand, tilting his head back slightly, holding his hair away from his face with her right hand. She gently traced the scar with her cool finger, looking at it intently, a deep sadness creeping into her face. What might have felt like an unexpected manhandling from any other person felt like an oddly gentle, motherly caress from her. After a long moment, she smoothed his hair back down. "Sorry," she murmured, looking into his eyes, her own looking suspiciously teary. "Vork, now."

She turned toward the door, and there stood Viktor and Hermione. Viktor's face held almost the same sad expression, a short, wordless exchange seemed to take place, and they bid each other goodbye. "Sokrovishte" she said softly, patting Viktor on the shoulder, and Anya Disapparated just outside the back door. Viktor looked after her for a long moment.

"Why on ear... " Ron began, but Harry gave him a look that silenced him. Viktor glanced over at an alcove in the corner, full of family photos. He shook his head sharply, as if to clear it, and moved to sit down. He held Hermione's chair for her, then settled into his own seat.

"Pastry, pears, peaches, strawberries, clotted cream, whipped cream, apples, honey, cottage cheese, I'm not sure I could eat a tenth of this, " Hermione said brightly.

"What does she keep saying to you, your mum?" Ron asked, after swallowing his mouth full of pear.

"Vot?" Viktor asked, his absolute studied concentration on the untouched apple slice in his hand broken.

"That word, sokro..sokro... whatever. What's it mean?"

"Oh, that. 'Sokrovishte' is Russian. Roughly translated, it is 'treasure', sort of like 'darling'. Her grandmother used to call her that." He finally dipped the apple slice into the honey ladled onto his plate.

"That's nice," Harry said earnestly, feeling a bit envious that Viktor had someone who called him her treasure. The Dursleys certainly didn't feel that way about him.

As it was when he was with Mrs. Weasley, or even Hermione's mother, he found himself wanting a mother like that, one who caressed your face like a lost treasure returned unexpectedly and put out feasts for you and your friends. Viktor could at least look at his mother and see several of his own features, measure his height against his father's, trace his black hair, dark eyes, and Russian heritage on both sides. He had his mother's eyes. His father's mouth. That hooked nose might not be much of a prize to other people, but Harry often found himself wishing he could lament his unruly hair by simply pointing to his father and shrugging the way Viktor had written off his nose by nodding at Nikolas with an arched brow. All he had was other people's memories, a picture in his head.

They ate mostly in silence, until Hermione turned and began examining the photos in the alcove. One was obviously Anya and Nikolas on their wedding day, the wedding party surrounding them. Anya had a demure lacy veil over her dark hair, smiling shyly at the camera, giving a little wave, Nikolas was tall and imposing in his suit, one hand on her arm, the other around her waist.

She murmured little comments about each one, picking them up and studying them in turn. Christmases, birthdays, various broomsticks and Quidditch matches. "Oh, is this you?" she asked, showing him a small silver framed photo of a toddler with dark hair, not more than a year old, intense, serious expression in place, sitting on the grass in the orchard, fingers twisting in the blades.

Viktor smiled a little. "Yes. It is me."

She came to another photo of Anya and Nikolas, sitting in front of the fireplace, with a year-old toddler on her lap. She was jogging her knee up and down, the child studying the person taking the picture intently, solemnly. Viktor was certainly serious right from the beginning, Hermione thought and smiled to herself. He wouldn't even crack a grin as a toddler.

As she was about to replace it, she paused. Something wasn't right in the photo. She studied it a moment before realizing what was amiss. She glanced back over at the silver frame. The nose. The unmistakable nose passed on by Nikolas Krum was apparent in the first picture. Not nearly as prominent a feature or as obviously broken as it was now, it was definitely hooked. The child in the second picture had Anya's nose, more upturned, a thinner bridge.

She continued to compare the two. Almost identical in every other way, the second picture differed only in two details. The nose and the slightly longer, curlier hair. A cursory glance would have made her assume it was simply Viktor, maybe a bit older or younger than the first picture. "This one...it's not quite like the other one, could this be a cousin, maybe?" She turned back and put the picture in front of him. He closed his eyes and winced. "Viktor?"

"Not me. Violeta," he intoned sadly.

"Violeta? Who is Violeta?" Harry asked. Viktor sighed heavily, and took the photo from Hermione's hand.

"She is...vos... my sister. She vos two years younger." He studied the photo glumly, silently.

"W..was?" Harry prompted softly.

Viktor sighed again. "She vos killed. Ve had Death Eaters here as vell."

"But...but you're a pureblood. You would have never gotten into Durmstrang otherwise!" Ron said.

"Pure!" Viktor spat the word like it tasted bad. "Like that little dictator Malfoy? True, but blind luck, who your parents are, vhere you are born. No Durmstrang Institute, no wizarding academy, no Quidditch. I spoke almost no English then, no French now, so no Hogvarts, no Beauxbatons. Could not haff gone anyvay, even if my parents had vonted to send me there. Do you think Death Eaters cared if innocents got in the vay?"

Viktor raised his brows for a moment, dropping them and resuming, a deep scowl settling on his face as he continued. "Voldemort vos strong. Many, many Death Eaters in Russia, Romania, even Bulgaria. No vone knew who to trust. My mother vos in a Muggle shop, just across the border, in Russia, vith my sister. There vos...a ... a massacre. Death Eaters killed a group of Muggles, took the shop down, vith four more buildings. It vos passed off to Muggles as terrorist bomb. It fit. Russia vos beginning to crumble from the inside. Muggles had plenty to vorry about. Shortages, famine, assassinations, death sqvads, terrorists. My mother lived. Violeta... " He struggled for the word, and finally, it fell flatly from his lips. "Dead."

Eventually, he looked up at Harry. "The var, it vos not just in England. Ve suffered too. Ve are still suffering. I saw her feel your scar. She is scarred too, on the inside. She vos...curious, I am sure. Ve heard of The Boy Who Lived here. Like the rest, she vonders vhy, vhy so many others died. Vhy she lived. Vhy just a few months later, you lived," Viktor's voice was matter-of-fact, no bitterness, Harry thought. "Vot's vone pureblooded three-year-old by accident against forty Muggles dead?" he finished in a disgusted tone. He laid the picture reverently on the table, still studying it.

"Actually, it was kind of nice, your mother stroking my forehead. It just bothered me that she looked so sad. I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, not quite sure what he was apologizing for, bringing up a painful memory, or surviving.

"Viktor, I never would have brought it up if I had known..." Hermione began, but Viktor cut her off with a wave of his hand.

He looked back up, continuing to study Harry intently. "You lost your parents. No need to be sorry. You lived. You had to votch Cedric die. You lived. How or vhy, not important. Harry, others may vont a piece of you, because you are special. Sometimes you can't help being special, but you can help it vhen no one vill let you be vot you are. Don't let everyone else push expectations on you. Curiosity is fine, controlling is not. Guide your own destiny, Harry," he said with quiet conviction.

"Karkaroff nearly..." Viktor stopped abruptly and looked at Ron. "Ron...you may not think it, but you haff nothing to be jealous of. So many other people thinking you are special comes vith lots of problems. Hermione...she tells me you vere brave...sacrificing yourself in chess. Helping Harry. She and Harry think you are special. Your parents, your brothers, your sister, they do, I am sure. I vould... I vould like to consider you a friend."

Ron nodded, his mouth open. Viktor extended a large hand across the table and they shook solemnly. Viktor turned to Hermione and said softly, "It had to come out sometime about Violeta. Might as vell be now. Do I haff to tell you how special I think you are, too?" Hermione blushed and shook her head dumbly. Viktor chuckled softly. "My parents, they talked to me this morning about you. Met you all of five minutes and they haff you pegged."

"Pegged?" she asked.

"Know vot they said? 'Tia e krasivo momiche, i smart'," he laughed.

"Err, except for that bit on the end, I don't think I caught any of that."

"'She is a beautiful girl, and smart' in Bulgarian. No Bulgarian in those books at Hogvarts?" Hermione blushed again. "Mama caught you studying the book covers in the den while Harry and Ron just stood there yawning," he explained.

"Bookworm!" Ron jabbed. They all laughed, and Viktor discreetly slipped the photo back onto the table in the alcove.

"Vell, I haff a whole day before practice begins. You vont to see the grounds?" he asked the table at large. They all nodded. "Good. Lambs, hiking those hills, the orchard, I am going to put you to vork." And so he did. The wandered up and down the hills around the inn most of the morning, petted lambs and generally disturbed and startled the sheep during midday, stopping to picnic in the orchard, before picking wicker baskets full of peaches and smallish red apples that were early in ripening, climbing some of the bigger trees and sitting in the forks, legs dangling.

Ivan and Natasha wagged and panted along wherever they went, never far from Viktor. Viktor pointed out the small lake, fed by a cold water spring from the higher elevations, the hills, and talked them into swimming in it by saying he had been in the water during winter holidays, even. "Good grief! Viktor, you actually swim in this lake during the winter?" Ron asked, his teeth chattering, his lips blue, shivering on the shore.

"Vinter, summer, just as cold. The vater comes from the mountains, north. Melted snow."

They dashed in and out for five minutes or so at a time, with the exception of Viktor. "You sure it's actually melted?" Hermione asked, hopping up and down on the shore, rubbing her arms vigorously. "Seriously, do you ever get cold?" she asked, scrubbing the towel over her hair.

"Not often. It is a relief to not need big furred robes though," he replied, floating on his back near Harry, the only one still brave enough to be in the water. "On the bright side, no testy giant sqvid," Viktor pointed out.

"Or Grindylows." Harry added, his mind flashing back to the Durmstrang ship's arrival, and the moment he had recognized Viktor's profile, his thin body swathed in those bulky robes. He had thought all of Durmstrang's contingent must be as big and bulky as Crabbe and Goyle when he first spotted them with their thick furs. Turns out most of them had been nearly as slender as Viktor. Karkaroff, with his sleek furs, had been all fatherly concern, wanting him in the warmth since he had a head cold. Harry still remembered the way Karkaroff had seemingly fussed over Viktor.

"They've all surely frozen to death," Ron said.

They trudged toward the house at dusk again, tired and thoroughly worn out and pleasantly warmed by the sun "Tomorrow, Harry, practice," Viktor murmured. Harry groaned exaggeratedly in response, too tired to form a sentence. "Ron, you too, if you vont."

"Really!?! Practice with the team? Me?"

"Sure. Hermione?"

"I'll just watch, thanks. You know I have two left feet on a broom."

"Nothing a little practice in the orchard vould not fix," he replied.

"Said the boy who flew around those trees as fast as he could at age seven," she intoned. He sighed and shook his head, smiling quietly to himself.

At dinner, they talked excitedly about their day, about some of the events of the early summer, vacations with families, with occasional pauses for Viktor to narrate things in one direction or the other. Anya again ruffled everyone's hair as she cleared things away for dessert, not lingering on Harry any longer than the rest, instead spending an extra moment gathering Hermione's mass of hair off her neck and from the sides of her face, pulling it behind her shoulders before clearing her dishes.

This forehead stroking and hair gathering was a natural gesture of affection they often saw her lavish on Viktor when he entered a room, and they half expected her to start addressing them all as "Sokrovishte". She doted on her guests as much as on her son. The sadness that had been there this morning was almost forgotten. Even Viktor smiled now and then during dinner. They all crawled up the stairs to baths and bed right after supper. It had been a long day.

*************************************************

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, they trooped out into the bright sunshine to portkey to the practice field. They were all wearing Quidditch practice robes with the exception of Hermione. One old holey hat later, they found themselves in front of a practice facility, surrounded on either side by mountains. "Charmed so that if anyone comes close, all they see is a box canyon," Viktor noted. They walked inside, to find several of Viktor's teammates milling around on the grass already.

Viktor walked to a rack and pulled out a broom, twisting the handle in his hands as though weighing the suitability of a baseball bat. He judged it fit, and tucked it under his arm. "Pick vone," he called back to Ron and Harry, who were hanging back several feet. "Any vone you like. It is all practice eqvitment," he added. While they timidly rummaged around in the equipment, Dimitrov, whom they recognized from the World Cup strode over to Viktor.

"Krum!" he greeted Viktor pleasantly, clapping him on the shoulder. Though Viktor was several inches taller than Dimitrov, Dimitrov was far more broad, with huge biceps and shoulders. Harry still found it hard to believe sometimes that Viktor was only eighteen, nearly nineteen, with his height and solid frame, despite his slenderness. "I svear you've grown two inches at least! Levski and Zograf, they said you vere bringing guest. I know who young lady is, but not their names." He waved his fingers at Harry and Ron questioningly.

"Dimitrov, Harry Potter, Ron Veasley. They vill be flying. Harry is a seeker, too."

"Anyvare near as goot?" Dimitrov grinned widely.

Viktor's mouth curled up at the right side, slightly. "In his own vay. He vonce caught the snitch in his mouth during a game, somevone told me." Dimitrov looked down at Harry, who was fighting the urge to gulp while being studied so intensely by this famous Quidditch player. Funny, he didn't think of Viktor that way, anymore.

"You haff to find out how to do that if ve need to come up vith new dare for you. You can play vith hands behind back. And you?" Dimitrov indicated Ron.

"Who, me? Oh, I'm nobody. I mean, I don't play for a team! Just at home, with my brothers."

"Everyvone start somevhere," Dimitrov answered. "Varm up. Ve scrimmage later," he nodded at Viktor and walked away, back to the other end of the pitch.

"Wow! Dimitrov! You think he would let me have his autograph?" Ron exclaimed.

"I'm sure he vould. Ask after practice," Viktor replied.

"He's right you know," Hermione said.

"About vot?"

She walked up to him, measuring herself against him, "You have grown two or three inches. At the Yule Ball, I was just two inches shy of your chin. Now I'm barely chest high on you."

Viktor studied the handle of his broom for a moment. "Sure you von't fly a little?"

"I think not. I'm pitiful on a broom. I'll just watch." Viktor drew himself up to full height, throwing his shoulders back instead of his usual slouch.

He looked even taller then, Harry thought. He remembered the night he was chosen as the fourth Triwizard Champion, he had been intimidated by how very tall Fleur and Viktor and Cedric had seemed. Viktor had even been imposing hunched and brooding against the mantle, in front of the fire. He wondered if Viktor ever thought of Cedric Diggory.

"Ve vin first game, you haff to take a flying lesson."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Oh, a bet huh? Oh, all right. But I warn you, trying to teach me to fly is taking your life into your own hands."

Viktor shrugged and turned to Harry and Ron. "Ready?" he asked.

"Ummm, you go ahead, I think we'll just watch for a few minutes," Harry said, as evenly as he could.

"Okay." Viktor had barely finished the word before he had swung his right leg over the broom and zoomed off, barreling upwards at a rate of speed that made Harry dizzy, just watching. His stomach fell almost as fast, just thinking of being out there with the team. As he reached the point where Ron and Harry had to squint and shield their eyes in order to see him as a speck in the distance, he turned and dived toward the ground.

"Wronski Feint..." Ron breathed. Viktor continued straight down, and Harry began to worry. He was coming in even faster than he had in the World Cup.

"Is he nuts!?!" Harry exclaimed.

"Yes, but you haff to be to be goot at Wronski Feint. He's very goot at it," called a voice behind them. They turned to face Zograf, Bulgaria's keeper. Like Dimitrov, his accent was noticeably thicker than Viktor's, as was his torso. He inclined his head toward the streak that was Viktor on his broom. "Better look. Rare treat. Not often chance to see vone this close."

Harry began to cringe as Viktor got closer and closer to the ground. Hermione, by now standing beside him, did the same. "He's going to crash!" Hermione squeaked. Ron just gaped. At the last possible moment, Viktor leveled off and shot by them, over the grass. He was so low that the toes of his boots audibly whipped blades of grass as he neared them, and he put down a hand, letting his fingers trail through the grass as well. When he rocketed by, the wind off of his passing sucked at their robes and pulled at their ears with a soft "whoosh", trailing bits of grass that settled on them in the wake. He pulled up at the other end of the stadium and began circling the goal lazily.

"He is better at that than Wronski." Zograf smirked, folding his arms across his chest proudly.

"I thought he was going to run himself into the ground!" Ron yelled excitedly.

"Made mistake vonce years ago. Never again," Zograf said matter-of-factly. "In game. Played vith broken arm rest of match. Did not tell until after game. Still caught snitch. Third game vith Vultures." Here Zograf visibly swelled with pride. "Just vhen I think he cannot get faster or lower, he does." He waved his hand at Viktor, motioning him back down.

Viktor hopped off the broom a little downfield and strolled over to Zograf. Viktor introduced Ron, Harry, and Hermione again. Zograf raised his eyebrows in ill-concealed surprise upon hearing both Harry and Hermione's names, but did not comment. "Bludgers. Tventy minutes, then scrimmage. Okay?" he said to Viktor.

"Okay. Ve vill be there., Viktor replied, looking out of the corner of his eye at Ron and Harry. "I vill be right back. Tventy minutes playing dodge vith two bludgers. Then the scrimmage. You can fill in for Volkov on first sqvad, Ron. Beater." Viktor rummaged through the rack and came up with a beater's club. He headed back toward the broom, still carrying it and was soon back in the air.

"Jeepers. No wonder his nose looks perpetually broken," Ron said, as soon as he was out of earshot.

"Ron! That's not nice!" Hermione scolded, smacking him on the shoulder with the flat of her palm.

"Ow! I meant the game of chicken with the bludgers. I mean, how crazy would you have to... oh, you know what I meant! That's bloody dedication. Or certifiable," Ron grumbled. Viktor was up in the air, near the goal, pummeling the bludgers as they hurtled toward him after Zograf had released them from their case. He barrel rolled, he ducked, he dodged, Harry held his breath as he watched how effortlessly Viktor evaded the bludgers, though sometimes the margin was narrow. Once the two bludgers collided just over his head and ricocheted in opposite directions.

Dimitrov walked back over to them, shading his eyes. "Ve dare him to do that after he join, start to practice with national team. Bet him he vill not. He did. He varms up alvays like that now."

"Dared him? Why would you have him do something so dangerous? He was only, what, twelve, thirteen?" Hermione demanded.

Dimitrov looked a little amused. "Quidditch is dangerous. He vos kid. He vont to play vith men and vomen, he haff to prove scouts right. Afraid of bludgers alone, how can he face bludgers, beaters on other team, seekers who might be older, bigger, try to run him into ground? How can he trust our beaters to keep him on broom? Ivanova could not be nursemaid." He waved his hands at the brassy haired female chaser near the equipment rack and paused. "Neither could ve. Haff to make sure he is not needing nursemaid," Dimitrov explained as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Hermione clucked her tongue, but otherwise held her silence. "Do not vorry. Not so tough in scrimmage. Unless you are seeking against Viktor," he said as he shook Harry by the shoulder and laughed uproariously. "I vouldn't dive vith him, if I vere you. He drive us all into ground at least vonce. Volkov crazy enough to try him tvice. Saw double for veeks last time. He more than make up for us making him hit bludgers. Ve let him be challenge for new rookies now. Not many take it. Too scared. Especially since Vorld Cup. Aidan Lynch still a little..." he rolled his eyes and twirled his finger near his temple as he trailed off.

"Time for scrimmage now," Dimitrov yelled as he waved his hand at Viktor, blowing a whistle dangling around his neck. Viktor paused, hovering a moment, circled, then smacked one of the bludgers, which was rocketing toward him full steam, at Dimitrov's midsection. He trapped it with a soft "oof" and shoved it back into the box after some struggle. He blew a second time, and Viktor repeated the act, though he had to spiral several times to avoid the bludger hitting him full in the back of the head. He finally ducked sideways, then followed through with a solid smack.

"Ve take it easy today. Game tomorrow," Dimitrov ordered. The rest of the practice was fairly uneventful, though Harry and Ron struggled to keep up with the pace. They scrimmaged on half of the field, some of the reserves filling in the other positions, even occasionally switching off with others on the sidelines. Harry could tell that Viktor was taking it easy on him, not feinting, not cutting him off from looking for the snitch, not body checking outright, but that didn't stop Viktor from giving him a subtle nudge with his hip and stretching out to easily reach the snitch a bare inch before Harry with his much longer arms.

The scrimmage had lasted forty minutes. As they packed up to go home, Ron babbled on and on about playing with the Bulgarian team, recounting the plays excitedly, blow by blow to Hermione, who was insisting she really had kept her eyes open for the whole thing, thank you very much. He waved the piece of paper with the team autographs under her nose and went right on recalling the practice. Harry thought the team as a whole had improved greatly since the World Cup. Ireland would find themselves in for a nasty shock if they were to meet up a second time.

While Harry stood beside him at the equipment rack, tossing equipment back into the jumble, Viktor laid a hand on his shoulder. "Good game," he said quietly.

"Quite a compliment from someone who was in the pros by my age. You all go so fast, hit so hard. If you hadn't gone easy on me, I would be somewhere in Russia by now because of those hip checks or lying flat on the ground. How did you ever manage?" Harry murmured back.

"Practice. And being stubborn and overgrown..." Viktor began, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Zograf interrupted by leaning between them. "Goot!" he patted them both on their shoulders. "Viktor said you vere goot, you are. The skill is there, it just need time. Not everyvone start flying crazy at seven like national treasure here!" He grasped Harry's hand and shook it. "Honor to meet Boy Who Lived," he said casually. He poked Viktor in the ribs with a thick finger and then jabbed it in Hermione's direction. Thankfully, she had her back turned, still listening to Ron. "And girl vorth talking about. He never even glance at veela, this one. He never talk before about anything. Besides Quidditch. Little about Quidditch," Zograf confided to Harry in a low voice, then walked off as Viktor ducked his head, hiding the redness in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat and exertion.

Viktor emitted a small derisive snort, muttering "National treasure" in a disbelieving tone under his breath. Harry almost laughed, Viktor seemed so insulted. They portkeyed back to Pavlova soon after, going for a swim and tempting frostbite in the lake before supper. Harry sat on a large, flat rock and studied Viktor as he kicked smoothly to the shallows near the opposite shore, where Hermione and Ron were splashing water at one another. Funny how someone so graceful and athletic on a broom or in the water could look so ill at ease when doing as common a thing as walking. But then, Harry had gotten rather used to Viktor's unusual gait by now.

He supposed Viktor could never quite fit in comfortably anywhere, except on a broom, really. Skilled at a young age, record breaker by fifteen, world famous by eighteen, far younger than his teammates, always forced to prove himself to them, talented but awkward at the same time, set apart by his fame among his peers at school. Still, it was apparent that Viktor had the respect of his teammates. After watching him at practice today, Harry could see why.

He found himself sharing an odd kinship with Viktor. Viktor had many of the same problems he did, Harry thought. Not being sure when people really knew you or just thought they knew you. The feeling that people wanted something from you, and you could never be sure what. Those giggling packs of girls and Colin Creevy with his camera, not so different, really. He had even lost a family member to Death Eaters, because of Voldemort. They turned in early, so they would be well rested for the first game tomorrow. Bulgaria and Germany. Should be no contest, Harry thought. Volkov and Vulchanov could knock bludgers at Germany all day. Viktor could outseek anyone, Harry was convinced, even with both hands tied behind his back.

***********************************************************

CHAPTER 5

For the quarterfinals and semifinals, the games were a bit more informal. Dispensing with the full ceremony of national team mascots, the matches were over quicker, which was important when two or three matches had to really needed to be played in one day. Germany proved to be a cakewalk, relatively speaking. Vulchanov and Volkov repeatedly pummeled the bludgers into Germany's chasers, Daimler, Brock, and Rhein, and Ivanova was able to outmaneuver the keeper repeatedly. They were well up at 180 to 20 when Viktor caught the snitch, easily outflying the much slower German seeker, who seemed reluctant to trail Viktor too closely when he zoomed off after it.

"He has played against Viktor before," the Bulgarian Minister, who shared their viewing box, commented. He chuckled and noted, "Last time, it take them forty minutes to vake him up. He buried broom ten inches in ground."

Viktor ambled out of the locker room to join them shortly after the game, wearing a fresh set of robes. "You owe me a flying lesson, " he said to Hermione.

"Fair enough. Was that game as easy as it looked?"

"An hour-long scrimmage," Viktor said, matter-of-factly. "Schuller still remembers European Cup two years ago."

Harry finally blurted out the question he had been longing to ask all day. "Viktor... why didn't your parents come today?"

Viktor waved his hand dismissively. "They hate crowds. They promised to come for the championship game, though, maybe the semifinals. I do not think this time they will have the flu like Vorld Cup. Terrible luck if they do. They get too nervous, they say," Viktor finished, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Harry let it drop. "So, what now?" Ron asked.

"The rest of the quarterfinals, one day off, practice, if all the games are done by then, semifinals, practice, finals," Viktor intoned. "Vont to stay and votch the other games?"

They all decided they did. Before settling into his seat in the box, Viktor stretched his arms over his head, then braced his hands against his hips and twisted, cracking his back, loudly. After being mauled by the enthusiastic Bulgarian Minister offering congratulations, he first bent over, touching his knees with his nose for a moment, then he sprawled into his seat, and watched the next match begin. Throughout the game, he made little comments on plays, players, and coaches. It wasn't the excitable running commentary usually offered by Harry and Ron, but by Viktor standards, it was positively effusive. He seemed to enjoy the chance to sit back and watch someone else play.

"Viktor, do you see many games that you're not in?" He looked at her, a little surprised at the question.

"Depends. At school, many. At tournaments, you get to see games. In the professional league, not so many, until the European Cup. Vith the Vratsa Vultures, one season, I saw none of the games until the Cup."

"Who do you think you'll play tomorrow?"

Viktor didn't hesitate to answer, "Wales. They haff excellent chasers this year, and that new keeper, Smythe-Jones, I don't think England can handle him."

Ron gave Viktor a sour look, then sighed, "But Wales hasn't beaten England in five years! Sure, we're probably not going past the semifinals, but give us a chance! You're just afraid we'll be rooting for England if you have to play them." Viktor held his peace, almost as though Ron had said nothing, permitting himself only a sidelong glance at Ron and the barest of smiles.

"It vill be Ireland in the finals, no doubt. They are still good," Viktor murmured. Hermione and Harry exchanged looks. They both thought Viktor was trying to be conciliatory. Might as well pick the Chudley Cannons, if Aidan Lynch was still as loopy as everyone said.

After a ninety minute game, Viktor was proven right about Wales. Wales did indeed take England by surprise, laying a 350 to 40 pasting on them. As the day, and the matches wore on, Viktor's teammates filtered in and out of the box to chat, sometimes about the matches, sometimes about their families. Hermione noted that Viktor didn't volunteer much about his, but listened with interest as the others brought him up to date.

They were somewhat surprised to hear a voice behind them that bore no trace of a Bulgarian accent, during the last game of the day. They turned to look into the twinkling eyes of none other than Albus Dumbledore. "I had to come up here and say hello. A pity that England won't be competing against Bulgaria tomorrow, Mr. Krum. I daresay that would have made my rooting choices difficult, though. I do so enjoy watching you play. Considering the walloping Wales just put on England, I think I shall be very glad indeed to see Bulgaria put a proper pasting on them for us."

Viktor stood and shyly shook hands with Dumbledore. "Thank you. Professor Dumbledore, I had no idea you vere coming. If you had owled, I could haff gotten you a seat in this box..." He seemed almost intimidated by Dumbledore, though he stood quite a bit taller than the headmaster.

"Most generous of you, young man, but I really do enjoy watching from the stands. I've made quite a few friends down there, don't you know. You don't get all the crowd color in a box, and considering the way England just played, I could use a bit of color." He adjusted his glasses on his nose, studying them all for a brief moment before continuing. "You have plenty of expected guests to keep you busy. Severus, Minerva and Poppy will be missing me, it's our summer excursion, don't you know, so I'll be heading back now. Madame Hooch had just gone to get us some refreshments." Dumbledore paused and looked at Viktor significantly over his glasses. "I shall see you all at the beginning of the school year," he addressed the rest of the booth. He swept back out, waving to the group, Viktor still looking after him, his eyebrows drawn together, looking a little puzzled.

"Hmph. I didn't know Dumbledore was coming to the internationals either. But then, I have no idea what he does on his vacations. Of course, McGonagall is a Quidditch nut, look how she is about Gryffindor. Maybe she got to pick the place," Ron mused, as the crowd reacted to yet another goal by Transylvania. Soon after, the Transylvanian seeker caught the snitch, and the last match of the day was ended. By the time they portkeyed back to Pavlova, the moon was high and darkness covered the hills. They were glad to simply report the highlights of the day to Anya and Nikolas, then fall into their respective beds, exhausted but happy.

**********************************************************

CHAPTER 6

Hermione looked at Viktor doubtfully, then around the rest of the nearly deserted practice field. He beckoned to her again, broom in his right hand, fairly vibrating as though it wanted to get off the ground worse than he did. Harry hollered, "Oh, go on Hermione! You're a witch, you should be good at something you can't learn from a book!"

"Stuff it, Harry!" she yelled back, sticking her tongue out at him. She walked over to Viktor, her arms crossed, and asked quietly, "What now?"

"First, ve get you comfortable on a broom. It is like being on a bicycle, is it not?"

"It is not! My bicycle never threatened to dump me onto the ground from that high in the air!"

Viktor sighed, "I vould not let that happen. Harry and Ron vould not let that happen. Harry and Ron vould haff my hide. Besides, you are going to be on the broom vith me."

"But how?" Viktor didn't answer, but swung his long right leg over the broom, which immediately began bobbing up and down lightly, supporting him with just the balls of his feet on the ground.

He grabbed the handle, and pressed down, settling into a seated position, a sort of flat-footed squat. He took his hands off and spread his arms in her direction. "Come here. Sit." She hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly swung her leg over the broom, sitting directly in front of Viktor. Since his thighs were parallel to the handle, she was really sitting in his lap more than on the broom.

"Now then, more on the broom," he said, steadying her with his hands on her hips, lifting back to straight legs, leaving her feet dangling, his completely flat on the ground. She lurched forward and grabbed for the handle, clutching it desperately. "Loosen up a little. Not so tight." He shook her gently with his big hands, and she laughed nervously, sliding her hands back toward her and taking a more relaxed grip. He took his hands off her hips, reached around her and grabbed the handle, elbows tucked in against her sides, settling his chin over her left shoulder. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she told him. He pushed off hard, and they began to rise straight up, Ron and Harry growing very small beside the equipment racks. "I think I left my stomach back there..." she squeaked.

Viktor squeezed his elbows into her ribs a little more firmly, steadying her. They flew a couple of lazy laps around the practice field, and her heart stopped thumping so hard. Before, it had felt like something trying to claw out of her chest. "Ready to really fly?" Viktor whispered against the shell of her ear. She nodded, and he squeezed his knees against her legs, bracing her against the broom. They sped off toward the far end of the field, sucking her hair back from her face in the breeze.

When he rounded the goal, he banked and dived sharply, heading toward the pitch. It wasn't a Wronski Feint since he couldn't press close enough to the broom with her in front, but he was headed toward the ground steeply. She shrieked a little from the thrill when they leveled off near the ground, but it was obvious she was enjoying it. "Not afraid anymore?" he shouted into her ear.

"No! I'm beginning to see why you love this!" she screamed back. For the first ten minutes, he banked, he spiraled, he raced, but he was careful to keep the broom fairly upright.

"Now, how about upside down?"

"Ohhh! I don't know..." she began, but he was already leaning, rolling to the right, then they were hanging upside down, and before she knew it, upright again. He took her through a series of banks and turns, dives and rolls, then hovered above the pitch.

"Wow..."

"Now you try."

"What? Viktor, I can't..."

"Can't never did anything. Just... nudge it vare you vont it to go. Don't think so hard. Just lead it vare you vont it to go, and it vill follow," he urged. He took his hands off the handle, latching them together in front of her waist. She timidly leaned forward a bit, the broom moving slowly. After some minutes, she was brave enough to try a few wide turns and some shallow dives. After they landed, she thanked Viktor.

"See, no vone died... you practice, you could be a good chaser, maybe as good as Ivanova some day." She thought his high praise was a little unwarranted, considering she had only managed to fly somewhat acceptably with his tutoring, but she appreciated it anyway.

They spent the rest of the day in Sofia, wandering the streets and shops, then visiting the museum, which Ron and Harry patiently endured for Hermione's sake. Well, it wasn't so bad, they allowed, but still, who wants something educational on your holiday? "You didn't want to say goodbye to your mother first?" Hermione asked as they headed toward the door.

Viktor paused, almost as though he had been reminded of an acquaintance long forgotten and was having trouble placing a face to the name. "Of course," he said curtly, turning on his heel and heading toward the side hall.

He led them back into a small office with a glass front, piles of papers on the small desk among the quills and parchment covered in varying colors, styles, and amounts of calligraphy. Anya's fingers were smudged with the ink, and the original documents were covered in thick sealed Lucite, to keep them clean. He translated their polite wonderment over the museum to Anya, who looked pleased. Rather more polite wonderment from Hermione, but even Ron and Harry had enjoyed the weapons display. He relayed that they were planning to eat at Korrina Sofia again that evening, and they turned to go.

He held the door for the rest, and before he could step out, Anya spoke, reaching out, grasping his shoulder before he could go. He let the door swing shut, and stood facing her, expression completely inscrutable. She spoke for some time, Viktor's face unchanging, but now he was staring somewhere in the vicinity of her shoes. The three Hogwarts students stood in the hall, watching Anya speak to Viktor, as though she were explaining something. He seemed to argue back half-heartedly, gesturing, then finally resting his right hand on his chest, face going sullen, then resigned. She silently handed him a small black book, which he stared at for a moment, then pocketed. Finally he stepped forward, bent low, and gave her an awkwardly stiff hug, then seemed to resume his flagging defense of his side of things.

"Poor Viktor... they're practically strangers..." Hermione said softly.

"What? What would you know about it?" Ron inquired.

"Add it up Ron! Add up how many weeks he's been home over the past six years. Maybe two weeks a summer. He's been home about two weeks in winter, every year but last year, when he was at Hogwarts. He was finally able to Apparate, but he was in one of the few places he couldn't, license or no license. Karkaroff didn't even allow them to go to Hogsmeade. He's been home maybe five or six bloody months over the last six years!"

"Shh!" Harry hissed at them, as Viktor grabbed the door again.

He was unusually quiet at the cafe, even more taciturn than usual. He mostly pushed the food around his plate, barely finishing half. Harry was more than glad to have the leftovers. Hermione finally ventured a conversation when he refused dessert, looking as surly as they had ever seen him. "Viktor..."

"They're coming to the championship game. Not the semifinal. They have to vork," he said grimly.

"But..." Hermione started, a little stunned that Viktor had volunteered any information.

"They von't take it anymore, the money. They didn't year before last, or the year before that. They've been putting it in Gringott's in my name." He fingered the pocket he had placed the book in. "Not much money at all last year anyvay. I vos at Hogvarts."

"Viktor...you can't always take care of your parents..." Hermione said.

He looked at her, his scowl softening to a thoughtful frown, more like his father's neutral expression. "That's vot she said."

**********************************************************

CHAPTER 7

"Ron! You can't write Bill just asking to look at Viktor's money! Or to ask about his parents! It's invading his privacy!" Harry whispered urgently. But Ron went on scribbling on the parchment, the two family owls stalking around them expectantly, down from their perches in the barn, ready to be off. Baramir. Harry thought he remembered Viktor calling the big gray barn owl he had taken to Durmstrang Baramir.

"Harry, don't you wonder why Viktor seems so concerned about the money? I mean, this is a big, nice inn. There's some land with it. He's an only child..." Harry widened his eyes and Ron paused, "...now... his parents both make money, why all the concern about the money? I mean, for Pete's sake, Harry, he acts like they would starve if they didn't take all his money."

"Sure I wonder, Ron, but, it's rude talk about where his money goes behind his back. If we want to know, we should just ask Viktor..."

"Yes, I think you should." They turned to see Viktor, standing in the barn door, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, highlighted by the sunset behind. "Votever it is you vont to know."

Ron crumpled the parchment and stuck it into his pocket, shamefaced. "Viktor, we're sorry, it's just, well..." Harry trailed off.

Ron mumbled, "We just wondered why you seem so hot and bothered for your parents to take all your money. They seem to do alright..."

Viktor snorted softly, raising his eyebrow disapprovingly at some imaginary spot on the floor. "All those years ago, my mother spent eight months in hospital. She had to relearn how to valk. She did not vork for more than two years. Neither did my father. He vos busy looking after her. And me. They had to double mortgage this place, to live on, to send me to Durmstrang. A half-year late. I still haff some schooling left, exams to take. Between that and Quidditch and the Tournament last year, alvays playing catch up."

Viktor sat heavily astride a hay bale, picking at the stray straws sticking out of it. "But, Viktor, it's not your responsibility. You were only a child," Harry said.

"It vos if ve vonted to keep it. They couldn't get ahead on their own. Not barely even, either. So long vith so much money going out, none coming in."

"I'm sure your parents appreciated it, but they want you to start taking care of yourself. Not them. Parents are odd that way. They either want to take care of you, or toss you out into the world and make you look after yourself. Sometimes it doesn't make any sense which they decide to do today. Half the time, Mum does both before breakfast," Ron piped up.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Viktor's face crumpled, a pained look settling in place of the usual impenetrable mask. In a strangled voice, he said, "But it vos my fault. If it hadn't been for me, they vould not haff been there..."

Harry interjected, "Viktor... it..."

But Viktor picked up again as though he hadn't heard, "I had seen a Muggle boy vith vone at the museum, I had to haff a damned baseball cap..." Seemingly angry at himself, he was plucking frantically at the piece of straw in his hands.

Harry touched his shoulder. "Viktor, it wasn't your fault. It could have happened anyway."

Viktor looked Harry levelly in the eye. "But it did not. It happened because I vonted something from my parents. I tried not to vont anything from them after that, I avoided them and her as much as I could. Two years, hardly a vord about her between us. By then, they needed money so badly they both vorked all they could. Mama even took boarders in the inn. You don't talk much vith strangers living vith you, or vorking all the time. By the time the boarders left, I vos at Durmstrang. I did not get paid much to be a practice reserve, but it vos better than nothing. Playing paid much better, but it still takes a lot to buy a place like this twice over, books, supplies. But they do not need me now. They do not vont my help. The money was all I had to offer instead of... her. " he said despondently. He grimaced at the straw in his hands.

"I think your mother and father would disagree with that. They obviously love you very much. I just think, well, they seem proud. Proud of you. And proud for themselves. Viktor, you like to do things for yourself, don't you think they do too?" Harry responded. Harry could now see why Viktor had refused the mediwizards last year at the World Cup, when he had so obviously needed medical attention. He was proud. They all were. He couldn't imagine any of them accepting help from anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

Viktor considered this statement a moment, then nodded. "I just vish ve had not vasted so much time being...proud...strong. Ve do not know each other as vell as ve should because of it. I see that now. I used to see everything but that bloody snitch too late. I hope that changes," he said dully, standing up and walking back toward the inn, not looking back.

************************************************************

CHAPTER 8

"So that explains it. Why he's older than most of his classmates, why he still has schooling left, even though he was classified as a seventh year during the tournament..." Hermione stared out her bedroom window, Ron and Harry sitting on the edge of her bed. "I just assumed it was all the traveling for Quidditch, all the training. He's certainly not thick in the least. You don't speak three languages that fluently and know two alphabets without a little something upstairs. Some of the books he read at the library were pretty advanced, too. He could do advanced transfigurations and picked the most likely curse against that dragon, he knew to go for the eyes, he certainly did better than Fleur..."

"Okay, Herm, we get it, he's not a dunce. He had good reason to slouch around like the creeping death last year, too, beyond the giggling packs of girls and the reporters and that creep Karkaroff always breathing down his neck. And we go around the entire time we're here poking at his wounds with a big sharp stick. We're all horrid beasts, now aren't we? Especially me..." Ron kicked at the floor with his toe.

"No more than the rest of us, Ron. And some of it we didn't do deliberately. It's not as though Hermione brought up Violeta on purpose," Harry said.

Ron continued, "Wonder what else we can do for him while we're here. Remind him he came second in the Triwizard Tournament? Or was it third? That Karkaroff went scurrying like some scared rabbit and just left all his students at Hogwarts to fend for themselves when he thought his old Death Eater buddies and Dark Lord were coming back? Maybe we could ask him if he's been to any nice Junior Death Eater parties at Durmstrang? Or ask him if he wants to have a nice remembrance party for Cedric Diggory? Set his dogs on fire maybe? Smash his fingers with a sledgehammer so he can't practice tomorrow? Shove his parents off a cliff? Drown ourselves in the lake so he can't even go out there and enjoy it anymore?"

"Ron! Would you stop it? I don't think he's angry at you... he didn't seem to be when he got back, just mad at himself..." Hermione scolded.

"I wish he were mad at me. That would make it better, if he would just try to strangle me or pound me into a pulp and get it over with. I could have quite happily gone on hating him last year, if he hadn't turned out to be so bleedin' decent to Harry. To you. To me even, and I wasn't even nice to him! I think it was less complicated when I wanted to break his nose again just for being from Durmstrang and competing against Harry and daring to ask you to the Yule Ball like some sneaky spy. Why couldn't he just act like a pompous athlete with a big ego who loves having hangers-on and getting what he wants and going to a big, bad, evil school like Durmstrang? Then I could go on thinking he's an overgrown Bulgarian git and just think about breaking his ugly nose..." Ron said glumly.

"This is getting to be a habit," came the voice from the hall. Viktor leaned in the open doorway, slouching, arms crossed, shoulder against the door frame, expression neutral. "By the vay, the doors do not alvays close. Sometimes, they sving open. The wood has shrunk over the years." He nudged the door back further with his knee. "I should make more noise," he added absently, grunting to himself. He stared at his knee, then let out a self-deprecating snort, "Am I to take it Ron Veasley, you don't like my nose half as much as those silly packs of girls?" His voice was surprisingly light. It was so unexpected, the three of them looked at one another, then burst out laughing.

Ron finally caught his breath. "I have to be honest, it's not a look most of us could pull off. I'm not sure you pull it off, but all those girls sure seem to think so. Nutty question. Why haven't you let someone fix it? Herm here let Madame Pomfrey carve a little off her teeth you know." Hermione shot him a glare that could have cut stone.

Viktor looked up and gave them a rueful smile, uncrossing his right arm and fingering the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, rubbing up and down its length. "The hook, I vos born vith. It came courtesy of my father. I vould not haff the heart to get rid of it. I broke it the first time in practice at school, somevone's elbow. Badge of honor, then, I suppose. Second, vhile learning Wronski Feint at Vratsa. I vos too young to vorry about vot girls might think. Running to medivizards all the time, then they vould think they haff to play nursemaid to me. Third time, in Vratsa Vultures game, a bludger. By then I vonted to keep those silly girls avay. Fourth time, European Cup, bludger, took me clean off the broom and knocked me all the vay into the stands. I bled on our owner. Fifth time, Vorld Cup. I vos so angry that ve couldn't catch up, ve vere just playing for honor, the bludger could haff taken my head off, and I vould not haff cared. Only reason I care now is because you saw me a bloody mess." Harry got the feeling he wasn't addressing the entire room at the last, just Hermione.

Viktor laid his finger alongside the bridge of his nose, still now, lightly touching the small crook in it with the tip of his finger. "I decided long ago, if I could not live vith something so..." he cleared his throat significantly, his brows arching expressively, "small... as my nose, how could I live vith the faults you cannot fix vith the vave of a vand?" he shrugged and dropped his finger, crossing his arms once more. "Anymore, I figure, broken, not broken, it vill return to its usual prominent size in a few days, no harm done. The black eyes from the Vorld Cup, they lasted longer than the nose. Noses, they are nothing to break. Breaking other things, things you cannot see, they hurt." He paused a moment. "Maybe I should have let them mop me up, but I vos too busy being a moody Slavic man." His mouth curled in the slightest little smirk. "I figured if they did not call time to mop me up, I did not need it to go see the Minister box. I vould just go vith my crooked, hooked, oversized, broken, bloody nose and bloody robes. If only you had let me know you vere so concerned about my nose, Ron, I vould have prettied up for you..." he finished in a mock-syrupy tone, his eyes twinkling, holding back a laugh.

Ron held his ribs, gasping and wheezing, "You don't play fair Viktor. Stop being so damned likable! Besides, moody Slavic men aren't my thing. Now Harry, on the other hand..."

"Ron!" Harry pushed him over onto the bed, still laughing.

Viktor sobered and continued, "You could get rid of your freckles, your red hair, Harry could cover up his scar, Hermione could put potion on her hair every day... you do not, because it is not you. A nice, straight, small, pretty boy nose just vould not be me either."

Hermione looked a bit put out. "You didn't like my hair at the Yule Ball?"

"Oh, I loved it. But I loved it every other day, too. I hardly think a little thing like hair vith a vill of its own vould scare me off, do you?" Viktor touched the crook in his nose again as he said this. "I vos more interested in the girl that came vith the hair," he added.

"What about the teeth? Did you even notice those, or not for a month, like these two lunkheads?" she asked.

"They vere fine before. Most people grow into things like teeth. Or noses. I did not ask your teeth to the ball."

Ron snickered, "Headstrong hair... Hermione's got headstrong hair!"

"Oh, shut up, Ron!" Hermione walloped him with a pillow. "Sorry, " she said to Viktor, patting the pillow gently, Ron's muffled laughter still filtering through it.

"Ve haff more if you vont to hit him again," Viktor grinned outright.

"I might take you up on that. So what was it then? I mean, I realize I'm not all that pretty, not like Lavender or Padma or Parvati. Or Fleur. I mean, I'm not that hideous, but you seem to be the first one who bothered to spot that I was a real live girl, not just a last resort fallback plan for a date when no other vaguely female creature will go with you." She shot a look at the pillow. Viktor came and sat on the side of the bed and cocked his head at her.

"No. Not like them. Maybe that is vot I liked about you. They think they are pretty. They vont everyvone else to think they are pretty, they think they get vot they vont because they are pretty. Like veela. You do not bother to think if you are pretty or not. You vere just... you. I think it vos mostly because you ignored me. Yes, you ignored me very vell. And you did not giggle vonce."

She tilted her own head and asked, "What's that got to do with anything?"

He spread his hands. "Simple. You vere a very pretty girl behind that book, and unless I vos very much mistaken, I thought, not so bad on the inside. My father alvays told me a girl vith her nose in a book she does not haff to read could not be half bad. Hogvarts reading list could not be that long. Instinct. If I talked to you and you liked me, it vos not for Quidditch. Not because I vos famous. You vere the first to spot that I vos a real live boy. If you did not like me, I vos stuck vith a giggler," he replied, making a face as though a giggler were a fate worse than death.

"Thank you, Viktor. So, are you going to finish up your schooling at Durmstrang, exams? And what are they going to do with Karkaroff gone?" The question had slipped out of her mouth before she could think.

He looked at the floor for a moment. "I haff not decided. I haff some...options. Choices to make. If Karkaroff is still gone, they vill haff a new headmaster, I am sure. No idea who it vill be. I haff been talking to somevone, about how I can, vell...vork.. something out...maybe..." he responded haltingly.

"I'm getting the feeling it's none of our business," she said.

Viktor grinned and continued, "More like just not vorked out. I do not vont to say before it is certain. I vill just say, you may see me again sooner than you think. Much sooner." He playfully shoved Ron back over, having seen him just struggle up from the bed, pillow still half over his face.

"Ow. That was NOT likable, Vicky!" Ron shrieked hysterically, still out of breath.

"Ve should go eat, Ronnie. Practice again tomorrow, if you vont. Maybe you can break my nose. But be prepared, Ivanova vould scratch your eyes out if you do anything to hurt our chances against Wales. She almost killed the first player who cobbed me and got avay vith it in the European Cup, and ve von that. And Vulchanov and Volkov, they haff got big clubs! Play 'kill the seeker' at your own risk. You mess up my nose the girls vill not like me any more."

Viktor snatched the pillow off of Ron, plopping it back on the bed. Harry thought to himself that it was the first time he had seen Viktor be anything approaching playful. And one of the rare times he had seen him so pleased. No, wait, hopeful. That was it. If Harry wasn't very much mistaken that had been the unfamiliar look in his eyes. Hopeful.

************************

CHAPTER 9

The practice was fairly uneventful, Viktor caught the snitch three times in an hour and half, Harry once, though he suspected that Viktor might have played blind a bit on that one. He couldn't believe that had been a real coughing fit Viktor had suffered when the snitch started whirring around Harry's ear, it went on one cough too long. Viktor had probably heard the thing before he did. And given half a chance, Viktor could have caught up and body checked him into next week long before he caught the snitch. All the Bulgarian players slapped him on the back and congratulated him for beating Viktor to the snitch, and Harry could have sworn Viktor and Ivanova shared a wink over his head. "Thanks for the break, Viktor," Harry whispered beside the equipment rack.

"Vot break?" Viktor asked innocently.

"What break, indeed. You probably heard that thing a mile off. I wish Slytherin would take a cue from you, though, Malfoy wouldn't do that for a million knuts, let someone beat him in front of others."

"Slytherin!" Viktor spat. "That little brat Malfoy, he is all talk. He does nothing but hide behind his father's name and money, and those goons. For such a small boy, he sure does look down his nose at a lot of people. A lot of others in that house are the same. I do not care for his head of house either."

"You and me both. Snape feels the same way about me. All of Gryffindor, really. Malfoy isn't too fond of me either, come to it."

" I am glad ve stayed on the ship, even if it vos musty. I am not sure I could haff taken some of those people in Slytherin all evening too. Or even just Malfoy. I think I vould have preferred sleeping on my broom, or vith the giant sqvid, " Viktor finished, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Ole Malfoy snuggle up to you a lot while you were there?" Ron asked. "I'm sure Draco the amazing bouncing ferret was real proud they had a world famous seeker at their table every meal."

Viktor nodded, a bitter edge to his voice now, "He vos...a pain. That big lecture about vhy I should not have asked Hermione to the Yule Ball. All that ridiculous talk about 'mudbloods' and how I could trace my bloodline back over a thousand years. He thought I did not know. She told me in the library. I told him I did not care if her parents vere drunken Cornish pixies and offered to rearrange his face if he ever called her that again. The offer still stands. He vos vorse than Karkaroff and his 'the honor of the school is at stake, you are my champion' speeches. Karkaroff acted like vinning that tournament vos a matter of life or death..."

Cringing as he realized what he had just said, Viktor paused, then turned to Harry. "Sorry. I did not mean it that vay..."

Harry blinked, "I know. It's okay. It's not so bad now when I think back on it. Sometimes, I even think it was just a bad dream, and I'll wake up from it. Cedric didn't deserve...to die."

Viktor clucked his tongue, "I know vot you mean. I liked Diggory. He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang...vith Karkaroff." Harry caught the oddly precise echo of Viktor's words when they had parted at Hogwarts. "I am still not sure vot ... really... vent on. It vos so... confused..." Viktor scowled and knit his brows together. I suppose he does think of Cedric Diggory, and that memory brings up more ghosts of the Viktor of last fall, Harry thought.

***************************

CHAPTER 10

"Wales has got no chance, have they?" Ron elbowed Harry.

Harry turned to him and answered, "If you think they do, I wouldn't bother telling Viktor. Unless you want him giving you the nose job or rearranging your face. I swear, I think he's literally snorting steam today. What was it Smythe-Jones supposedly said about him, anyway?"

Hermione cleared her throat, "And I quote, boys, from the Daily Prophet, 'Stupid Slav'. And that's the nicest thing he said. The rest of the Welsh team, they weren't too complimentary either. Not even written by Rita Skeeter, and there's more mud in there than in a bog. You think Viktor's mad, you should see the rest of the team. They might not nursemaid him, but I'd sooner insult a Hungarian Horntail and her brood than let them hear you say a nasty word about Viktor. I don't think he was exaggerating when he said Ivanova would take your eyes out. The rest of the team must have been eating iron filings and gunpowder since the World Cup. They could eat most teams alive, now. On or off the Quidditch field."

Hermione folded the paper, laid it in her lap and sighed. "I gather there was some verbal exchange between coaches about the fact that he attended Durmstrang, as well. The coach ran into the Welsh team yesterday at the practice field after we left, and I suspect they weren't exchanging muffin recipes." She pursed her lips and went on, "Viktor...they...well, they insinuate in the interview that he was involved in... Cedric's death. They don't come right out and say it, but they imply it."

Harry sniffed, "I guess they all went to completely upright and respectable Hogwarts, where everyone's good and kind and they never try to kill you like some people we know, huh?" The sarcasm fairly dripped from Harry's voice as he spoke, "Probably said it because they think he hangs out with dangerous and wacko characters, namely me, after all those Rita Skeeter articles last year."

"I do believe Viktor could have bitten a spiked nail in two when he read it. Harry told me your mum thinks he's a sweet boy, Hermione, but I wouldn't want him mad at me. He grows twelve inches up and twice as broad when he gets angry. Right up there with Hagrid in the towering-over-you-impressively-and-menacingly department. If they were trying to get inside his head, I think they went about it all wrong. I don't think I would want to be Cornelius Cymry today," Ron said, nodding at the Welsh seeker.

The match, somewhat to be expected, began rough and tumble, mostly rough. Vulchanov and Volkov pounded the bludgers mercilessly at the Welsh chasers, driven by the desire for payback on Viktor's behalf. The Welsh, of course, reciprocated, fouls abounded, and penalty shots counted for more than half the score by the ninety minute mark, with a score of 360 to 250, in favor of Bulgaria.

Smythe-Jones committed a particularly vicious foul on Viktor, deliberately clipping him as he and Cymry jockeyed for position near the goal. It was only by his fingertips that Viktor managed to keep his grip on his broom and stop himself flipping off. The referee would have stopped play, but he waved him off, reluctant to stop for as small a thing as a miniscule scrape on his cheek.

"Ninety minutes straight," Ron commented, adjusting his omnioculars.

"One hour forty, actually," Hermione replied, glancing at the time on the scoreboard.

"Nope, ninety minutes. That's how long Viktor's had that scowl on his face. Before that it was a deep frown with a side of surliness. Oh, wait, he just changed to looking absolutely murderous, but then I would too if Cymry kept cobbing me and the ref didn't call it at all," Ron shot back.

Harry looked downfield, where Cymry and Viktor were parrying astride their broomsticks, and he caught the glint of gold as it whizzed between Viktor and Cymry's heads. Viktor stalled and whirled to the outside, getting the drop on the snitch a second before Cymry. Cymry streaked after Viktor, just inches behind. They raced low, nearly dragging the ground, around the inner perimeter of the stadium, boots hitting the grass occasionally. Cymry actually dragged his foot for a moment, before regaining control. The snitch rose a few feet, still roughly following the inner perimeter.

"Ohhh, traffic!" Ron shouted, as Viktor and Cymry weaved through their respective teammates, as Bulgaria worked downfield. Ivanova tossed the quaffle through the goal, adding to Bulgaria's lead, and the crowd roared.

As Viktor rounded the corner of the stadium, Harry noticed a startled look pass across his face, he hesitated a moment before scissoring his outstretched fingers around the tiny wing sticking out from the snitch. "Look! He's..."

"Look out!" Ron interrupted Harry. Harry zoomed back out, and saw what Ron was referring to. Viktor's fingers had no more than touched the snitch than Cymry made his own desperate grab. For Viktor's robe.

Viktor was shooting along at such a high rate of speed when the tug came, the broom bucked and he flipped, literally head over heels, unable to hang on tightly enough with one hand. The crowd groaned in dismay over the blatant attack on their seeker. Or maybe it was more accurate to say Viktor went heels over head.

Viktor tucked in a little as he went flying and made a complete 360, landing arms and chest first in the deep sand beneath the Bulgarian goal, plowing through the pit, cutting a wake through the grains, which sprayed all around him like water. He propped up when he came to a stop at the edge of the pitch, a hill of sand pushed before him, eyes screwed up tight, sand coating his face and hair.

He gave his head a shake, sand flying from his dark hair, then brushed his face with his left hand. Turning over gingerly with his right hand still down, buried up to his wrist, he sprawled, long legs bent, feet buried into the soft sand. He glared at Cymry, who was now off his broom and standing at the far edge of the pit, as though he would like to barbecue him in oil given half a chance. Then he held out his right hand in a cascade of sand, where the snitch was still caught by one wing, fluttering weakly between his index and middle finger. He had left behind a trench fourteen inches deep. "Not a smart move to hack Viktor off," Ron noted.

Hermione took a look through her pair of glasses, "Actually, I think the rest of the Bulgarian team is giving Cymry a look that makes Viktor's expression look positively sweet and charitable by comparison."

Harry scanned the gathering, "Volkov looks like he's swearing a blue streak in Bulgarian. I think if I were Wales, I would watch what I say from now on," Harry said dryly. Viktor stalked off the field, deliberately banging his shoulder into Cymry's on the way to the sideline, shooting him one last withering look over his shoulder. Cymry just stood there, looking absolutely sick and green.

**********************************

CHAPTER 11

"You sure you're okay?' Hermione asked for the sixth time. All she had gotten out of him the first five times was an unconvincing "Fine."

"Except for the never ending grit in my teeth, I am fine. The medivizards said so," Viktor replied impatiently, grinding his teeth with a look of distaste.

Hermione gasped in mock horror, "Viktor Krum actually consulting a medical professional! Did something vital fall off after you left the field?" Viktor laughed in spite of himself. "And the moody Slavic man even laughs! Are you sure you didn't hurt your head?"

"I am not so moody vhen ve vin. Besides, the rest of the team threatened to kill me themselves if I did not let them look at me."

Ron poked Viktor in the shoulder, "France! Imagine that! You're going to be playing France, not Ireland. Ole Aidan must still be a bit scrambled, he wasn't in the game. Team Bulgaria gonna come tuck you in tonight, make sure you get a good night's sleep, Viktor?"

"Do not give them any ideas!" Viktor snapped back irritably. He hadn't particularly liked his teammates ganging up on him and insisting he let the medical team take a look at him. The last thing they wanted was for him to discover an injury in the final.

"I wouldn't mind having Ivanova tuck me in though," Ron went on dreamily. Hermione rolled her eyes, but Viktor gave Ron a look that would have withered all of Professor Sprout's greenhouses. "Uh oh, that's the 'positively murderous' look. Duly noted. No more wiseacre comments about your teammates. Protective of each other, aren't you?"

Viktor softened as he answered, "Yes. They're all you've got vhen you travel, particularly if you are not old enough for Apparating, the floo network is spotty, and cultivating contacts everywhere you might play to turn every spare bit of rubbish into portkeys is impractical. Ivanova is pretty enough. But she is bossy. Very. Bossy. She could tuck you in permanently. And she is at least ten years older than I am." He said the last as though that settled things, turned more contemplative, and shook a lingering bit of sand out of a fold in his robe.

"Viktor?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Why did you hesitate just before you grabbed the snitch?"

Viktor stopped walking. He turned on his heel and looked at Harry. "I thought I saw somevone I recognized. In the stands. But it could not haff been. Not there. Just my eyes playing tricks," Viktor said thoughtfully. Harry doubted very much that Viktor's eyes ever played tricks on him, but he bit his tongue. "Early game tomorrow. I need some rest," Viktor said wearily, as they trudged toward the inn. Already a pale moon was showing in the early evening sky.

"Party tomorrow if ve vin," Viktor called back idly. "Pack your dress robes." He chuckled, low and barely audible. "And your hair potion." Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Viktor cut him off with a dry, "And your freckle remover. Ivanova doesn't like freckle faces. She likes dark, moody Slavic men. At least, her husband is vone." Harry and Hermione snickered, hands over their mouths.

**********************************

CHAPTER 12

By the time Harry and Ron and Hermione staggered downstairs, squinting in the early morning light, Viktor was dressed and standing at the kitchen table. He turned as they walked in, but didn't look up, still busy with his morning preparations. Hermione stopped short and stared. Viktor was already wearing most of his new national team dress uniform, which had changed a bit since the World Cup, rather than his usual robes or the Muggle clothing he sometimes wore. She looked over the black dragon hide boots that reminded her of riding boots, with their smooth, rounded toes and mostly flat soles with short blocky heels. The highly polished boots hugged his shins up to just below his knees, covering the bottom of the black dragon hide pants.

On top, he wore a loosely laced, draping white shirt, neatly tucked in to the pants. On his chair sat a small equipment bag containing the rest of his gear. His glossy black hair lay thick on his forehead, and he absently stuck out his bottom lip and blew it away from his eyes as he finished zipping the bag. For possibly the first time, she found herself struck by how completely handsome he looked in his uniform. No wonder some of those girls swooned at the sight of him.

They sat and ate, but Viktor mostly pushed the food around his plate, rearranging it in neat little piles all around the edges. As they tried to gather everyone at the back door to set out, Hermione nudged him and whispered, "You look nice. Weren't you hungry though?" Viktor simply shook his head. "Nervous?" He paused a moment, then shrugged and nodded subtly. "This can't be as many people as the World Cup."

Viktor looked at her for a long moment before saying, "But different from Vorld Cup. Different audience." Hermione thought a second, and remembered Viktor mentioning that his parents had been home ill with flu during his biggest game.

"Oh! Of course, your parents, they weren't at the World Cup!"

Viktor studied her silently for another space. "Them too," he finally added. The whole conversation was masked by the sounds of Ron and Harry racing around the house trying to make sure they had onmioculars and spending money, clomping up and down the stairs, and Anya and Nikolas exchanging notes in quick, loud bursts of Bulgarian as they scattered through the house, attending to last minute details.

Hermione realized with a start that Viktor had taken no one but his teammates to the World Cup. No family in the stands, presumably no one he had then considered his friends. Karkaroff, maybe, she didn't even know if Poliakoff had been there, the Bulgarian minister, definitely, and several thousand strangers in scarlet cheering him on. Truth be told, a lot of the Irish fans had been cheering him on, since he was the most exciting player in the game for either side. That's what he had taken to the World Cup, the adulation of a group of strangers. Attention he didn't necessarily want. That and six teammates.

Not that he didn't obviously enjoy his teammates for the most part, but he still was the outsider in that group. The tall one. The thin one. The seeker. The kid. The one they had made prove himself by doing something as mad as playing chicken with a couple of bludgers while doing his own beating at his first practice. The young one. The most famous one. The one with so many female fans swooning over him. Hermione reasoned that the cause of Viktor's nervousness was the fact that he was finally playing in a huge game in front of people who mattered to him. Else, why be nervous? She found herself oddly flattered by his nerves.

By the time they rounded everyone and everything up and arrived at the Quidditch pitch, there was about an hour until the match was set to begin. The Bulgarian Minister was already seated in the booth where Viktor had arranged for them to sit, along with the French Minister. After a short greeting and some polite conversation, Viktor turned his attention to unloading some of the things in his bag.

He doled out onmioculars to his parents, then rummaged to the bottom, laying a few things out to get to some small earplugs at the bottom of the bag. He gave two each to Harry and Ron.

"Wonder why Dumbledore didn't come up and say hello yesterday. What are these for?" Ron asked, studying them.

"For the veela. Veela are like sirens. If you can't hear their song, you vill not do anything silly like try to jump out of the box." Harry blushed when he remembered how he had been so hypnotized by the veela at the World Cup that he and Ron had tried to do that very thing.

"So we're just supposed to sit here with our ears plugged all match? We'll never know what's going on!" Ron complained.

"No." Viktor produced his wand from a pouch on the equipment bag. "Silencio veela!" he intoned over Ron's pair. "Now. You can hear everything else but the veela song."

Something occurred to Harry. "Viktor? How do you play, I mean, can't you hear the veela? And why just give them to us?" Viktor pursed his lips, considering his answer.

"Females are immune. So are most men who haff ... found contentment vith somevone already," he explained carefully.

"So that's why Dad wasn't about to take a leap out of the stands at the World Cup! That would make Mum happy, I suppose..." Ron mused.

"But, Viktor, that doesn't cover... everyone on the team, does it?"

Viktor considered a moment. "No. I haff not played vith ear plugs... ever. Veelas...they don't vork on those who look for more...do not find... that ... that sort of girl attractive..." It was obvious that Viktor was struggling to explain.

Hermione interjected, "You mean, all flash and no substance?"

Viktor puzzled a moment over her statement. "Vot?"

"You know, beauty that's only skin deep."

"Exactly! Vhen you know vhat they are like on the inside, the outside does not look so attractive. Pretty package, usually a nasty surprise inside. Some veela, like some people, are qvite nice, but..." he trailed off and Harry picked up the sentence.

"...most are ugly, shrieking, fireball-throwing, beaky-nosed bird-women on the inside when they get angry?"

Viktor nodded in reply, and said, "Not many men who are near angry veela more than vonce or twice have a problem turning them down after that. And most show their true colors easily. Still, to be safe." He prepared Harry's pair, gathered his Quidditch robe off the chair, grabbed his equipment bag and left the booth for the locker room.

They trolled the railing for a few minutes, just crowd watching and adjusting their onmioculars. Harry was watching a wizard complete a truly thunderous looking sneeze for the third time when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Anya behind him, holding out a black pair of Quidditch gloves. Viktor had left them on the chair. "Take to him?" she asked.

"Sure. We'll all go," Harry replied.

Hermione hesitated before asking, "Would they let me in?"

"Awww, Hermione, if they're not all in their underpants..." Harry elbowed Ron sharply. "Hermione, surely they have someplace private to change if they have to strip down. Ivanova goes to the same locker room." The trio headed toward the locker room, and they bumped into Ivanova, in full Quidditch gear, just outside.

"Ahh, Viktor's friends! He is in there. Cannot find...oh, you haff them! Go in, go in!" She nudged them a little toward the door. They entered to find Viktor sitting on a bench, knee protectors in place over the boots, stripping off the white shirt, his Quidditch robe lying beside him. Even through the fabric he was pulling over his head, they could hear him muttering in what sounded like muffled but extremely irritated Bulgarian.

"Viktor, we brought your gloves," Harry called out. Viktor nearly ran over to Harry, grabbing the gloves and letting loose a heavy sigh of relief.

"I could not think vere I could haff put them!" He made a disgusted noise, something like a snort. "Scatterbrained. I did not pack my extra pair. Thought I vould have to summon some." He smiled weakly at them, indicating the wand in his hand, then started as he noticed the time. He darted back to the bench and grabbed his Quidditch robe, quickly pulling it over his head, a mumbled "Sorry" filtering out through the material as he dressed. "I haff to finish dressing. Must varm up, and the announcer vill be out there soon, so you had best get back to the box." He tucked his wand back into the equipment bag pocket.

Lacing the gloves on and adjusting the golden tasseled belt of his robe, Viktor tossed his equipment bag into his locker. Harry stared at the much fancier robe, embroidered with gold thread, cut shorter than most robes and showing the boots and pants to great effect and allowing for easier movement at the same time. "Wow!" Harry breathed, "Those are some fantastic uniforms. Gryffindor colors, on top, even. Could you let us know the name of your tailor?" They made Viktor look somehow taller and more imposing than ever, even his eyes flashed darker and his hair seemed blacker against the bright scarlet.

Viktor smiled more confidently now, tying his thick, dark hair back into a short ponytail with a black leather tie. "I vill make sure he outfits the whole team."

"I'll hold you to that. I have witnesses."

"Mum would want to give him a haircut, like Bill," Ron whispered to Harry.

"Go on, now. Shoo!" Viktor flapped his hands at them.

Hermione hung back, whispering, "Nervous now?" after Harry and Ron stepped through the door.

"Think ve vill vin?" he asked her in return.

"No. I know it."

"Then I am not nervous." He squeezed her hand, and she could feel the large, smooth calluses just below his fingers from where he gripped his broom, the rest of his hand surprisingly warm and soft. Then he held the door for her, sweeping out behind her to join his teammates, who were milling around outside. For once, he stood tall, shoulders back, his chin not buried in the neck of his robes as though he wished to crawl inside them. He busied his hands with picking a broom out of the rack, giving a little wave to the three Hogwarts students as they rounded the corner on the way back to the booth.

*****************************************

CHAPTER 13

Settling back into the booth, it was only a short time until the referee strode out onto the field behind the announcer. A full three-quarters of the stadium was outfitted in bright Bulgarian scarlet. The white and royal blue colors of the French team were overwhelmed in the stands. The usual mascot festivities took place, the veela dancing, the hippogriffs of France parading and swooping.

It all went by in a blur until the introductions. France was introduced first. "Alouette! Madeleine!" , six streaks of blue in all, then finally, Viktor's counterpart, the French seeker, Jean-Paul De La Croix. De La Croix was a regular on the Quafflepunchers, as were most of his teammates. He was of a much slighter build than Viktor, not nearly as tall and muscular, but he streaked in impressively on his broom. Then the Bulgarian team, nearly drowned out by the crowd's thunderous cheering. "Ivanova! Dimitrov! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov!" The six players hovered near midfield, as the announcer paused dramatically. "Aaaaand... Krum!"

If the cheering had been thunderous before, it now threatened to shake the stadium apart. The crowd still remembered his heroic effort to get the snitch despite a broken and bloody nose last year. Viktor streaked into the stadium, his uniform a blur of black and scarlet and gold. He halted just short of his teammates, they conferred for a moment, and then scattered to their respective posts. As in the World Cup, the referee was Hassan Mostafa. Harry wondered if this time, he had any veela-proof earplugs. And a fire-proof broomtail.

Mostafa mounted his broom, sweeping his bright green robes aside. He kicked open the crate and the four balls shot upward, a last glint of light catching the snitch as Harry gazed through his onmioculars, and then it was gone. The whistle sounded and the pace was so fast that the announcer often had no time to complete a player's name as he called the play. "Aloue..., Lev..., Ivanova, Levski, Madeleine blocks!" Play went on, fast and frantic up and down the field. Soon Harry's nose ached from pressing the onmioculars against his glasses, and his hands grew weak from clutching them. Viktor and Jean-Paul were dueling near the Bulgarian goal, jockeying for position, for some window to locate the snitch. They split only for a moment when a bludger smacked by Vulchanov at De La Croix whistled between them.

Viktor obviously had the advantage when it came to muscle and speed, fending De La Croix off, always edging ahead slightly, impeding him so that he finally, in frustration, committed a foul, blatantly elbowing Viktor hard in the face. "Wonder if ninety percent of his injuries are his nose..." Ron mused. On the penalty shot, Ivanova scored, putting Bulgaria ahead 70 to 60.

Thirty minutes into the match, play was still as wild as at the beginning. "What's he doing?" Ron asked.

"Where?" Hermione looked about wildly.

"Up there...no wait, down there..." Ron followed Viktor's rapid plummet.

"Feint?" Harry ventured, and was about to add more, when he removed the onmioculars and realized what had Ron so confused. Viktor was diving right down toward the spot where the chasers and beaters were converging on the quaffle from all directions.

"Surely it's not a feint...that's suicide!" Ron yelled. All ten of the French and Bulgarian chasers, beaters, and seekers were headed right toward midfield, quaffle flying furiously between them, bludgers whirling from club to club.

"De La Croix knows Viktor's a feint waiting to happen, but he couldn't take the chance that Viktor is just feinting, he might have seen it!" Hermione clutched the rail, her knuckles turning white. De La Croix raced after Viktor, pulling nearly even when the entire group of players reached midfield. Viktor wrapped himself flat as possible onto his broom, pulling in his elbows and knees, weaving through a narrow opening between Vulchanov and Volkov. His boots nearly brushed their noses, and even they looked surprised to see Viktor cut it so thin.

De La Croix clipped Fontainebleu, his own teammate, nearly taking him off the broom, and wobbled unsteadily after Viktor. They continued to hurtle down through layers of Quidditch players, Viktor pulling up and skimming over the surface of the field at the last possible moment. De La Croix crashed, though not a spectacular crash, skidding off of his broom, bouncing across the pitch on his backside.

"Gets them every time!" Ron cheered. Play was stopped, until De La Croix waved off the mediwizards, and climbed gingerly back onto his broom. Viktor, hovering near the French goal, used the opportunity to seek solo. When play resumed, De La Croix stayed a bit further away, following more warily. France managed two more goals, fueled by anger and embarrassment. "Look! I think De La Croix spotted it!" Ron pointed to the French seeker.

Viktor appeared to hear the snitch before he saw it, and Harry caught it zooming past his shoulder, and toward the other side of the field. De La Croix had a bit of a head start on him, but he leaned forward, and began to close the distance, soon pulling even.

They began a brutal series of hip checks and bumping while striving for position. Harry winced as he thought about how Viktor could have slammed into him that way during practice. It made his him sore just to think of it, crashing into Viktor's solid wall of muscle. The snitch led them on a complete loop of the field, circling and heading directly toward the box where they sat.

Harry looked over at Anya and Nikolas. They were both leaning against one another, nervously clutching hands, onmioculars now forgotten in their laps. They both wore clouded, anxious expressions.

"Incoming!" Ron said, the snitch continuing on its course toward the box. As the two headed after the snitch, which now kept leading them higher and higher, Viktor began to stretch, only one hand on the broom, even bracing his feet across the top, straining upward and pushing up over the broom so he could get a greater reach. From the precarious perch, he began to crowd De La Croix over, outreaching him by a hand length. He was going to..

"Bludger!" Hermione shrieked, pointing at the dark blur headed toward Viktor and De La Croix. Viktor, locked against De La Croix and intent on the snitch, had no time to react as the bludger smashed into his broomstick just below his waist, splintering it beneath him, knocking him into De La Croix first, then plummeting him down, tumbling in the air. The snitch was lost, and the entire stadium gasped as Viktor hurtled toward the pitch, De La Croix ricocheting sideways, but still on his broom.

"Ivanova!" Harry pointed, just finishing the name when Viktor latched on to the back of Ivanova's passing broom. The broom bucked wildly, and Viktor twisted beneath, holding on with one hand when one of them slipped free of the handle. Ivanova began circling near the Bulgarian end of the field, trying to give Viktor a hand up, but with Viktor behind her, Ivanova could not reach his free hand. Even with perfect leverage, her slight frame had no hope of hauling the much larger Viktor up onto the broom without some help.

She started to spiral downward, obviously trying to land safely with Viktor beneath, but Viktor's grip was slipping. As they passed parallel to and level with the front of the box, Viktor dropped from the broom, kicking wildly. The entire stadium gasped again, a moment of silence, and then a roar of approval. "Viktor!" Hermione yelled. "What are they cheering? Why are they bloody cheering! That is the Bulgarians cheering, isn't it?"

"Yeah, where is he?" Harry answered. Anya and Nikolas looked sick, frozen with their hands clamped over their mouths.

Ron leaned over the rail and screamed back, "There he is!" The seven occupants of the booth rushed forward and leaned over.

There, below and between the boxes, Viktor dangled from a stadium railing used to hang banners, hauling himself upward with his hands. They could see him muttering, a familiar scowl on his face. He was probably cursing a blue streak in Bulgarian now, Hermione thought, looking at his mouth working as he muttered to himself. Anya finally let out her breath and laid a hand over her heart.

He managed to plant his feet, bracing the soles of his boots against the wall of the stadium, and dared to lean out, waving his arm, trying to catch Volkov's attention. As Volkov turned, though, a bludger drew near, and he gave his full attention to beating it away from his face, like some overgrown bee. Ivanova was trying frantically to attract Mostafa's attention, but he was busier eyeing the shrieking veela on the sidelines warily.

"No one can see him out on that end of the field! The banner's got him blocked off! Oh, come on, ref, time out!" Ron hollered. Viktor's feet slipped, and he spoke again, fumbling at his robe pockets with first one, then the other hand. The occupants of the booth imagined they could make out Accio broom, interspersed with what sounded like some very rude Bulgarian indeed.

From near the benches, an unmanned broom shot toward the railing, though it was wobbling and meandering a bit, not sticking to a straight path. "He must have gotten to his wand... oh, thank goodness!" Hermione exclaimed. Viktor clamped onto the broom zooming by with both hands, twisting beneath for a moment before narrowing his eyes in concentration and chinning up against the broom handle.

He first managed to lay across the speeding broom on his stomach, legs dangling off one side, head off the other, wobbling unsteadily. As he made to climb up the rest of the way, Ivanova screamed, "Viktor, duck!" Viktor folded limply over the broom just in time, nearly overbalancing and heading over the handle head first, the bludger grazing his hair.

Viktor pushed up and swung his right leg over the handle, laying low, urging the broom after De La Croix, who had by now, relocated the snitch. Viktor soon drew even and nudged De La Croix, forcing him aside with his greater weight. They both shot straight up, following the snitch, and the crowd could only tell that their hands tangled, and the flash of gold disappeared among their fingers. Even with onmioculars, it was impossible to tell which team had just won.

"Who got it?" Ron squealed. Judging from the absolute quiet, no one else in the stadium knew, besides the two seekers. Both Viktor and De La Croix banked and flew toward Mostafa, who was hovering near the ground, surrounded by Bulgarian players who were berating him for not stopping play earlier, so Viktor could be gotten down from the railing and supplied with a new broom. The veela looked as though they would like to give him a piece of their minds as well.

De La Croix dismounted, and stood before Mostafa. A second later, Viktor glided in, dismounting the broom before it came to a complete stop. With long strides, he marched over to Mostafa. "I still don't know!" Harry replied, "Maybe neither. Maybe they're all so peeved they just came in to complain."

De La Croix had a blank look, neither happy nor sad, fists clenched. Viktor paused before Mostafa, breathing deeply, nostrils dilating, scowling heavily, chin tilted up proudly, defiantly, fists clenched at his side. He stood there for a long moment, glaring at Mostafa with such force that the referee took a hesitant step back. Then Viktor lifted his right fist, parted his fingers, and showed the tiny golden snitch, trapped against his palm.

The entire stadium exploded in a cacophony, the veela struck up a song and began to dance in joy. Viktor simply stood there, stock still, as his teammates dismounted and ran up to pound him on the back. This went on for several minutes, until he lowered his hand, and a slight smile crept across his face. So slight that only those who knew him best would have dared to term it a smile. He turned and strode toward the locker room, full of purpose, snitch still in hand, as though the stadium was cheering for someone else entirely.

*********************************************************

CHAPTER 14

Hauling the cup into the box, the officials gathered for the presentation to the winners. The Bulgarian Minister was hopping around excitedly, rubbing the cross French Minister completely the wrong way. As the Bulgarian team filed in, Viktor last, he made eye contact with Hermione and mouthed, "One minute", before slipping past his teammates and giving his somewhat startled mother a squeeze that was neither awkward nor stiff.

Then there was a proud handshake and shoulder squeeze between himself and his father. Hermione could tell they were both surprised yet gratified that Viktor had bothered to come to them first. As he snuck back to the end of the line, he reached out to grasp Hermione's hand, which was resting on the back of her chair, folding the snitch into her fingers and curling them shut as he shot her a quick wink. She could have poked Ron with a fork when he leaned and whispered, "Why are you sniveling like that? They won already!"

"Oh, Ron! Honestly! You think I'm bawling over a stupid Quidditch game?" Ron almost told her that the internationals were certainly not a stupid Quidditch game, but he thought better of it. She pocketed the snitch, still warm from his hands.

By the time the presentation was over, they had very nearly clapped their hands clean off their wrists. Viktor finally broke away from his teammates and back to the trio, after bidding his parents goodbye. They were headed back to Pavlova. "Party," he said simply, a subtle curve to his lips that they had come to recognize as a smile. "As soon as the crowd leaves, the pitch is ours. Ve vill go put these in my locker," he added, taking the onmioculars from Hermione and steering her toward the door with a hand on the arm. With Harry, Ron, and the rest of the team close behind, they made their way to the locker room. Viktor stowed the pairs of onmioculars into the large pocket, then stripped off his gloves and knee protectors, preparing to stuff them in the equipment bag. He paused with the gloves in hand, frowning down into the side pocket for a long moment. He pursed his lips as though in deep thought, clucked his tongue, and shook his head as though clearing it.

"Viktor? Something wrong?" Hermione asked. He shook his head slowly, pressing his lips together in a thin line. Tucking the gloves into the bag, pulling his wand from it and zipping it up, he tossed the entire thing back into the locker.

"Let's go," he said with some enthusiasm, swiftly tucking his wand into his right robe pocket. Odd, Hermione thought, she would have sworn he had looked both puzzled and disturbed when staring into that pocket. Must have been taking inventory again and thought he misplaced something else, she supposed.

Viktor led them to a back door in the locker room. "You two can change in here, Hermione, you can use the back room."

"What about you?" she asked.

"Me? I am not changing. Even Ivanova goes to these things in her uniform. It is the beauty of a dress uniform, you do not fall in the sand pit or take a bludger in the face, you do not haff to change for the Ministry officials," Viktor shrugged.

"Actually, I'm kind of glad you're not changing. Frankly, you look pretty incredible in that uniform," she confided in a low voice. Viktor flushed, but regained his composure quickly.

"If you look half as beautiful as you did at the Yule Ball in this dress, I vill need to take along a very large stick," he warned, pointing toward an equipment rack.

"You do realize all the girls at Hogwarts are going to want to boil me in oil after hearing about this, don't you? Bad enough when I 'stole' you in the library last year!"

"Let them stew over it. Go on and change. I for vone am starving." He lightly steered her through the door by the shoulder.

Viktor milled around the locker room, while the boys changed, looking at the closed door from time to time. Hermione stepped out shortly, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, cascading down, a simple sleeveless robe, in hunter green draped over her. Viktor let out a low, appreciative whistle, offering his arm to escort her out. "Am I to take it you approve even without the hair potion?" she asked.

"Absolutely. They should have the tent up by now."

"Tent?" Harry asked.

"They set up a tent, there's food, and there should be music and dancing, too. Ve answer a few questions from reporters, then spend the rest of the night avoiding them and eating. Not so hard, because they are usually eating too." He opened the door and they stepped out onto the pitch, which had changed greatly since they had entered the locker room. Indeed, there was a behemoth of a white tent set up near one end of the pitch, with multiple buffet tables and what looked to be fairy lights strung up around the sides. On closer inspection, they proved to be great clumps of fireflies. There also seemed to be landscaping around the tent. "Is a bit more formal, like most of the dances at Durmstrang. No Weird Sisters, I am thinking," Viktor commented.

"So what do we dance to?" Ron asked.

Viktor's mouth curled slightly, "Oh, something more along the line of a valtz."

"Waltzing!?! Good grief, I can't waltz for beans!" Ron hissed loudly.

"Is simple. My mother taught me. Even my father knows how, and he claims to be the most socially graceless vizard Durmstrang ever produced. It is the vone social grace she could make sure I had. She could not teach me to like batting eyelashes and small talk," Viktor tossed back over his shoulder at Ron.

"Like you needed anything else to make the girls swoon!" came an incredulous voice thick with a Russian accent behind them. "They never vould haff gotten de girls pried off of you if you had talked to them too, Viktor! They vere alvays three deep even though you hiss and spit at them like some sore-tailed Chinese Fireball!"

Viktor cocked his head without even turning around and began in an exasperated, reproving voice, "Alexei... you vould never haff gotten a date, either."

Alexei Poliakoff jogged up abreast of them, and he and Viktor shook hands. "Vhy did you not owl me you vere coming?" Viktor asked.

"Father came vith the Russian Ministry, he had extra seats. It vos very last minute. And I could not deny my loffly Katrina here the chance to meet my friend from school, now could I?" he asked with a wink, as Katrina, a very pretty and dainty blonde glided up beside him. "She is ready for her sixth year at Durmstrang, but she has never gotten chance to meet you in person," Alexei finished, presenting the two to one another with a sweeping arm.

"Oh, you vere vonderful, so brave, so strong, so fast! My best friend Liesl vos absolutely heartbroken vhen she heard you vould be going to nasty old Hogvarts for most of the year last year. She votches you practice all the time. She vos planning on asking you to one of the balls. She already had a dress picked out to match your eyes if she could get at you for the Midwinter Ball or the Spring Ball. Vill ve haff the pleasure of your presence this year, shall I get in line now?" she fluttered her eyes prettily, laying a delicate hand possessively on Viktor's forearm, just above the wrist.

Hermione thought she might gag, and as she watched Viktor's impassive face, she presumed he felt just about as enthusiastic about this full frontal female assault. He allowed himself a subtle eye roll in Alexei's direction, grasped Katrina's hand, and held it rather formally, balanced on his fingertips, as though he were greeting royalty. He touched as little as possible of it, treating it rather like a dead fish.

"Charmed, Katrina," he said, with a slight nod and curt bow toward her. Hermione nearly laughed out loud when she noticed the bow allowed him to make an exasperated face at the ground without offending Katrina. "I cannot say at this moment vhere I vill be by the time two of those balls roll around. I vould hope to say, no matter how many it disappoints," here he gave a pointed look to Alexei again, "I vould already haff a full dance card for the opening ball." He released Katrina's hand and reached for Hermione's , threading his large fingers loosely between hers. "May I present Miss Hermione Granger?" he asked warmly. Katrina's face fell into a petulant pout as she recognized the name, and Hermione noted the stilted pronunciation he had used with Katrina, "Her-my-oh-knee", emphasizing the last two syllables which were so difficult to the native speaker of a Slavic language.

"She vos an admirable partner at the Yule Ball at nasty old Hogvarts, and I vould hope she vould consider coming to Durmstrang for the opening ball. And this is Mr. Ronald Veasley, and Mr. Harry Potter, also attendees of nasty old Hogvarts, vhere I had a lovely time, thank you for inquiring. I hope they vould let me extend the same hospitality to them at Durmstrang, and I am sure Mr. Veasley or Mr. Potter vould be happy to dance vith you at the opening ball," Viktor said airily, the sarcasm barely detectable to the casual observer. Katrina probably didn't realize the full import of the insult she had just received, but she realized she had been rebuffed as a potential date.

She lifted her chin proudly at Alexei as she said, "Too bad. I must go powder my nose, Alexei, I vill catch up in the tent." She turned on her heel and flounced prettily toward the stadium door.

She had barely gotten out of earshot when Viktor dissolved into raucous laughter, deep and hearty, propping himself up against Alexei's shoulder with his free hand, while Alexei snickered as well. Finally, Viktor had to wipe the tears from the corner of his eyes and pant for breath. "Vell I see you haff not improved your chatting skills, Viktor, so the girls at Durmstrang vill be after you just as hot and heavy vhile you are there. You get any nastier to them, you vill haff to check the cupboards, sweep under your bed before you go to sleep at night and beat them off vith a stick just to get to breakfast! Vot vould you do vithout me to protect you?" Alexei tapped Hermione on the arm in a friendly manner, "Vot haff you done to him? I haff not been able to make him laugh like that in two years, at least!"

"And I see your taste in vomen has not improved, either, Alexei," Viktor scolded, looking at the door where Katrina had disappeared.

"Bah! She is nothing more than pretty girl to take to game. Is vone advantage of knowing you, I can alvays get date. Just haff to promise they meet you and they are all atwitter," Alexei grinned back mischievously. "Then you promptly dash their girlish hopes and stomp on their hearts vith your brooding and I find out if they might like me to comfort them instead. Although, usually you do not mention other girl. Or any hint you vill valtz vith somevone else." Alexei eyed Hermione, appraising her.

"Alexei, I think you vould do better to find a girl who likes you for you, not your friend," Viktor replied.

"Not yet. Someday. Not so smart as you , yet. I vill keep pretty Miss Granger company vhile you get the reporters out of your hair, no? And I promise to behave. Viktor vould snap me like a twig if I step out of line vith you," he waggled his eyebrows at Hermione. Viktor had mocked him perfectly, she thought.

Viktor let go a great sigh. "She vill snap you like a twig, you mean. Overly sveet and bubbly, but harmless, I assure you," he jabbed a finger at Alexei. "Might as vell get it over," he started trudging toward the tent, his fingers still curled between Hermione's.

Inside the tent, it looked like a very formal reception, and Hermione found herself glad that she had picked something to wear that rivaled her Yule Ball gown. The strains of a string quartet wafted over the groups of people clustered inside, sipping what looked to be cider, looking very elegant and tall and proper. Viktor was seized by his teammates the instant he stepped inside. "Come, come, team picture, reporters, then you can eat all the chocolate covered strawberries you can hold and valtz all you like and Alexei can pick up the rest of the admiring crumbs from your table," Ivanova declared, practically hauling him off by the wrist as he looked back at Hermione with a very funny , wide-eyed 'help me' sort of look. She laughed in spite of herself at his obvious distress.

Harry let out a low whistle, "Wow, this looks like something straight out of the old aristocracy."

"Might as vell say it is," Alexei murmured, "Durmstrang is just full of old European bloodlines and old European money. People who summer in Paris and vinter in Rome and own artvork and patronize the arts. Some of them patronize each other, too, more vays than one. Most of them end up in these ministry jobs, diplomats, that sort of thing. Maybe that vhy I like Viktor so much, he thinks it is just as silly as I do, caring who your great-great-grandmother married and how skilled she vos at the tango and bothering to talk about it at parties."

"Of course, Viktor does not haff to vorry, the girls like him regardless of who his great-great-grandmama marry way back vhen, big, strapping, high earning, handsome sports star that he is. I told him being so shy and naive and snarling and bashing his nose vould not vork. Girls just like that more." Alexei adopted a mincing posture and a prissy voice, not far from Katrina's tone earlier. "So sveet and shy, the qviet type, so dark and brooding, bet I can draw him out! I hear he haff Romany blood, that is probably vhy he is so mysterious. Oh, he must be so brave to take a bludger right in the face and still catch the snitch! His face vould be too perfect vith a straight nose, that crook, it's cute, it gives him character!" He dropped his flailing wrist and paused a moment before continuing, "You must have good effect on him. He looks much better now." Alexei seemed to have tacked the last statement on somewhat abruptly while studying Viktor across the tent.

"Better?" Hermione asked.

"Better. Healthier. Most of last year, he look ill to me, sallow, even thinner than usual, and that is saying a lot vith Viktor. I alvays say Viktor vos the biggest skinny boy I know. Solid as a brick, but nearly concave in places. Sometimes I vonder how he keep his trousers up. But he is vasting avay most of last two years, he hardly eat anything at school. Sick. He even get a head cold vhen ve leave for Tournament last year. He never get sick before. I began to really vorry about him. Probably Karkaroff's breath or looking at those teeth up close every time ve eat, I tell him. Maybe it vos the idea of being chased by girls from three schools at the Trivizard Tournament. I think he vork too hard, vorry too much about his parents, missing exams last year, vot he going to do this year about Durmstrang, being avay from Vratsa, Karkaroff alvays on his back, that tournament, being ill, that head cold he haff vhen ve get to England, alvays the vorrier. Then Diggory..." Alexei shook his head slowly.

"Nobody does guilt like Viktor Krum, even vhen is not his fault. I thought he vould curl up and die over it vhen they told him vot happened in the maze until Dumbledore told him it vos not his fault, defended him. Beats himself up over lost games bad enough, Diggory, I think, a hundred times vorse. Anyvone who know Viktor at all know he vould sooner cut his arm off than hurt anyvone, unless in defense of somevone, and there all those idiots vere, claiming he had done it on his own! Poke fun at his nose, his Quidditch, that odd valk of his all you like, never a grunt from him. Look cross eyed at one of his teammates, insult his mother, pick on somevone who is defenseless, he vill probably send you home breathing through your ears!"

"Very protective, Viktor. He vonce put school bully three years older and a foot taller in rubbish bin for making vone of the first year students cry in his fourth year. He nearly pinned back that Malfoy boy's ears last year vhen he say something nasty. Luckily, most of the people at Durmstrang vere too afraid his bite vos like his bark to try him too much. Rest afraid of it might get back to Karkaroff. Part of vot makes Viktor such a good player, he finds and exploits veakness. Turns it against his opponent. He dislikes showoffs. Bullies. He can usually hurt them more than they could imagine, if they blink in a standoff. Viktor is intimidating enough, everyvone blink sooner or later."

Alexei barely paused for breath before starting up again, " Vorry! Hah! He spend a lot of nights on that Firebolt at midnight, over that lake of yours, me hanging over the rail of the Durmstrang ship making sure he did not kill himself by running into tree in dark vhile doing Campos Spiral or falling in and drowning vhile upside down. I thought he vould be vorse after Karkaroff left us there alone, but I think he vos relieved. At least after Dumbledore made that farevell speech and did not tar and feather us all for daring to haff him as a headmaster. Viktor vos our bloody captain on that ship anyvay, not Karkaroff. Too much responsible, Viktor, even vhen he need not be. Every loss his fault. Never any blame on the rest of the team. He need to rebel, I tell him, spend some of his own money, haff some fun. Little did I suspect he vould blow Karkaroff's temper so vell, though. I thought I vos only vone vith that kind of talent," Alexei's dimples reappeared.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione demanded.

"Vhy, you," Alexei said simply, a little surprised. "Taking you to ball. He vont to send Viktor vith Elena, who come vith us. I think Karkaroff bring her just for that reason. He think Viktor and Elena make a good couple, both tall, her vith her milky vhite skin and pretty pink lips and dark hair and eyes, like Viktor's. Most of the boys in Durmstrang dream about Elena at night. I vould not be surprised if Karkaroff dreamed about her at night. Viktor vould not hear of it, say he haff own date, refused to tell anyvone who. I guessed, because I see him going to library every day on your schedule, not his own like at Durmstrang. He alvays read late at night at Durmstrang. Madame Durshenkova take a liking to him, even leave library open later at night, give him a key sometimes, so he could study."

"I vos not only vone who guess, since somebody tell Karkaroff the day of the ball. I cannot imagine who, probably somevone jealous of Viktor, for being chosen champion. I guess it vos you he asked, but even then he vould not even shake his head yes or no vhen I ask. Still, somevone else must guess too, since Karkaroff tried to convince him othervise for hours before he leave. I think Karkaroff vould have beaten anyvone else who had pulled that. Refusing to tell, then planning on showing up vith girl from rival school, best friend of one of your competitors, that vos enough." Alexei inclined his head toward Harry as he spoke, then turned back to Hermione. "Vhen he found out you vere ah, ah, ah...." She could see the expression on his face change as he realized he had taken a turn down the wrong conversational path.

While Alexei backpedaled, Hermione coolly crossed her arms, "Mudblood? Muggle-born? Not a European aristocrat?" she asked, her eyebrows arching, heat rising in her face.

"Yes. Vhen he found that out, I think his head vos about to explode, he vould have killed anyvone else, but he knows better vith Viktor. Viktor gets something in his head, no shifting it. Stubborn is not the vord for it. Could haff broken both his legs, arms, all his fingers, he still vould haff gone vith you if he had to crawl there. Karkaroff knew that, why waste his energy?" Hermione felt herself shiver at the nonchalant way Alexei indicated that Karkaroff would have resorted to violence if it had done any good. "Only person I haff seen more stubborn than Karkaroff. Viktor inherited that trait from Papa Nikolas along vith the nose, to hear some of the longtime professors tell it. Viktor vos Karkaroff's best and vorst student for same reason, stubborn vork ethic. Dogged vhen he vonted vot Karkaroff vonted, ornery and immovable vhen he did not. In early years, that vos just for Viktor to be a great seeker, they could agree on that. I alvays get feeling there vos battle of the vills between them. Do not vorry. Not all purebloods are such ... how you English say it? Gits... like Karkaroff. Last few years, especially, more contact vith outsiders. I hear rumors the 'pureblood' requirement vill probably be dropped by the new headmaster. Some of the old stalvarts vill probably flap a bit, but it vill pass."

"Yes, Viktor vould move heaven and earth if he cares for you. I should know. He vos more than villing to growl at Malfoy and threaten those two great lumps that follow him around vhen he say something nasty about you. I do not think... Crabbe and Goyle, vos it? I do not think those two vere used to being stood up to, they looked scared out of their vits, if they had any. I haff seen it before, vith his parents, vith me. Karkaroff vos Dark Arts teacher vhen ve first haff him. Viktor told him off pretty smart vhen he pick on me in class. Before that, I vonder if he speak at all. Viktor could get avay vith it, everybody loves a vinner, especially Karkaroff. Viktor vos already a vinner. Practicing vith Vratsa by then. Viktor probably vould haff done it anyvay, get away with it or not. Maybe Karkaroff just jealous of Viktor's affections, that vhy he not so thrilled about you and me. Viktor protect me from Karkaroff, I protect him from mobs of girls. I think I get better deal," Alexei said thoughtfully, watching Viktor hold what seemed like an uncomfortable conversation with a reporter across the room at the far end of the tent.

"So, you probably know Viktor the best of anyone at Durmstrang, hmm?" Hermione said politely. She was beginning to see a possible reason why Viktor wasn't used to talking much. You couldn't get a word in edgewise around Alexei. She wasn't sure if being adopted as a friend by Alexei was a blessing or a curse, if you like peace and quiet at all.

Alexei snorted incredulously, rather like Viktor often did. "Know Viktor? I do not think anyvone really knows Viktor there. I haff more dirt on him than most, I know his mama vos hurt badly years ago, how or vhy, he still has not told me. He does not vont reporters hounding his parents, making his mama and papa relive whatever it vos. Rita Skeeter vould haff field day. I know he send some money home because of it, so that probably vhy he is not big spender and show off, vhy he vork so hard. I know he vould rather giggly girls leave him alone, and he vos not overly fond of Karkaroff and a few other teachers, but I still do not know the truth behind that, either. Most students vould haff eaten Karkaroff's favoritism up, not risked it by balking vhen it did not suit and taking up with us 'undesirables'. I spent a nice veek vith him at his home vonce, I haff nodding acquaintance vith his parents from school events and some Quidditch matches they attend. But close friends? More of a mutual protection society."

"I suspect he has said more of substance to you in the time you haff known him than he ever has to me in six years. Even his letters are closed off and distant sometimes. I think that vhy he does not get rid of me earlier, run me off like he does everyvone else. I do not ask questions, just take him as he is and do not push him for more. I guess I should feel honored he share that much vith me. More than he share vith anyvone else there. He could function just fine vithout me. He does not miss me much when I go off vith girls. It is just quieter for him. I used to even be able to make him laugh occasionally, back before that last push for the Vorld Cup. Back before... votever it vos happen to him. Back before Karkaroff took over completely, I suppose."

Katrina came back, and Hermione could both see and feel her eyes traveling up and down the length of her dress, the cascade of bushy, curly hair gathered in a ponytail, disapprovingly. Katrina was probably looking daggers at her, Hermione thought, but the thought was interrupted by Viktor's return. "Valtz?" he asked with a smile and bow, putting his hand out.

"I'm afraid I'm in the same boat with Ron, I can't waltz for beans, either, Viktor. Hopping around at a school dance to the Weird Sisters was one thing. Swaying a little while revolving to the slow songs, that isn't waltzing."

"Me, three," Harry added meekly.

"Outside! All three of you!" Viktor ordered with mock sternness, as though he couldn't believe they didn't know how to do as simple a thing as waltz.

"I can valtz perfectly, Viktor. I vould like to dance," Katrina piped up.

"So can Alexei. He is a vonderful dancer, or so he keeps telling me. You two can dance vhile ve are outside," he responded innocently, still steering Hermione toward the tent flap. Katrina followed them with her eyes, glaring at Hermione in particular when Viktor didn't pay "the lovely Katrina" any mind.

Just outside the opening of the tent, he beckoned to Ron and Harry to watch, took up Hermione's right hand, held it aloft, captured her left hand, planted it on his right shoulder, then tucked his big right hand into the small of her back, his long tapered fingers lightly braced against her. She could feel the heat of his skin through her thin gown, and was shocked to realize that his hand covered so much of the expanse of her back. He lifted his chin wordlessly and began to waltz in the space before her with small steps as she stood still. "Now, you do the same, only mirror things. Back, two, three, up, two, three. I haff the hard job, leading, all you haff to do is let me lead," he said as she stiffly followed. For a bit, the steps were halting, but then, she found herself melting into the flow of the dance, and no longer counting in her head.

"Good, good, now closer, you cannot valtz a mile avay," he said as he stepped up, so close that his legs were nestled in the folds of her robes, her nose was close to his chest, and she could smell him. Like at the Yule Ball. She recognized the pleasant, clean, sharp, and slightly spicy smell that somehow reminded her of sandalwood and winter and wood fires with cedar chips. It was crisp somehow, like mountain air.

"But I'll probably step on your foot. You should know I'm not the best dancer. Too klutzy," she protested.

"You're fine. It's easier not to step on anything ven you are closer. And if you step on my foot, that is my fault for not leading," he said, starting her off again. It was easier with him standing closer. She could feel his muscles tense before he stepped, tell where he was going, where he was preparing to steer her, much easier than before. Combined with the cues he was giving her with his hands, a slight tilt of his fingers this way or that, she found it easy to follow along. He paused and paired her off with Harry, then Ron, critiquing them gently, and they soon had a basic grasp on how to waltz.

Going back in, Viktor turned to Ron and Harry, "I made Ivanova promise to give you each at least one dance. She is a good instructor, if you mind your manners." Viktor led Hermione around the perimeter of the wooden dance floor, over to the lone ancient wizard "conducting" the unmanned string quartet and the woodwinds with his wand. "Emperor Waltz, Strauss, please," Viktor requested, standing beside him, addressing his shoulder. Hermione noted that he had, with some effort, pronounced "waltz" with only a faint trace of his soft Bulgarian accent on the second word.

Without looking around the old man said, "Sonny, that's nearly a ten minute piece, if everyone else here doesn't want to waltz for nine minutes plus, it's going to get me some angry looks."

Viktor grinned back at Hermione, and as the current piece came to an end, the old man turned to Viktor. "Oh! Mr. Krum! I had no idea...of course I'll play what you want..."

"I'll make it vorth your vhile," Viktor smiled back, cupping a large handful of coins from his pocket and placing them in the conductor's hands. The wizened old man looked at the coins, then pocketed them.

"Thank you. The money wasn't necessary, Mr. Krum, request anything you want all night. Emperor Waltz fourteen times in a row if you like," he said grandly.

"Just the vonce for now," Viktor replied graciously. "And thank you." He cupped Hermione's elbow and led her back off the dais. "Now I haff ten minutes to think vot else ve can dance to. I am still not used to being able to do that."

"Do what exactly?"

"Ask for things and just...get them, haffing the money to make things happen vhen fame vill not do it. Not that I did not haff money before, I bought nice enough things before, but now... My parents stashed avay enough for me to buy a house," he said, an edge of wonder in his voice. He sounded a bit disturbed by the thought.

Behind them, the low, slow strains of the Emperor Waltz started up, and by the time they had assumed their positions at the edge of the dance floor that had been conjured up earlier and covered the entire inside of the tent, it had started in earnest, he pulled her toward him and they had spun into the crowd that was beginning to form before she could really worry about which foot to begin with. Nine minutes plus, as the conductor had put it, never flew by so fast. It was a lively song for the most part, with slow, easy interludes that allowed them to slow and catch their breath, then whirl off madly again when it picked up. She felt almost stately, courtly, she thought, and she occasionally caught glimpses of Alexei and Katrina, Ron and Ivanova, Harry and a girl who looked a year or two younger, with black hair. "Ministry official's daughter," Viktor explained when Hermione asked who she was.

"Vone more?" he inquired, when the music came to a stop. She nodded breathlessly. He sprinted back up the dais, which wasn't far, and she heard him request with precise pronunciation, "Tchaikovsky, Nutcracker Suite, Waltz of the Flowers."

As he took up her hand again, Hermione looked at him curiously, "First of all, where's that accent of yours going? Second, how do you know so much Muggle classical music?"

"Practice, practice, practice. Some sounds are so... foreign, it takes practice to get your mouth used to them. Actually hearing lots of people who vere raised speaking English for a few months helped. Second, who said they vere all Muggles? You think Beethoven vos not a little magic?" he teased. "My mother loves music. She used to play classical all the time on the vireless. She heard it first at the museum. My father, he is very, very keen on Tchaikovsky. He took me to see Nutcracker ballet in St. Petersburg every year I can remember before I vent to Durmstrang, Russian National Ballet Company," he explained. "Most years since, too."

She was concentrating so hard on the rare unguarded smile lighting up his face that she nearly forgot she was dancing. Suddenly it seemed effortless. Though they weren't attempting quite the spectacular dance floor theatrics that Alexei and Katrina were getting up to, they were doing a fair job at being regal. Well, Viktor was doing a great job at being regal, almost military in his bearing and that uniform, she was just along for the ride, inelegant bushy hair, sweaty palms and all. She wondered how his hand could be so warm and dry cupped around her fingers, his thumb occasionally stroking the back of her hand lightly. She noted that Ron and Harry had switched partners for this dance. "Hey, look, I'm waltzing!" Ron called as he and the Ministry official's daughter twirled by.

"Viktor!" Ron's dance partner called over his shoulder.

"Hello, Charlotte!" he called back. Outside of Ivanova, his mother, and herself, it was the first female he had ever seen Viktor greet somewhat cheerily.

"Ivanova isn't a bad instructor!" Ron called again before the flow of the floor took them further apart.

On and on it went, Viktor requesting between each song, some she didn't recognize by title, like "Il Gardinello, Flute Concerto, Vivaldi", and "Waltz from The Serenade For Strings, Tchaikovsky", but she recognized them once they began. Some of his choices were unexpected, like "Arabian Dance, Grieg, Peer Gynt Suite", but the heavy drums and brass that the conductor conjured proved particularly good for the new steps he put her through. After the "Minute Waltz", she pleaded exhaustion and hunger, so he asked her what she would like to hear while they ate. She blurted the first thing she could think of, "Rhapsody in Blue", Viktor looked at her a bit oddly. "George Gershwin, errr, modern Muggle jazz, I suppose. Piano."

Viktor buttonholed the conductor and explained the request, and soon there was a phantom piano, pounding away at the pile driver chords of Gershwin. "I like it," Viktor said after a few lines.

"You should hear John Coltrane, or Jelly Roll Morton," she responded.

They loaded their plates with things from the buffet, and Viktor fetched some cider for them both. As he sat the glasses down, a high pitched childish voice came from somewhere directly behind him. "Viktor! Viktor! Mama and Papa say I can come over for a few minutes! Then I haff to go back vith Papa vhen you get tired of me!" Viktor laughed, turned and bent, addressing someone apparently around the height of his knees,

"Ahhh, now you know I could never get tired of you. Come meet somevone." Viktor turned back to Hermione, and a small pair of dark eyes nearly hidden under some equally dark hair appeared, peeking around Viktor's leg shyly. Viktor put his hand on the mass of dark hair and gently nudged a little boy of about four or five from behind him.

The little boy continued to cling to Viktor's left leg, right arm firmly wrapped around his knee, clutching a fold of Viktor's pants tightly in his fingers, the other pudgy thumb in his mouth as he solemnly studied Hermione. "This is Hermione, Petyr. This is Petyr. Mama and Papa are Ivanova and her husband, Anton Gregoryev. Can you say 'Hermione'?" Hermione noticed the stilted, careful pronunciation Viktor had used again when prompting, and smiled encouragingly at Petyr.

"Herrrrmmm-own-ninny," he mumbled around his thumb, and Hermione couldn't help laughing out loud as he butchered her name in much the same way Viktor once had.

Petyr started at the sound, then shyly buried his face against Viktor's leg again, looking as though he wanted to cry.

Viktor laughed, "Don't vorry Petyr, I had the same problem vonce. Alexei tells me girls have such difficult names just to make boys feel like fools when they get them wrong. Girls with hard to pronounce names are alvays pretty. Or maybe being so pretty makes their names hard to pronounce. And I was not even dealing with a thumb in my mouth when I did it. You already speak English better than I did when I was twice your age," he cajoled, deftly prying Petyr off his leg and swinging him up into his arms.

"Really?" Petyr asked after a bit, wide eyes daring to peek up from Viktor's neck, where he had tucked his small head.

"Absolutely, I barely knew any. Ten words, maybe. I started too late, Petyr. Mama was smart to make you learn young. Come on now, quit hiding your face, you are too hard to talk to if you keep ducking your head into my neck. And those eyelashes of yours tickle," Viktor sat in his chair and rearranged Petyr on his lap.

Petyr studied Viktor long and hard, "Your English is different," he said accusingly.

"Yes, it is. I am trying to get my 'w' not to be so lazy, when I remember. After conquering Hermione's name, I think I can do anything," Viktor grinned.

"Your Russian is still better," Petyr declared.

Viktor laughed again, "Yes, I suppose it is, sladko momche, I suppose it is, although I do not know how you could tell, since you know all of fifteen words of Russian,"

But Petyr interrupted to protest "Sixteen! I learned a new vone!"

Viktor raised his eyebrows and continued, "Good! But I haff been speaking Russian since I was smaller than you. I got Russian lullabies, nursery rhymes, and fairy tales." Petyr looked Viktor slowly up and down, as though he doubted Viktor had ever been so small as to need lullabies, but he held his peace and slid his dark eyes back to Hermione, studying her warily.

"Who is she?" he demanded finally, jerking the thumb in his mouth at Hermione.

"Miss Hermione Granger. I met her last year at Hogwarts, you remember me talking about going there for the Triwizard Tournament? She was nice enough to come visit me with her friends and be my waltz partner," Viktor explained patiently. "And it is not polite to ask about someone like they are not at the table," he corrected gently, "You can talk to Hermione too. She does not bite." Petyr looked doubtful, eyeing Hermione with about as much distrust as Hermione would have shown for one of Hagrid's skrewts, but considered this for a moment,

"Like Mama and Papa alvays valtz together? Does that mean she is going to be at every dance?" Whew, in his own way, Petyr was a tougher interviewer than Rita Skeeter, Hermione thought.

As Viktor stammered for an answer, she reached out and patted Petyr's hand. "Not exactly. But maybe someday, we will always waltz together like your mama and papa," she whispered. Viktor smiled at the top of Petyr's dark head resting against his chest, but didn't look up.

Once more the sharp little voice piped up, "Are you the girl he talked about all summer?" Viktor looked up at Hermione and nodded.

"Yes, I guess I am, then," Hermione told him.

"The vone he go to see in Linden even though he haff practice?" She hadn't known he had to skip practice to come.

"Yes, Viktor came to see me in London," she replied. "Viktor vos right. You haff pretty hair, and he said you like books," Petyr said approvingly, like some pint sized matchmaker summing up her worthiness for his client. "Mama tell Papa you vere good for him, maybe he not be so sad anymore. But Viktor is never sad around me, I tell her," he finished, nodding emphatically, as though the very notion of Viktor ever being sad was ridiculous.

Hermione smiled. "I don't think anyone could be too sad around you, Petyr. Little pitchers have big ears," she said, pointing at Petyr and laughing.

Viktor sighed and shook Petyr playfully, "And your mama haff a big mouth, you tell her for me. If she spent as much energy on improving her shot as she did on trying to fix my love life, ve vould haff won the World Cup easily."

"Broken before? Your love life?" Hermione asked lightly, wondering just how many waltz partners Viktor might have had before her.

"More like non-existent," Viktor replied, pursing his lips. "How many times have I waltzed with a girl at these things, Petyr?"

"Never! He alvays sit vith me, unless Papa get tired and Mama make him dance vith her instead of Papa. Vonce vith Charlotte, vhen she cry because no boy her age vill dance vith her. She never haff trouble finding partners now." Petyr had leaned out and studied Viktor's face at the mention of the World Cup. He finally planted a small finger lightly on the bridge of Viktor's nose. "Does it still hurt?" he asked.

Viktor laughed softly, "No, no, noses mend. It quit hurting a long time ago, when those fantastic black eyes went away. I think you would be better off asking if it is still crooked, or big, or hooked."

"Is it?" Petyr asked innocently.

Viktor laughed again. "Still all three, I am afraid. Still big, crooked, and hooked. Promise me you will not let your nose get that way, Petyr."

Petyr touched his own nose and promised in all seriousness, "I von't."

Viktor glanced across the tent, then leaned over Petyr, "I think your Papa wants you back. I see him waving."

Viktor pointed to a large, dark man, of whom Petyr seemed to be a miniaturized version, waving at their table. Viktor stood, gave Petyr a squeeze and a pat on the back, then stood him on the floor. "Walk you back?" Viktor asked.

"No, I can go by myself. Can I hug Hermowninny 'bye?"

"You vill...will haff to ask her," Viktor grinned. Hermione knelt and gave Petyr a hug, and he gave her a squeeze around the neck accompanied by a charming little peck on the cheek, then toddled off with a wave. "He vill be worse than Alexei someday," Viktor mused, shaking his head. "Mischief and women both."

"What makes you say that?" she asked, as she turned back to the table.

"Five minutes, and he has already kissed my date, right in front of me, when I haff not. And if I am not mistaken, he had at least one frog in his pocket, which I vould not be surprised to see turn up in the punch bowl, if Anton turns his back," Viktor replied with mock irritation and a shake of his head.

They had barely touched their chairs when Dimitrov came over and draped his hand on Viktor's shoulder. "Just thought you vould vont to know... that awful Skeeter voman vos trying to get in to see you. Ve try explaining that this is a private reception, you vere busy, but she does not take hints. So Vulchanov and Volkov, they offered to store their clubs in a very interesting place if she did not leave. Ve knew you did not vont to have her disturb your friends," he said, raising his eyebrows at Hermione, then flicking his dark eyes across the room to where Ron and Harry were admiring Zograf's broom.

"Thank you," Viktor breathed, visibly relaxing, "I do not know vhy she bothers coming, she writes vot she vonts anyvay."

"Well, you can eat your strawberries in peace now," Dmitrov commented. "I vos beginning to think you had given up eating altogether last year, Viktor, even those chocolate covered strawberries of yours. Vhen he first joined the Vratsa team as a practice reserve, ve could bribe him to do almost anything with those things, he loved them so. He ate so much anyvay that ve figured the owner vos paying him more in food than in his pay envelope. Ve used to vonder if he had a hollow leg. No vonder he shot up so tall. If he outgrows his Papa much more, all the other seekers vill quit until he retires. Good to see him vith a full plate again, though. Enjoy the rest of the reception," he added, nodding at both of them, patting Viktor on the back, and taking his leave as Viktor flushed slightly from the compliment and stared at his plate.

"Was something really wrong last year, Viktor? Poliakoff just made the remark, well, among lots and lots of remarks that he made, that you didn't eat much last year, that you actually lost weight..." Hermione began, concern in her voice.

"It vos nothing. I just...vos not very hungry last year for some reason and I vos ill twice, vonce vith terrible flu, I spent veeks in bed," he protested weakly, as though even he didn't believe what he was saying, not looking at her. She let it drop, seeing that she wasn't going to get much else out of him on the subject of how his eating habits had differed over the last couple of years. They ate mostly in silence for a few minutes, Viktor making comments on some of the guests, pointing out some of the more important attendees, who occasionally drifted over to congratulate him. Then Poliakoff and Katrina joined them, and talk became unnecessary as Alexei chattered on at all three of them indiscriminately. Katrina grabbed the chair closest to Viktor, and was still glaring at Hermione at every opportunity.

"You haff a very interesting hairstyle. You haff such... curly hair, how do you ever manage? I just could not wrestle my hair into a ponytail if I had such bushy hair vithout bottles of hair potion. You did not bother vith hair potion I see, did you?" Katrina asked sweetly, the smirk on her face and mockery in her voice apparent as she tossed her smooth shimmering curtain of blond hair fetchingly around her bare shoulders.

She had managed to work this comment into a small pause in Alexei's raucous stories about his summer, some of which Viktor was familiar with and laughed at before Alexei had even begun to wind up, others he hadn't had time to work into his letters. "Oh, I manage just fine. I've had special martial arts training and I lift weights," Hermione snapped back a little irritably, tired of Katrina's catty comments and scrutiny.

Viktor hid his grin from Katrina behind his napkin for a moment before composing his face again and lowering it. "All those weights you lift must be vhy you have such big... muscles," Katrina said, dismissing Hermione with a toss of her head, then leaning back toward Viktor.

"I like it," he reached out and twirled a spiral of hair around the length of his index finger, examining it before gently smoothing it back into the massive fall of hair and combing through it lightly with his fingertips, trailing them down Hermione's back an inch or two below her ponytail. Then he brushed one of the short, stray ringlets back from her temple.

"I find her hair every bit as fascinating as the freckles on her nose and the fact that she already knew there vos a Bulgarian Khan vith my name in the 800s," he said firmly, as though he weren't about to brook any argument to the contrary. Hermione felt the heat rise in her face. She hadn't realized that Viktor had even spotted the tiny freckles on her nose. Or that he had taken note of any of the historical facts interspersed throughout her nervous babbling in the library the first few times they had talked. At least they all hadn't been from Hogwarts: A History, or about Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, she thought to herself. She still blushed when she thought of how she had excitedly informed him that huge fur robes were part of the official uniform at Durmstrang, when his was draped across the back of his library chair. She had wanted to crawl under the table the moment it left her mouth.

Katrina, not to be outdone, giggled and batted her eyes seductively at Viktor, wiggling her shoulders. Knowing Viktor as she did, Hermione knew that Katrina had just done exactly the wrong thing. Strike one, she was playing up her girlishness, not being herself. "That is fascinating. Vhy, you must be related to royalty." Empty flattery, strike two. Even if Viktor were current crown prince, he wouldn't see that as anything he earned on his own merit. He had once written in one of his letters to her that he would rather be earnestly complimented for digging a good ditch than for his bloodline, which he had nothing to do with.

"Maybe, maybe not. Records do not go back that far. And I fail to see vot it vould benefit me if I were or why I should be proud of it," Viktor said blandly. She gets any closer, she'll have to crawl of her chair and sit on his lap, Hermione thought, raising her cider glass to her lips to hide her displeasure.

"Personally, I find it fascinating she did not bother to fix herself up so much for the reception like the other girls. I vish I could be brave enough to go out vithout fixing my hair or makeup to perfection," Katrina purred, angling for some praise for her perfect outfit and expertly fixed face. Strike three, she thought, insulting his chosen date.

Viktor stiffened in his seat, suddenly wide eyed, his brows arched in surprise, "Vhy? Is the real you so hideous as all that?" he asked, absolutely serious, all innocence and no hint of guile. He reminded Hermione of Petyr earlier.

As Katrina sputtered, Hermione had to blot some of the cider she had nearly spewed across the table from her lips and cover her laughter with a polite cough. "Vould you like to step out and get some air? It is getting very hot in here," Viktor asked Hermione as she finished wiping her mouth with her napkin. He had made it fairly clear that the "you" in his sentence included no one at the table but Hermione.

"Yes, there is a lot of hot air building up in this tent. I wouldn't mind going outside," she said as she took Viktor's proffered left hand.

"I have to be talking to a friend of Father's anyvay, like I promised," Alexei grinned. "I vill be seeing you at Durmstrang at the beginning of the year, at least. Ve vill haff plenty of time to talk then. Uninterrupted," he slid his eyes over toward Katrina, smirking, amusement plain in his face.

"Katrina, you simply must bring your pretty self vith me to meet Father's friend. He has just gotten back from Abu Dhabi, he has a son about to start Durmstrang, and I promised Father I vould answer some questions about the school. Then I vill probably be going. Goodbye, Viktor," Alexei said warmly, as they shook hands and parted. It seemed even Alexei wasn't too fond of his date this evening. And his date was becoming less and less enamored of Viktor as he continued to combat her charms. Katrina muttered under her breath as they turned and walked toward the tent flap, away from Katrina and Alexei.

"What did she say?" Hermione asked, once they stepped outside and put a few feet between them and the tent. She noticed that there was quite elaborate landscaping around the tent, huge bushes and hedges, flowers growing wild on them, honeysuckle, she thought from the scent.

"Oh, she called me a very rude name in Russian. I cannot imagine what would possess her to do such a thing. It is not very becoming," Viktor enunciated carefully, then chuckled under his breath.

"You sure she wasn't talking about me?" Hermione asked.

"No. It was definitely a very male thing to be called, though I will not repeat it in present company," he said as he laughed harder.

"You're getting good at that," Hermione said as she laughed with him.

"Which? Running girls off in a huff or pronouncing things properly?"

"Both, actually."

"I haff been lazy with my mouth until now. I never had a reason to vont to be very good at English. There vere... were only journalists to talk to in English before. Not being so good at it was a good way to get them to leave me alone. Let the coach talk for me. I was always good at running individual girls off in a huff. It is the packs that are hard to get rid of. Just like volves...wolves," he corrected himself carefully.

"Nonsense. I couldn't get Russian or Bulgarian down as well as you have English down in that short a while. You do quite well, considering English is a terrible language to learn. I don't think you're lazy about anything you set your mind to, Viktor."

He stood quiet for a moment beside her, his profile backlit by the moonlight. She scanned her eyes over the shadow of his distinctive features. "Did you really mean what you said, about the ball? Or was that just something you said to get up Katrina's nose?" Hermione asked after studying him.

"Oh. I meant it. That was not the way I planned to ask you. If you would like to come. The three of you. I am sure I could arrange it. The ball is always on a Saturday, so you would not haff to miss classes. Portkey in close to the grounds, portkey back, it would be quite easy to arrange. Durmstrang has some nice guest rooms," he replied, weighing the words gingerly in his mouth, continuing to look across the pitch toward the team bleachers.

"I can't speak for Harry and Ron, but I would love to come." He turned toward her and stepped close, as he had when they danced. He gathered up her hands in his, gently cupping them and running his thumbs over the backs of her hands, holding them near his chest. She could see his face more clearly now, as he caught more of the light filtered through the tent sides and that from the lanterns stationed at intervals around the tent. He studied her intently with his dark eyes, then leaned down slightly, toward her upturned face. She panicked, oh, oh, oh, he's going to kiss me and I have no idea what to do or whether to close my eyes or how to react or even what the protocol is, and where do the noses go and what do I do, what do I do, what do I do?

"May I?" he asked quietly. She willed herself to nod, to move, to do anything affirmative. She supposed she must have finally nodded, because he moved in slightly closer. He was a bare inch from her when he suddenly jerked back up as though he had been burned. She was confused. What could she have done already to make that look of absolute rage pass over his face, when he hadn't even touched her ?

"Come out! I know you're in there, and if you do not come out this instant, so help me, I vill hex every one of those bushes on fire and burn you out!" he growled, drawing his wand from his pocket.

There was a loud rustle in the bush a few feet from them, and a figure crawled out from between the vines. Hermione recognized her when she stood up and brushed herself off. "Rita Skeeter!" Hermione gasped.

"Now, now, young lovers, don't pay me any mind...." Viktor closed the gap between them in two long, brisk strides, Hermione had to lift her skirt and sprint to keep at his side. He was actually baring his teeth, more menacing than he had been even in the game with Wales.

The lower his voice dropped, the more force there seemed to be behind it, the more anger, and it dropped by the syllable. "You...get...out....now...or you vill be lucky if I just let Vulchanov and Volkov make good on their offer earlier! After last year you are lucky I did not hunt you down in the first place and take you apart vith my bare hands! I should haff, all that rubbish you printed!"

"Now, Viktor, darling, you're a public figure and the public has a right to know who you're..." He interrupted her defense by getting, if possible, even closer, towering over her. His knuckles were completely white, he was gripping his wand so tightly.

"You haff no right to intrude on my life! No one has any right to know anything I do not vont to tell them! You haff a choice. Leave now, say nothing, print nothing, or Hermione and I vill turn you in for being unregistered. If I feel generous. If I do not feel generous, I vill make you spit up slugs for the next week, set your hair on fire, let my teammates at you near the equipment rack, and complain so loudly to the international commission and your publisher that you vill not be able to set foot or beetle ving near an event of any kind in the vizard vorld for the rest of your life, and still turn you in! For a start before I hire the lawyer! Right now I am not feeling generous!"

"Lister, sugar, you can't do half what you just said, you two are still students..." she began confidently studying her long, manicured nails.

"You forget something. I am of age. I have been eighteen for nearly a year. I am not at school. Tonight I am not an enrolled student anyvere. I can use my vand here. Any place. And right now I vould take great joy in doing any vone of those things to you. Vould probably make me more popular. Fame cuts both vays, you mudslingers forget. Vont to grab the blade and find out?" He poked the end of his wand at her face.

"Okay, okay. So I'll go. And I won't print that you very nearly kissed Miss Granger there or asked her to a ball at Durmstrang. You don't seem to be in the mood for an interview tonight."

Viktor literally snarled at her, but his voice was better modulated. "If your publisher ever vonts to have me speak to any of his reporters, he had better not send you within six miles of anything I am involved in. Just to make sure... Obliviate! No interviews tonight. Haff a nice evening, Miss Skeeter, do not let the door hit you on your way out."

Rita got a pleasant, slightly blank look on her face, thanked Viktor, and walked toward the stadium exit. "Think she'll stick to it?" Hermione asked as soon as she shut the door.

"She vill haff to. She vill not remember it, even you being here. Or her being here. I made sure of it. As far as she knows in the morning, she took a nap and overslept, never making it here," Viktor replied, slipping his wand back into his pocket.

"Being with a wizard allowed to do off campus magic has its advantages. What I don't understand is, how did you know she was there?"

Viktor started, then blinked at her a couple of times. "I ... don't know. I just... knew. I guess I felt like we were being watched, maybe I heard something in the bushes. Rita Skeeter being what she is, I just figured it was her. I cannot believe she had the gall to do that after you found her out. After you wrote me about her. Dimitrov warned me...earlier..." he trailed off.

"No matter," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "Let's walk a little. I think we both need to clear our heads and work off some steam. I think my face is on fire."

They joined hands and strolled briskly up the pitch, toward the far end, in silence. They stood in the moonlight under the goal, near the sand pit, each just basking in the other's company for several minutes. Far behind, people began to stream out of the tent, gathering in little clumps and looking at the sky. Figures were also dragging large tubular objects on carts around the tent. "What's going on?" Hermione asked, tapping Viktor and pointing back down the pitch.

"Oh, the best part of the evening. They always do fireworks to music, a big finale for the evening. I cheated. I asked the conductor earlier what they would be doing. Tchaikovsky. 1812 Overture. Oddly appropriate, as it involves the French. And it explains the cannons," he smiled and dropped his head.

The first thin, silvery fireworks began to explode over the tent as the overture struck up in earnest, building to a crescendo that would soon bring in the cannons. "Beautiful," Hermione breathed. Beside her Viktor's profile tilted up at the stars, the fireworks. "My permission still stands, you know, and unless someone is buried in that sand pit breathing through a straw, we're alone," she ventured hopefully. He turned to her again, leaning in cautiously, even more hesitantly than before.

An inch from her face, he slowly tilted his face to his right, then gently pressed his warm, dry lips softly against hers. All she could feel for that moment was his lips on hers. His eyes closed, dark lashes fanning out over his tanned skin, and she watched through half closed lids as he pulled back a bit, parting their mouths, but still so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. She couldn't believe how soft his mouth was, how pliable his lips were when just a few minutes ago he had seemed so hard, solid, immovable. He neared again, kissing her once more, soft and slow, deeper, but still a model of decorum. This time she closed her eyes and noticed the odd, new, but not unpleasant sensation of his nose brushing against the side of hers lightly, the tip pressing warm against her cheek.

There was the slight tickle of the tip of his nose as he shifted his mouth over to the corner of her own, trailing over her face, planting a kiss there, off center. She heard the sharp, deep inhale of his breath through his nose, as though he were preparing to dive underwater for a long time, was dimly aware of bright red and blue fireworks were exploding over them, the cannons firing, trumpets blaring, kettle drums pounding. He pulled back and straightened a little, cupping her face lightly in his hands. He dropped a chaste kiss onto her forehead, among the escaping tendrils of hair. He trailed the fingers of his right hand back, combing them into her ponytail.

His eyes nearly closed, lips parted slightly, fingertips still entwined in her hair, he sighed and breathed a single word in an awed tone under his breath, so softly she was almost convinced she had imagined it at first. "Sokrovishte."

Her heart squeezed in her chest when she realized what he had said. Sokrovishte. Treasure. She searched his face for a second, then found herself answering without really willing it, in like manner, "I love you too, Viktor." And it felt perfectly right in her mouth.

**********************************************************

CHAPTER 15

"Errrm, Harry, if that isn't them, I'm badly fooled. And unless we want Hermione to never speak to us again, I suggest we turn around and hotfoot it back toward the tent," Ron whispered.

"Why? Where?" Harry asked, squinting off into the dark three quarters of the way up the pitch, but still trying to catch the fireworks overhead.

"There, under the goal. He's kissing her, you great git, and I don't hear her screaming bloody murder or telling him off or explaining the entire history of kissing to him, so I suspect she might want to be alone with him. Let's go Harry," Ron grabbed Harry's elbow and tugged.

"I guess they'll come get us when they're ready to go," Harry said lamely.

"Yes, I suppose they will, once they stop mooning over one another and snogging. Poor things had to go stand in the sand pit to get a moment's peace, so I guess they deserve it. Come on," Ron said.

"Ron? I thought, well, last year, I thought maybe you... liked Hermione. The same way Viktor does," Harry whispered.

"Maybe I did. A little. Or maybe I was just jealous that she found someone else famous to be with. Harry, you get a lot of attention. It's hard to compete with The Boy Who Lived. Hermione, though, she always treated us pretty much the same once she got to know us. When she showed up on Viktor's arm at the Yule Ball, all I could think was, 'Great. Now she's off with an international Quidditch star who probably makes more money in a month than my entire family does in a year. She'll never pay any attention to me again. She'll forget I exist, and Harry will probably move on to bigger and better any day now.' and things like that. She was as ordinary as I was, even if she was smart, but once you have her assuming the title of Viktor Krum's Girlfriend, she became a local celebrity. And you were busy with the tournament. I was lonely. And jealous."

Ron paused, several feet from the tent and the crowds milling about. "I suppose I've always take Hermione for granted. She was always the mousy brown thing with big teeth who was a little too bossy, slept in the girl's dorm, and knew all the things you find in books that came in handy in a pinch but are really annoying the rest of the time when someone's spouting them at you. Then Viktor comes in from Durmstrang with his packs of girls already mooning over him and his dodgy English, and he goes and figures out she's an interesting human being and not a bad looking one at that, before either of us really work it out. I guess I wanted Viktor to be a big jerk so I could hate him for something instead of admiring him for giving Hermione her due before we did, but it turns out he's decent. More than decent. If you had asked me last year, I would have told you there wasn't a man alive who really deserved Hermione Granger, any more than there's a woman alive who deserves Harry Potter, because you're my friends and nothing is good enough for you. Maybe there still isn't a man alive that really deserves her, but Viktor Krum has to come the closest. And if you can't tell she's falling completely in love with him on this trip, you're blinder than I am. You think she would let anyone else kiss her? Like that? Let anyone else teach her to waltz? Let anyone else wrestle her hogtied onto a broom? She won't even ride with you, Harry. Viktor actually got her to steer!"

Ron leaned in closer. "Harry, I used to think I had lots to be jealous of, between you and Viktor. You know though, Viktor's right, what he said the other day. I shouldn't envy you. Viktor's had it harder than I have, even without the packs of overacheiving older brothers. It's all been on just him. I can't imagine handing over your paycheck at age twelve for fear your parents are going to get tossed out of their home. We were always poor Harry, but we managed not to worry about eviction. Fred and George exploding the house, maybe, but not eviction. Months of your mother in the hospital. Knowing there should be someone else in your family who isn't there anymore, and not talking about it with anyone. You know what that's like, Harry. Reporters like Rita Skeeter always in your hair. Always being the oddball somehow in every group. People hating you, blaming you, just because of where you go to school. That's no more fair than when they blamed you just because you're a parselmouth."

"You know, Hermione pointed out something in one of her letters during the summer. It should have made me ashamed then, but I don't think it did until after Viktor told us all that about his sister and his mother in the barn. At the tournament, you got to rescue me, someone you had known for years. You always said I was your first real friend, we live in the same dorm, beds next to each other, classes together. Fleur was supposed to rescue her sister, and that seems to be the only person she cares about, aside from Fleur. Cedric got to rescue Cho, and grant you, they had only been dating a short while, but they had known each other the entire time they went to Hogwarts. They lived close and had a lot of the same classes and were friendly long before that, according to most of the people in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Some of the people in those towers claim Cedric always liked Cho. Viktor got Hermione."

"So? I don't see how that's different from Cedric and Cho..." Harry began, but Ron interrupted him.

"Yes you do, Harry. He had only just met her. He was only with her in dribs and drabs when they were alone in the library, and that couldn't have been often, all those girls giggling after him all the time. Nobody from Hogwarts ever saw them together enough to make them suspicious, or it would have been all over school, now wouldn't it? The person who allows he knew him best from Durmstrang, Poliakoff, he was there already. His parents could have been brought to Hogwarts just as easily as Gabrielle was brought. One of his teammates, even. But Hermione is the one they picked for Viktor. You think they just drew lots? Happened to pick us? Merlin's beard, Harry, he was in love with her even then, or he wouldn't have missed her that much. And I should have figured that out from the second task, that he wasn't just after her to find out about you, when he was so concerned about her afterwards. When he offered to let her come visit. Do you think Viktor's so much as bothered to say 'boo' to another girl?"

Ron looked back at the goal, where two figures were starting to move back down the pitch. "Do you think he trusted anyone at Durmstrang with what happened to his sister? Poliakoff thought not. He didn't seem to know Viktor had ever had a sister. He shared it with us, Harry. He was not only willing to let Hermione see him in his natural habitat, he was willing for us to come too. He never would have done that if he had been trying to take advantage of her. He's been nothing but patient with all of us. Even me, when I was the jerk. Who knew he even had a sense of humor? Hermione, I guess, because she actually gave him a chance to prove who he was, all those letters and those two visits. You even gave him a chance before I did, and for all you knew, he was trying to kill you."

"And Viktor's been chipping away at that smart, capable, sensible girl facade of Hermione's so well because he recognizes it. It's the same thing he did by being 'moody Slavic boy' to keep everyone that wasn't willing to take him the way he was at bay. It's what he did to fend Karkaroff, reporters, and those girls off. You notice he didn't treat fans who just wanted his autograph the same way he did those girls who mooned over him? He actually looked decently pleased when I asked. I've figured that out, Harry. He doesn't mind that, because that's admiration of his skill, something he's earned. Fair enough, everyone knows he's good. He doesn't eat it up, but he doesn't shrink into his robes when it happens, either."

"But when a girl starts liking you before she's even met you just because your face is on the cover of a Quidditch magazine, does she really like you, or just what she thinks is you? Karkaroff could care less what other skills or interests Viktor had. Same with reporters. He wasn't a person or a player, he was THE YOUNGEST SEEKER EVER, a headline, Harry. Color for a story. That's why Rita Skeeter was so eager to use him as a counterpoint to you Harry. See, everyone else thinks they're a one-note song. Viktor's just a great seeker, Hermione's a bookworm, nothing else. We even fell into that trap, Harry. Viktor bothered to see if there was anything else to her. Hermione returned the favor. That's what he really wanted. He accepted the package deal, you and me for a chance to get to know Hermione better. You telling me a guy who is that ... great... at eighteen, nineteen, doesn't deserve her?"

Ron talked faster as the gap narrowed, "He hasn't made one shifty move. In one way, I still wish he had. Then we could go on being our comfortable little threesome and not have to worry about letting anyone else in, anything changing. You and I could roam around, and always be assured Hermione was back there in the corner by herself, waiting for us to come back, if she wasn't in the thick of it with us. She would always be there for me when you're off saving the world or getting the snitch or being made over. But he's not like that. I wouldn't be surprised if he asked permission to kiss her. In fact, I would be shocked if he didn't. It's like he crawled out of a royal court from four hundred years ago. He's been protective of us all. You know Volkov and Vulchanov didn't run Rita Skeeter away just for our benefit on their own, they did it because he asked them ahead of time. I heard them say Viktor asked them to if she showed up and started trying to get near us."

"He's freaking Prince Charming. Captain Nice. Lord Manners. At this point, I would damn near date him. Have mercy, Harry, he deserves Hermione. Mum was having kittens over Hermione visiting a boy a little more than three years older, until she found out we would both be going with her. I still don't think she's too wild about it. Keeps owling me to find out if he's trying to sneak off with Hermione, asking if he's behaving himself like a gentleman. I don't believe she quite believed me when I said he put Hermione's room as far away from his room as possible, with us between. She thinks he's some rich international playboy living in a mansion with a harem and on the make or something. But if Mum knew the half of this, she would be ready to perform the wedding ceremony tomorrow."

As the couple reentered the pool of light from the tent, Harry saw that it was definitely Viktor and Hermione, fingers twined together as they walked. They were both wearing nearly identical soft smiles, and neither one of them spoke for some time as they stood before Harry and Ron. "Ready to portkey back, then?" Harry finally ventured.

"Oh, we are not portkeying tonight. Carriage. Rather like Beauxbatons carriages," Viktor said.

"Carriages? You mean with the flying horses?" Ron asked.

"I did not know when the reception would finish. Hard to arrange for a portkey. And ve can sleep in the carriage..." Viktor stifled a yawn politely with the back of his hand.

"Viktor, um, your accent seems to be cutting in and out..." Harry began.

"I am working on it. I figure I haff three people worth talking to in English now, I should bother to pronounce things properly... easier for me to work on that than for you to learn Russian or Bulgarian. It is hard to remember, though," Viktor replied. They gathered their things from Viktor's locker and walked out of the stadium.

There, a short wizard in semi-formal robes met them, holding a carriage door open. "Mr. Krum," he greeted, then began to speak in Bulgarian as the three climbed in and arranged themselves inside. Viktor replied, answering with short phrases.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked once he settled in beside her, eyelids already drooping.

"Vhere to go, how fast, did ve vont to see something in particular... I told him home, I do not care, beds at home, and vake us up vhen he gets there, not before, unless the carriage is on fire. I think I could sleep for a veek suddenly," Viktor tilted his head back against the seat as he spoke, his sharp chin pointing at the ceiling.

The other three dropped off shortly after they left the ground, but Harry remained wide awake, looking out at the moonlit mountains, the crisp stars in the sky, the wisps of cloud. He snuck a few sidelong glances at Viktor and Hermione, just to make sure they were asleep, then studied them frankly. Ron was right, he supposed. Looking at the two of them now, Hermione's bushy head tucked against Viktor's shoulder, his arm around her shoulders and his dark head resting against hers, his cheek next to the crown of her head, there never seemed a more natural couple.

Our trio's become an occasional quartet, he thought to himself. And he found it wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought. He liked Viktor, after all. And life would be a lot more pleasant now that Ron had decided he liked Viktor too. And the thought of Viktor and Hermione. Hermione seemed to be the last one to admit to the other members of the trio just how much she liked Viktor, Harry smiled to himself. If you didn't count private kissing that we stumbled on. Like Hermione, he marveled at how much younger Viktor looked when he was asleep. It was the first time Harry had seen his face completely relaxed and unguarded. The thought was interrupted by a soft bump as they sat down.

Viktor barely managed to stay awake long enough to tip and thank the driver, gather his bag and drag into the house. He even speculated on sleeping in the orchard rather than negotiating the stairs. "You can't. Ivan and Natasha aren't available as pillows. They're with the sheep," Hermione teased.

"I think I could use a tree root," Viktor replied. They would all sleep late in the morning, they allowed. The clock was on Much Too Late To Be Up, and it had been for hours. It was nearly on A Bit Too Early To Rise.

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CHAPTER 16

The three of them came out late in the morning, nearly noon, really, standing with bleary eyes and messy hair and dressing gowns in the hall. Viktor's door was still firmly closed. "Wouldn't be surprised if he locked the door and put a trunk in front of it," Ron observed.

"Well, he did do everything we did yesterday, plus play in a match. No wonder he was tired last night. Wish I could have stayed awake for the carriage, but all that dancing wore me out," Hermione said, stretching.

"That was nice," Harry pointed out, "I was the only one who managed to stay awake all the way home."

"So," Hermione said casually, "would you two like to go to the opening ball at Durmstrang? Viktor said the invitation stands, and he could arrange it if we want to go."

"Durmstrang? I don't know, Mum would probably have a fit, but maybe if Viktor were to ask her, or better yet, ask Dad first, he would probably let me go," Ron speculated.

"I'm sure I could go," Harry said. "Are you sure you would want us to?" he asked.

"Sure. I'll be nearly sixteen, but I still bet Mum and Dad would be a lot more likely to say yes if you two go along. Besides, you two have to dance with the lovely Katrina! And the more the merrier I always..." Hermione replied, but was interrupted by the rattling of a doorknob.

Viktor's door swung open and he stood there, in long shorts and bare feet, hair a bit wild, eyes half open, light black circles under his eyes. He sighed, rubbed a hand down his face, then muttered, "Votever you decide, I vould be glad to talk to whomever you vont me to, in votever order, but quit haffing a conference outside my door." He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, smoothing it slightly. "Confer at breakfast. Or lunch, or votever meal ve manage to stumble downstairs for. I am going to go get dressed, then dunk my head in the sink and hope I do not drown..." he finished thickly, pushing the door together quietly.

Hermione laughed and put a hand over her mouth, "I forgot. He told me he sleeps lightly. The other day I woke him up just by walking across the grass when he was asleep in the orchard, and I thought I was being quiet. I'm used to you two sleeping like the dead. We must have sounded like a bunch of hens to him."

They all broke up when a muffled but still forceful and somewhat indignant "Yes!" came through Viktor's door.

Shortly afterwards they managed to dress and struggle downstairs for a meal. "You're going to pass out in your plate, Viktor, sorry we woke you," Hermione jostled his elbow, which was resting on the table.

He removed his curled fingers from over his mouth, continuing to prop his chin. "It is okay. If you had not, I vould be slouching around much too late tonight, grumpy as ever. Besides, I vos haffing a very nice dream, and maybe I vould not remember it at all if you had not been talking so loud."

He gave a wan smile in the direction of his plate, repositioned his hand under his chin, and poked a bite of pancake. Hermione thought he looked too pale and haggard to be up, but he had protested that he shouldn't sleep any later when she asked if he wanted to go back to bed before they came downstairs. This despite the fact that he had initially answered her query in Bulgarian, without noticing. "Okay, so, you told me 'ne' means 'no', but you'll have to work out the rest of your answer for me in a language I actually understand," she had said. They all opted for breakfast fare when Nikolas had petitioned Anya and Anya had given them the choice. Viktor was so exhausted, he was even chewing with his chin propped.

"I can see why your dad voted with us on the second breakfast, Viktor. These pancakes are incredible," Ron said.

"What were you dreaming?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, nothing much. Some remembered bits and pieces from last night, I guess. Music, dancing, firevorks. The mountains. I remember seeing some of the buildings in Sofia. Some of the mountains around Durmstrang. And a meadow, a lake, some flowers. Nothing fancy, not much vent on. Just... images, mostly, places I haff been."

Harry laughed and said, "Doesn't sound too exciting to me, Viktor. Not after the last few days you've had." Viktor finally took his chin off the heel of his hand and took a drink of milk before answering.

"I did not say it vos exciting. Nor particularly nice. But it is the first real dream I remember haffing in years that vos not a nightmare," Viktor blurted out, swallowing hard and examining his plate, looking as though he wished he could have those last words back. They all got the feeling he would never have said it if he hadn't been tired, so they didn't push further. They all knew by now Viktor couldn't be pressed. Viktor did things on his own timetable. They learned that faster than Karkaroff.

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CHAPTER 17

They spent a fairly lazy afternoon, finally managing to go swimming in the lake for a couple of hours. Floating really, as none of them had much energy. Tomorrow was their last full day here at Pavlova. Viktor had agreed to escort them all on the morning after that to the Burrow for their usual stay with the Weasleys once their visit to Bulgaria had ended. This year it had grown from the usual week to ten days. Now that he had gotten awake, Viktor found he didn't want to go to sleep, despite the lateness of the hour and everyone else being in bed, so he reclined here in the dark den on the sofa, tucked in and propping his chin on the back, in front of the large window, looking at the moonlight spilling over everything outside.

He didn't hear his father walk in. His father's voice always had a theatrical, booming quality, even when he spoke softly. It commanded attention without having to demand it. "Viktor," came the deep, gravelly whispered Bulgarian behind him, "scoot over. Let your old papa sit on the sofa with you for a minute." The request reminded him of the nights when his papa had come in to his bedroom at a similar hour, only to find him sitting up in bed silently, his eyes just as wide open as they were now. Mostly when his mama had been gone and he couldn't sleep.

Those nights Nikolas had perched on the edge of his bed and cradled him and reeled off as many Russian songs and poems and fairy tales as he could muster until Viktor had been so worn out he couldn't possibly stay awake, no matter how desperately he had tried. They each didn't look into the other's eyes. He had read somewhere that eyes were the windows to the soul. That must explain it. Some windows open on places you don't want to revisit. Sometimes he could still hear Papa's voice telling the Russian version of Cinderella in which she wore the more plausible fur slippers to the ball when he was halfway between waking and sleep. In his memory, it always layered over the beating of his papa's heart, throbbing in his chest beneath Viktor's ear.

In those first few weeks, he had stayed awake mostly because he was afraid that come morning, his father would have to tell him he didn't have a mama anymore either. If he didn't sleep, maybe he wouldn't dream about Papa saying Violeta was gone again. He wouldn't keep picturing that single image he had burned into his mind of piles of rubble and the people lying there, dirty and bloody with blank, staring eyes, like rag dolls and bits of rubbish, stray limbs poking out here and there at odd and unnatural angles, before Papa had picked him up and buried his face into his hard shoulder, the weightless sensation of being carried back across the street toward the cafe where they had been waiting, Papa's big hand on his head, smoothing his hair over and over. It was there every time he closed his eyes and let his guard down. It crept in while he slept and couldn't defend himself.

He wouldn't hear the yelling and the running and the wailing of the sirens blending in with the wailing of the people who were still standing and weren't stunned into an eerie silence. He wouldn't wake up in the halls of the hospital, with those sterile white lights hurting his eyes, to his father's crying both from the grief and the relief. From finally finding Violeta's name and Mama's name on different lists. He grew to hate sleeping and waking up equally, for a while.

It became a habit, fighting sleep, because you couldn't defend yourself when asleep. Then Mama came home and he had tried to stay awake in case she needed anything, in case she screamed and cried when the same image came for her and she had to touch the both of them to convince herself that they weren't gone too. She hadn't been able to make it up the stairs yet, so he would have to go to her. He couldn't bear to think of her enduring it one more second than was necessary, so he listened. He was ready.

On the nights it was quiet he sometimes stayed awake just for the comfort of hearing two voices downstairs late at night, arguing over which Tchaikovsky album to listen to, whether to play Beethoven or Handel, when he crept out onto the landing and strained to hear with his feet splayed on the top step where they couldn't be seen from the den, bony and usually scabbed knees together, running his fingers over the thick calluses already worn into his hands from the handle of his broom. They sat above the soft palm of his hand, nestled into the area beneath the base of his fingers, at odds with the surrounding skin. He worked at making other parts of himself just as hard, as numb, as unfeeling. The scabs always changed, different trunks he climbed, different branches he clipped when he was going too fast on his broom, intent on the practice snitch he had insisted on buying with his birthday money. But those same calluses had been part of him almost as long as he could remember. They never changed.

In some ways it had been a relief to go to Durmstrang. No one there knew or cared how many nights he sat up in bed, reading by the light of his wand behind the thick drapes rather than let himself drop off. How many nights he woke up in a cold sweat and a tangle of bedclothes, noiseless except for his heart pounding in his ears and quickened breathing. No one came and checked, anymore, not even Poliakoff, who had always slept like the dead, the sleep of someone with a clear conscience and no troubles. So he didn't worry anyone.

He had happened to draw the bed next to Alexei, when he still slept in the communal dorm. Alexei often slept in the bed next to him with his drapes open, charmingly unashamed of his unkempt little burrow in the blankets, the crumbs he got in his sheets when he snuck food from the kitchen into his room, his wildly mussed hair, his slack mouth, the ridiculously thick flannel pyjamas he wore in the cold, even his occasional snoring. Alexei obviously enjoyed sleeping. Dreaming.

Viktor sometimes hunched in bed, sitting, knees bent, slender arms wrapped around his shins, brooding and angular like a hawk on a wire, a hawk on the hunt. Instead of sleeping himself, he watched Alexei at it, his face unlined and untroubled in sleep, and he envied him. It made him hungry for that kind of peace. He was starved for it. It might have been what made him tolerate Alexei's full attention later. He had hoped some of it would rub off on him by accident. How could anyone so noisy and raucous during the day be so still and languid by night?

And then the referral by Karkaroff to Vratsa's scouts had meant he could help at home, rather than just being a burden, another expense they could ill afford. They could afford to let the boarders go and not replace them as long as he sent the money home. Papa and Mama would never entertained the thought of it if they had any other way. There hadn't been one. By this time, they had no savings left, only debts. Boarders were hard to come by these days. Papa refused to take up his old job, he couldn't leave her, the inn, even if it did mean bankruptcy. Losing it. He would stay while he could. When Viktor worked, Papa and Mama didn't have to feel compelled to drag themselves upstairs in the middle of the night and the wee hours of the morning to see if he was still up. They could concentrate on just putting themselves back together for a change. Only the two of them at ease with one another, like it was when they were in the den and thought he was sleeping.

But it had meant making sure no one found out, too. Even then, the reporters had been hungry for a story, and they smelled one on him. He wanted to make sure his parents didn't become that story, that the most they would get out of him was his youth and his skill, a few records broken, otherwise a mystery. That Violeta didn't become that story. They had all buried her too deep to have her ripped up by quills and paraded under their noses again. Even Alexei had only gotten a tiny inkling of what had happened to them. Foolish weakness to have told him that much, but what else could he do? At least he couldn't be tempted to talk too much and let the whole story slip. Nor would Alexei.

His competitors, older and younger, had been hungry for a weakness they could exploit, and that would have been it. So he buried it and tamped it down with his foot, and didn't dare blink when challenged even when it meant broken broomsticks and arms and noses and bruises and his own blood everywhere. He soon learned to admire brooms as tools, not the pseudo pets some of the other players seemed to regard their brooms. He broke too many to become fond of them. Brooms could be replaced and body parts healed. Even hearts, when you quit picking at the wounds. And he tried not to get close enough to anyone that he was tempted to talk too much. To let it slip. To give anyone the ammunition that might catch Papa and Mama in the crossfire.

Problem was Alexei didn't take the hint, he wasn't offended easily, nor was he fended off easily once Viktor had stepped between him and Karkaroff that first time in class. Alexei latched on and would not be shaken off. So Viktor had accepted him as the closest thing to a friend he had. He had little more than tolerated him at first, but apparently he hadn't been too bad at it. Alexei was still there. At least Alexei didn't pry when he sensed Viktor wanted to stop talking, he just did the talking instead.

Alexei did respect boundaries, and Viktor had so many then. An amusing companion at least. A very odd couple indeed, to everyone else, dark and silent Viktor with his spiky exterior and inscrutable expression, bubbling Alexei with his never still mouth, his pranks, his assault on life to suck it completely dry. Everyone half expected Viktor to murder Alexei over breakfast for talking too much one morning, but instead, the chatter was soothing. It kept him from having to think too much. All the others got the full brunt of his glaring, because they were only interested in bloodlines or money, or jealous of Viktor's having made primary seeker on the house team in his first year.

Or worse, interested because they had already gotten wind of those reporters and Karkaroff saying Viktor Krum was going to be a name better remembered than Josef Wronski in a few years. Interested because they thought he would be famous. Then later, interested because he was already famous. Coaches chose him because he would break all the records, because he was skilled, because he was young, pliable, but stubborn enough to coach himself when they couldn't.

He would nearly kill himself trying to master the Wronski Feint, get it an inch lower, a second faster, then get back up and try it again when others would refuse. He was willing to lift weights that made even the first team beaters cringe. Anything for an advantage. All the small advantages added up. No weakness left to exploit. No chance for an opponent to get an advantage. Stubbornness and fierceness and a touch of desperation made him a great player. His youth made him a little more marketable. Vratsa was always willing to give a new player a chance. It all added up.

A few months into the first year, Karkaroff had begun to set him apart, favor him, setting him at odds with the other students though he held Karkaroff at arm's length even more furiously than he had everyone else. It had been a feeling, and not a good one, either, that made him do it. Karkaroff had no idea of the situation at home. Or what had caused it. Or why most of Viktor's answers consisted solely of silent glares or grunts or snorts, or at best, single words, short phrases. He didn't intend to let Karkaroff know any more than what was necessary. It made him cringe to think of that man really knowing anything about him. About Mama and Papa. About Violeta.

It had been a relief, in some ways, not having to talk with anyone. Letting Alexei do all the social interaction, letting Alexei build a fortress of sound around him and make him forget himself and laugh when Alexei did things that seemed completely mad, like loading a teacher's desk with hundreds of stunned frogs that got pretty lively just in time for the lecture and the professor's customary retrieval of his reading glasses from the drawer. They had found frogs in their beds even weeks later. And Alexei actually seemed to like him regardless of how much he growled or complained or scowled or brooded. Alexei didn't know what was good for him, sometimes. The way he always ran after all the wrong girls among those who followed Viktor around proved that.

He had even begun sleeping eventually, worn out from Vratsa practices, the games with real professionals, the never ending interviews and English lessons and tutoring on the road and house games and hiding behind books in the library at midnight and Karkaroff's regime demanding you be up at dawn or even before when he was at school. He pushed himself until he couldn't go anymore and then he was insulated from the rest of the student body in his private quarters. Professional games and practices had meant arriving back at odd hours, so it was supposedly in deference to the other students, rather than to Viktor. Stubborn work ethic, Alexei had called it. In truth, he was just afraid to lose the chance to help keep Pavlova. Afraid to stop doing the one thing that he truly enjoyed and completely controlled lest he curl up and die from lack of freedom. Lack of joy. Books were wonderful, but they were still on the librarian's schedule, at her whim. The schedule of the professors. Quidditch was on his schedule. The schedule meant he didn't get home often, but at least it meant he still had a home to go to. It meant they didn't lose the one place that still held her memory so perfectly. He slept so heavily for a while from the absolute exhaustion he didn't remember dreams, good or bad. Exhaustion was good, he pursued it. It gave him the closest thing he could find to Alexei's peaceful sleep.

It wasn't a totally joyous existence, but it was much better than bearable even at its worst, those years. For some stretches he was even something approaching happy. Then that awful nagging feeling at the back of his mind began two years ago. After Karkaroff became headmaster. The rumors about the mark on his arm. The words "Death Eater" whispered in the halls and dorms, then finally spoken aloud. The talk about Lord Voldemort gaining power, his return, his continuing pursuit of The Boy Who Lived. The polarization of the faculty. The students. Factions forming, the distrust forming like mist on the lake.

The voice when he least expected it. A whisper at first, like a gnat in his ear, faint but annoying. Bearable. He had suspected it was Karkaroff even then. He could hear the warning note in his simpering fawning over Viktor while he played the tyrant with everyone else. It made him shiver when the coldest drafts in the castle couldn't. The nightmares began anew, then they brought endless new variations, the only dreams he had. He returned to being a light sleeper. He woke at nothing, no matter how bone tired he was. He woke sometimes to the voice, real or imagined.

Louder and more insistent in the months leading up to the World Cup. Familiar, but not absolutely recognizable. He couldn't prove it was Karkaroff, even to himself. Combatable, though. Karkaroff had miscalculated just how stubborn Viktor's work ethic really was. Viktor and Alexei had decided to give themselves the Defense Against Dark Arts education that Karkaroff had neglected, poring over books in the library for things that interested them. Not only could he execute a competent Imperius, he could resist one too, thanks to his clandestine practice sessions with Alexei. Even one as persistent as his headmaster's.

It took nearly everything in him, to keep it at bay, pushed it into the same compartment he kept everything else trapped in, but it happened at the expense of his sleep and his appetite. He made excuses about stress and nerves and practice, and he watched himself get thinner and more sallow by the day, and he didn't much care anymore, as long as it didn't interfere with the one real joy he had left, being in a Quidditch game, pay or no pay. It was easier to block out when he was on his broom. He could have blocked out anything there.

Luckily everyone had put his even greater moodiness down to adolescence, fatigue, his sallow skin to the rigors they were all going through for the competition, the increasing thinness to his general lack of appetite and the growth spurt that added a couple of inches to his height. He had barely been able to force himself to swallow the birthday cake they had provided for his birthday the week before the final game. It had seemed sickly sweet and cloying. They had chalked that up to his getting overheated during the practice.

Lucky his parents had been ill and hadn't made the World Cup. Mama would have had a fit. Ordered him into bed. Papa would have asked him what was wrong. And he didn't have an answer. Wouldn't have made a difference if he could have fingered Karkaroff then. What would they do? Get him away from Karkaroff? Impossible. Wherever he went, the administration would have wanted to send him to the Triwizard Tournament. He was too big a trophy to keep locked up, especially after the Cup. To Hogwarts. And that meant Karkaroff would be there too, no matter which school delegation Viktor was part of.

He had gotten ill with the flu nearly as soon as it started to get cold in Durmstrang, late September. His defenses were stretched to the limit, and something snapped. He couldn't eat most meals for a week, and when he did it often came back up soon after. Even Alexei broke his usual rules, had dared to question him about it, pointing out that he knew Viktor was sick. There wasn't much Viktor could do, but try to fend off his concern, write it off as a virus, being overtired. Alexei wasn't fooled, but what could he do about it? He could hardly sit with Viktor like a child.

When Alexei had discovered him face down on the cold stone hall floor in the middle of the night, his forehead on fire with fever, covered in sweat yet shivering in the cold night air, bare except for the shorts he usually slept in, with no recollection of how he had gotten there, Alexei had been so alarmed that he had physically hauled him down the hall and the winding staircase to the infirmary and onto a cot. Next he had gone to rouse the school nurse by pounding on her door and shouting. That brought most of the professors running, and one of them had fetched Karkaroff.

His condition had scared them all so badly, they hadn't even bothered to ask Alexei why he was in the hall fully clothed and wearing his cloak in the middle of the night when he was most certainly not delirious. Challenged, Alexei might have protested that Elena had made him lightheaded enough on their moonlit walk around the grounds. Alexei's longwinded lecture had been the first comprehensible thing he heard in the infirmary. Everything else was roaring and static and distortion. He could barely make out Alexei's blurry form sitting on the cot next to his in the lamplight, but the voice grounded him. He wasn't floating away as badly with Alexei's voice to hold him there, Alexei's yelling. It made his teeth rattle, his ears throb, but he welcomed it.

"I had to hold you under the arms and drag you down the central staircase. You cursed and growled at me like a mad dog when I tried to get out my wand to get you downstairs. I probably scraped half the skin off your ankles and feet, and you fought me like a wounded bear most of the way down the steps. Viktor, damn it all, you are a lot bigger and stronger than I am, even if you are wasting away and won't admit it! You wiry little bas-..., you scared the hell out of me! You couldn't tell me who you were or who I was or where you were. I don't think you even realized you were out of bed, the way you answered me. If you can call mostly moaning and mumbling incoherently an answer."

He could tell Alexei was worried because he was now cursing loudly and indiscriminately in front of the professors, not censoring himself once he got wound up. He muttered a string of profanity that would have made a sailor blush before starting in again. "Here I am thinking you're near dead, and you still practically knock me down the stairs when you get it into your head you don't want to go to the infirmary. Anyone would think you had a bad experience with a mediwitch, the way you avoid them. I never should have mentioned the word 'infirmary' even if I thought you were unconscious."

Alexei's anger was sharp, sharp as his voice. Viktor welcomed it the way he would have welcomed his mother brushing his sodden hair off his forehead right then. He couldn't seem to raise his hand to do it himself just now. It was real concern, the way Alexei kept repeating his name, more real than the shadowy figures on the other side of the room. "I should have just yanked you down here before you knew what had happened. That's what I get for talking to you, Viktor. No one should ever argue with you, Viktor, even when you're at death's door. They should simply bash you in the head with a whacking great mallet and slap you on a cart and hope they get you where they're going with you while they have the chance, before you wake up and dismantle them with your teeth. It's the only way to win an argument with Viktor Krum. I feel sorry for the professors who had your papa, if he really was anything like you, Viktor."

He had cursed at the adults so vehemently when they asked him to leave that they relented and let him stay there on the cot next to Viktor's. Normally, Karkaroff would have slapped Alexei for a start for daring to practice such language, then dragged him off to the dungeon for further punishment, but he had bigger things on his mind at the moment. The rest of the professors milling around seemed to be similarly worried over him. So worried that Alexei's mouth didn't raise much concern. Viktor had clung to Alexei's anger, it meant Alexei cared whether he lived or died. Good job, that, since Viktor didn't much care at the moment. Alexei didn't get angry at anything he didn't really care for. It was why Alexei didn't often get angry. Not much mattered to him enough to get angry over. And Viktor found he couldn't work up any anger of his own at the moment, and that had always been his one reliable emotion. Alexei's would have to do.

But Alexei didn't know that it hadn't been the bit about "Taking you to the infirmary" out of Alexei's intended soothing stream of patter when he had lifted him from the floor that had made him fight. It had been "Then I'll fetch the nurse and Karkaroff". Something about the name had made him panic, resort to fight or flight. It gave him the same feeling he got when the nurse had sponged him down with ice water to help bring his fever down. He could hear the blocks of ice thumping against the tub she carried, and idly wondered where the kettle drum could be. She told him when she roused him enough to give him a mouthful of ice chips that he had vomited blood earlier.

He didn't remember it, but he thought they were new sheets he was on. Wait, it was a different cot, a different piece of ceiling he was staring at. He was where Alexei had been a few moments...hours maybe...ago. He didn't remember being moved. She pronounced it the worst case of flu she had ever seen and hoped it didn't get around the rest of the school. Curiously, no one else ever got it. "Fight, dammit! Fight whatever the hell's going on in your head, Viktor! Is it him? Igor? Karkaroff?" Alexei had hissed in his ear when she went to fetch more blankets and convey her diagnosis to the huddle.

"Not sure, I don't know who, make it go away if it's him, I can't keep this up," he had found himself mumbling, pleading, seemingly very far away. He realized he was clutching Alexei's wrist desperately, as though he were drowning. Perhaps he was. His head buzzed and roared, but at least the voice wasn't there. He wasn't coherent enough to listen for clues in it if it had been.

He made it through the night, a confusing swirl of people across the room conferring among themselves and setting up shifts to help check on him, booming ice tubs, cold sponges and cold spoons full of ice in his mouth, his tongue thick and sore, his forehead on fire, sweating so much that he could feel the droplets running along his temples and into his sopping hair every few seconds, dripping and splashing onto the pillow like scalding teardrops, then freezing and shivering when they pulled the blankets off of him, that weightless floating away, then feeling as though his limbs were weighed down with lead, trapped against the bed. Once, a feeling of being turned inside out, weakness, draining the consciousness and the strength from him.

A pale, wan Alexei told him the next morning that they had managed to get a dose of potion poured down him with an eyedropper, only to have him bring it up again a lot faster. "And after I had to help pin you down to keep you from flailing all over the bed. The second you managed to keep down. You were comatose the rest of the night. I don't think you had enough energy left to vomit. You do realize your hip bones are sticking up a good inch and a half past your stomach? You look like you've weathered a famine," Alexei had said bluntly, slightly indignant. Viktor had kicked the covers down in his sleep, and managed to raise his head enough to see that his shorts did gap slightly over his concave stomach, not touching anything but his bony hips. He hadn't been that thin yesterday, had he? He needed to start eating.

He spent a good portion of the next two weeks in bed, both in the infirmary and in his room. Alexei came and kept him company, but he didn't push for any more answers. He now knew Karkaroff was the perceived enemy, but he had no idea the full extent of it. Nor where Viktor suspected it was going. If all he had heard was true, Karkaroff had been a Death Eater. A Russian Death Eater. Maybe one of the ones who had taken five buildings, including one Muggle shop containing Violeta and Mama, from ordinary structures to smoldering death traps and kindling. It made his blood boil and his stomach turn to think it might be true. Karkaroff had turned in his fellow Death Eaters, rather than face Azkaban. He wouldn't even manfully face a deserved punishment, the coward. If Voldemort came back, Karkaroff would need something else to save his hide. A bargaining chip. A trophy. Who had always been his trophy?

He maintained an uneasy distance between himself and Karkaroff for the next few weeks until they left for the tournament. He had promptly gotten a head cold two days before they left. On the ship Karkaroff always made himself scarce, for fear he would have to lift a finger. He still had the cold when they had reached Hogwarts. If it was anything like the flu he had earlier, he would be dead before the tournament started anyway, champion or no champion, he thought, no matter how much Alexei urged and yelled at him.

As the tournament rolled along, though, his cold went away in the warmer climate, the voice was quieted to a soft buzz in the back of his head, annoying but not a great pain. Karkaroff had other things to worry about. His old friends, according to Alexei. Leave it to him to work every source of information he could find. One of them was supposedly here at Hogwarts. So, even Hogwarts had one. Every wizarding school has a Death Eater in its closet, he thought to himself. I wonder who it is at Beauxbatons? Maybe it's the whole lot.

Then he had gotten a different sort of lifeline to replace Quidditch. In the library. He had seen her late one evening, when the packs of girls had thinned and he could finally concentrate on his book. Only he couldn't concentrate. He studied the bushy head, sticking out between and above the book cover and wondered why it seemed so familiar. She couldn't be waiting him out for an autograph, they were never so patient. It wasn't as though there were anyone watching. There was no one else here, she could have tap danced on his table and no one would have been the wiser. Even the librarian was off in the stacks. Besides, the girl was ignoring him to beat the band. She never looked up from the page. He had lain awake that night after he went back to the ship, trying to place her. She couldn't possibly be one of those roving packs of wolves that Alexei sometimes took off his hands. He never remembered any of them. She was wearing Hogwarts robes. Gryffindor robes. And he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere else.

It was driving him mad. So he had gone back to the library on the same schedule. And she had been there again. Tsking loudly and giving him a rather harsh glare over the top of his book after he came in and paused near the circulation desk. He had almost slunk back out under that withering look, until he realized it was directed mostly at the four girls behind him, who were conferring behind their notebooks about whether to sit or browse the stacks to get close to him. She sighed audibly and went back to her book. He had made a beeline for his usual table, then, backed up against the most densely packed stacks, not too far from her. He put her between him and the girls, and he made sure that he didn't look too inviting to those girls by shooting them the nastiest glare he could muster. They were now shamelessly pointing at him and making those horrid giggling noises behind notebooks as they whispered. He wondered why no one ever joined her. Seeker or no seeker, surely he wasn't the only one who wasn't blind? But what made him so sure? Didn't matter. His instinct was screaming at him, and even when he didn't understand it, he always followed his instinct. It never really steered him wrong. Surely girls and snitches couldn't be that different to instinct. Surely it wasn't completely wrong about her. Sometimes, you just knew. Papa said it had been that way with Mama.

He felt a little stupid for nearly running away when she had given him that look. Papa couldn't make him feel that foolish and small under his piercing gaze, even if he deserved it. He had stared down beaters four times her size, twice his, taken bludgers in the face, how could a pair of eyes over a book do that to him? It hadn't been until he had endured two more days of watching her and racking his brain that he had put it together. He had read little, studied less, between puzzling over the girl hidden behind those tomes and under that mass of hair and the English words he was unfamiliar with. But he had learned much, watching her. She loved to read. He could tell by the ever-changing covers she hid behind. She wasn't only reading things she had to, she was reading because she wanted to. And she didn't care that he was there, watching her, sitting near her. That was new. She didn't rise to the bait of "Viktor Krum, Famous Quidditch Player". Thank goodness.

Malfoy helpfully supplied her last name, as well as that of the two boys she was usually with, Potter, Weasley, and Granger, while making one of his stupendously clumsy digs for attention. Of course, he could already identify Potter. It was hard to miss him when Karkaroff had pulled up behind him at the door to the Great Hall the first night, looking as though he couldn't quite believe his eyes. The night Alexei had clumsily dumped his plate down his front while clowning for Elena.

He spotted the scar after Harry paused to let their group through, and despite some initial surprise on his own part, he placed it quickly. Everyone knew the story behind that scar. Some of the others gaped and pointed, poking one another. Viktor refrained. He knew how it felt to be treated like an exhibit at the zoo. Viktor calculated roughly in his slightly fuzzy head, yes, Harry Potter would be about fourteen. And he would be here at Hogwarts, wouldn't he? Had it been that long? It couldn't be, could it? Yes, it was. She would be fifteen now, if she were alive. His train of thought was interrupted by Karkaroff's hasty exit. He had barely glanced at Harry and the two with him, intent on chiding himself for having to do the math in his head. He shouldn't have to, even if he was tired and did have a head cold. Her age should just come to him.

He couldn't very well ask Malfoy the rest of her name without arousing suspicion. Just as well. Later, he found he couldn't pronounce it properly anyway. He couldn't wrap his tongue around the collection of foreign syllables that felt so strange in his mouth, though it always sounded perfect when he sampled it in his head. It had taken weeks of practice at home, without pressure, to force it out of his mouth closer to the way it sounded in his mind. Something approaching the way she had pronounced it for him at the ball. Even then, it came off his tongue with a gently rolling "r", subtly softened vowels, different emphasis, his Bulgarian accent changing the name's shape slightly, but still leaving it recognizable. It still came out that way, but she had seemed pleased enough with his improved, if still foreign, pronunciation.

"There's Potty Potter, Weasley the Weasel, and their little tagalong Granger. Poor as church mice and twice as tatty, every single one of them. Simply appalling what they'll let into Hogwarts. Nothing like Durmstrang with their pureblood requirement, I'm sure. My parents almost sent me there to keep me away from the riffraff, but they didn't want to send me so far away from home," he had supplied, angling for affirmation. Or possibly wailing and lamentation from the Durmstrang contingent that they had been cheated out of the pleasure of his presence at their school. He had gotten Alexei asking him to pass the bread and Viktor's blank stare and raised eyebrow. Malfoy hadn't known what to make of that. Alexei had recognized it as a sign of Viktor's deep disapproval. No one else would have. Right now, Viktor could strangle Karkaroff for ordering them to sit with Slytherin. Apparently he knew their head of house.

Then, suddenly it had clicked. Of course. He had seen all three of them together before, somewhere other than Hogwarts, but where? She was getting up from the table, probably to go to the library, so he excused himself, flung his cloak around his shoulders, even though he could have easily stood it here in short sleeves, and headed for the library. He did it to avoid looking more out of place than he already did. As he walked in, it dawned on him. The World Cup. She had been in the box. At the presentation. Along with Potter and Weasley and the Minister. His hand flew to the bridge of his nose and the now familiar crook there. He had been a real mess, nose smashed, his face all bloody, his robes dripping with it, two blooming black eyes, he remembered. Anton told him later that Petyr had cried for him, he had looked so awful. At the time, he hadn't cared about his injuries. All that mattered was that he had done his job. Why did he care now?

He was still standing there like a simpleton, finger on his nose when he realized she was watching him. He scratched an imaginary itch, then steeled himself and walked up to her, forcing his face to relax. He was going to ask her if it killed him. And knowing Karkaroff, it just might. "...box...Minister...Cup" he muttered, almost under his breath. Oh, brilliant opening, Viktor, he had chided himself, when he realized he had said it out loud. Loud enough that she had heard. She probably does think I am a simpleton, now.

"Pardon?" she had said, tilting her book out farther from her.

"Vere you in the box vith your Minister of Magic at the Vorld Cup? Top box? " he asked, his voice more forceful, but still library-whisper soft this time. Damn his accent. Why didn't he practice his English more? No one worth talking to in English before, you fool.

"Yes... I ...I was there with some friends... Harry and Ron actually..."

"I thought so...may I sit?" He indicated the chair next to her. He had picked it specifically so he could put his back to the girls peeking through the gaps in the books. She nodded wordlessly, so he hung his cloak on an empty chair and sat, his hands resting on the table. He forced himself to smile at her while he tried to think how to begin. She studied him so intensely, it felt as though she could see straight through him. It was at once a comfort and disturbing. There were some things he didn't want anyone to see.

He suddenly broke off and stared at the table for a moment as though gathering his courage. He hoped she couldn't see that he blushed. Seemingly to fill the silence, which loomed interminable and deafening, Hermione had asked, "Do you like Hogwarts?" He looked up, a little surprised that it hadn't been a question about Quidditch.

He considered a moment. "I like the library," he whispered almost conspiratorially. "I like to come here to read. Not so many people vich are vonting me to sign things. The books are nice too. Not so many books at Durmstrang, I am thinking. They can't giggle too loud." Now his mouth was running away with him. He was jumping from thought to thought. Inherited that from Papa too, he thought, suddenly feeling self conscious about his nose. Drawing too much attention to those girls. Stop jerking your thumb over you shoulder at them like you're hitchhiking, Viktor. Might as well get to the point.

He leaned in closer, looking straight into her eyes again. They were a sort of cinnamon color. She didn't blink. "You read. Lots. I never come here ven you are not here." Did he just inadvertently insult her by calling her a bookworm or make it sound like he was following her? No matter, it was out of his mouth now. "I... I come here to vatch you ignore me, too." He actually laughed a little at this, where did that come from? When was the last time he had laughed? And she did too. He couldn't believe he had just said that, so he went back to inspecting his own hands. Nothing for it but the truth, now.

"Ignoring you?" she asked.

"Yes. Those other girls..." here he inclined his head toward the four whispering, giggling Ravenclaw girls by the stacks across the room, "they are alvays vanting me to sign things. Or they just stare and point and laff. I haff had enough. Silly. How do you say it? Imm.. imm... not grownup..." he floundered and looked at her a little helplessly. Why did he choose a word he had never used out loud before, only seen in books? Wonderful, I should confine myself to writing everything on parchment and just flinging notes at her from my usual table from now on.

"Immature." she interjected.

He nodded, his lips pressed together. "You vould never giggle and point at me. Too busy vith your books. Vould..." here he returned to staring at his own fingers, picking at a nonexistent hangnail, embarrassed and shy again. He pressed the calluses in his hands against the table, just to have a new sensation to focus on.

"Vould you like to go to the Yule Ball?" Was he asking her to go with him or just making conversation? He suddenly realized his awkward diction made it hard to tell the difference. Awful language, sometimes, English. So many shades of meaning in a single word. A single phrase. "Vith me?" he added, tilting his head up, casting a slightly sidelong glance that still allowed him to keep tabs on his fingers, now nervously drumming against the table. He willed them to be still, but they didn't obey.

She just sat there, staring back for what seemed an eternity. Slowly, his usual scowl crept onto his face. "Somevone else has asked you...of course, you are probably going vith...your friend..." he said dejectedly.

"Yes! I ... I mean, no! I mean, no one else has asked...and...I... I would like to go to the Yule Ball with you..." He brightened considerably. Again he leaned in close, his face only a couple of inches from hers.

"I vill be honored." He nodded slightly. "I must go. Flying practice is early today." He gathered his things and walked off with a little wave, the girls behind the shelves giving Hermione stares filled with daggers, even though they couldn't possibly have heard him. But he had talked to her. Of his own volition. Reason enough to envy. He fought the urge to run out of the building and wondered why he trembled. Then he realized why in the cool evening air. He detected an outsider. Like him. Her books were every bit as much a shield as his were. As his scowl and slouch was. And unless he was very much mistaken, there was more to her than the books.

She was pretty, but then, so were all those other girls. But she had spark they didn't have. He couldn't imagine the rest of those girls huffing at him for disturbing their reading. Or asking him about anything other than Quidditch. She had promise. She might actually let him be himself. If only he could figure out how hard to push. He knew better than most, you push too hard, you get the door slammed in your face. Maybe for good. He had slammed it just that way a few times. Hangers-on don't take "no" for an answer , but a slammed door speaks louder than words. He had mastered slamming the door with nothing more than his face. His expression.

Their ensuing conversations encouraged him more. He confessed that he had been watching her, trying to get his courage up. He had surreptitiously asked the librarian for her first name one day, when she left before he did. She avoided Quidditch talk for the most part, unless he brought it up, and she asked him about the books he read, she told him about the ones she read, she didn't fuss over him. If anything, she treated him as appallingly ordinary. It was a breath of fresh air. But then she would. Look who she was friends with. Harry Potter. The one name that every wizard knew.

He also got a glimpse of how much she might like him back on the night her mouth ran away with her. First, she spilled the beans about being a "mudblood". She didn't want to get him in trouble, she had said, she knew Durmstrang had a pureblood requirement. Certain people didn't think she was fit to mix with purebloods. His eyebrows had shot up in surprise and her face had fallen. He had rushed to assure her that it didn't matter, he was just surprised that such a capable witch hadn't encountered magic until she attended Hogwarts. He had heard by now that she always got top marks. Malfoy seemed particularly bitter about that, he seemed to mention it every fourth meal. Karkaroff would care about her parents, but by the time he found out, if he found out, it would be too late.

Then she had started spewing facts. Nervously. When she had noted that there was a Bulgarian Khan named Krum in the 800s, he had been impressed. He barely knew that, and he might even be a distant relation. She didn't turn it into some "you might be royalty" flattery. It was just an interesting fact about where he was from, his name. She didn't ask if he could trace back that far. When she had gone on and on about the other schools and her reading up on the both of them, she had thrown in the tidbit about bulky fur cloaks being part of the official uniform at Durmstrang, and he had to stifle a laugh. Her eyes had slid to his own heavy cloak, on the empty seat beside him, and she had blushed. "But of course, you knew that," she had added lamely, shrugging it off.

"I knew. I am always being yelled at for not wearing mine enough," he had replied, and covered her hand on the table with his own, reassuring her. She wasn't the first girl to put her foot in her mouth around him. But she sure was more charming than average when doing it.

Karkaroff had been furious, of course. He still didn't know who had ratted him out, just that it hadn't been Alexei. Alexei knew about keeping confidences, even when Viktor hadn't actually confided anything. Probably one of the boys who had gotten chummy with the occupants of Slytherin had heard Malfoy run her down, seen Viktor going to the library more than once, and put two and two together. Some of them were pretty eager to see Karkaroff's golden boy taken down a peg. Karkaroff had called him into his quarters the day of the ball and ranted and raved and shouted, practically foaming at the mouth, getting in Viktor's face with his yellowed teeth and spouting off about the honor of the school and the integrity of Viktor's bloodline and other nonsense in his clipped and perfectly scholarly Russian. Anyone walking by the ship would have heard a well modulated torrent of abuse in a language they didn't understand.

Clever of him not to use English. Never to use Viktor's name in his tirade. No one here would have a reason to know Russian. Not even Dumbledore knew Russian, it seemed. Anyone close enough to hear would have no idea Karkaroff was ripping his prize pupil to pieces. When he had finally summed up after forty-five minutes of calling Viktor an ungrateful embarrassment as many ways as possible with "And after I've treated you like my own son! Well!?! What do you have to say for yourself?!?"

Viktor had coolly replied in equally deft Russian, "It's only a ball. However, if we do decide to water down my bloodline, I'll be sure to ask if we can name our first son after you." Karkaroff had actually raised his hand to Viktor at that, then thought better of it. Karkaroff hated that he could never get a rise out of Viktor, unnerve him the way he did everyone else. Hitting him would just be asking for trouble.

On his worst day, if Viktor was conscious, he could easily thrash his headmaster. If he ever defended himself physically, Karkaroff was in trouble. Even this much thinner, Viktor was still well muscled and strong. Wiry. Tough. Quick. Besides, Karkaroff knew from experience that beating him didn't work. He had tried it once during third year when Alexei had stolen his grade book and hidden it under Viktor's bed. Karkaroff knew it was Alexei, everyone knew it was Alexei, but the evidence had been hidden under his bed. Karkaroff gave him the chance to point the finger, to escape punishment. He probably saw it as a welcome chance to drive a wedge between his golden child and that appalling, disgusting boy. Viktor refused.

Even with Karkaroff standing over him, shouting "Flagellare!" for the twentieth time, the invisible whip cutting into his raw and bloody back, Viktor had refused to admit it was Alexei that had stolen it, even though Alexei had urged him to tell when the summons to Karkaroff's office came from downstairs. "Viktor, I tried confessing to him, he would not have it, you have to tell him! Give him what he wants! He wants you to rat me out, turn me in for it! He is going to call you to the dungeons if you do not!" Alexei had argued even when he knew there was no hope of getting Viktor to yield, after his face had gone stony. Impassive. Committed.

Everyone knew what happened when you got the call to the dungeons. No one could hear you down there, no matter how loudly you screamed. Everyone knew. But Karkaroff had given up on ever being able to beat anything out of Viktor after that. Viktor didn't even whimper. He already knew body parts healed, physical pain was temporary, the nurse had to see to you afterwards, and you recovered. There weren't even scars. And now, he was too valuable to beat. Karkaroff couldn't risk any other coercion. He needed Viktor for the tournament. And Viktor knew it was all hot air, this speech. He had gone with Hermione. Karkaroff had looked as jealous and suspicious as a spurned lover, but he didn't push the issue any more. Viktor was almost positive that Karkaroff had given up on owning him after that. But he had been wrong.

Then there was the shame of the third task. The voice was suddenly back, stronger than ever, the words crystal clear, and he found himself concentrating more on that than the instructions he was being given. He fought the urge to put his hands over his ears, to look around and see where Karkaroff was, where that chant of join me Viktor, join me Viktor, don't be a fool, you can buy my way back in, back into their good graces, your present fame is nothing compared to what he could give you, you never want to be attacked like you were the other night, do you?, he can protect you, you could give Mad-Eye Moody a run for his money with your skill, I need you, I made you, you would be nothing without me, I treated you like my own son, give in to it, join me was coming from. It beat a tattoo behind his eyes, and he felt almost as though he had the flu again.

It had to be him. It was unmistakably his voice now. He forced himself not to look at his parents. They had already asked him what was wrong beforehand. They wouldn't accept the excuse of nerves again. They hadn't really the first time. If he looked at them, he would break, snap like a dry twig. He held himself back from shrieking at Karkaroff to stop, from hurling himself at Dumbledore and begging him to make it stop. Hermione talked about him like he was a man to be trusted. He seemed trustworthy... but Viktor had nothing else to go on. For all he knew, Dumbledore was the Death Eater colleague Alexei had heard about. Now he fought the urge to go look at his arm, to demand that everyone roll up their sleeves. He had heard there was a mark on the arm. That it burned black sometimes.

He had already been stupid enough to turn his back on Crouch in the woods, even though he was obviously mad. He kicked himself for it. So stupid to try to see where Potter was going. But all he could think about was how useless he would feel if Hermione's friend didn't make it back to the castle in one piece while he stood there with someone so completely out of their mind as to hold conversations with trees. Grant you, at the moment, he didn't feel much more sane. Then inside the maze, he tried to push Karkaroff back into the compartment, block him out. He had been so intent on doing so, that he didn't even notice the other voice at first.

He paused. He had to be losing his mind. It was another. Quiet at first, under the current of Karkaroff's constant whining patter, then roaring up over it, drowning Karkaroff into the background. It wasn't words. It was rage. It was madness. It was a horrible screeching shriek, a rumbling. He had never heard it before. It scraped through his thoughts, careening around inside his skull like nails on a chalkboard, and he realized he couldn't hold against it all. Not at once. This all at once was too much. He was too weak. Before the second wave overwhelmed him completely, he stuffed Karkaroff into the box once again. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction, even if it meant giving in to the second. He had probably helped kill Violeta. He went under like being pulled into a riptide, a powerful undertow. He was utterly drowned in the madness, and he knew no more.

Alexei had been the first one to explain it to him. True, he had heard others say, "Diggory's dead!" in wails and whispers but somehow it didn't make sense until Alexei said it. He couldn't be. He was just ahead of me in the maze. I heard him walking. Talking. To Potter, maybe. Maybe casting a charm of some kind. I couldn't make out the words, but it was Diggory's voice. But how did I end up out here? Then the whispers, the stares, his own name mentioned. He had sought out his parents and told them to get out. To get outside the protective perimeter and Apparate home. Something about the look on his face must have told him parents not to argue. They had squeezed his bony shoulder and left immediately. With them gone, he had crumpled, empty, his head completely empty for what seemed like the first time in ages. He didn't have anything left. Nothing to fight with, nothing to fight against, except the guilt.

Unlike Fleur, Diggory had been decent to him. Polite. Pleasant. Admiring of his talent on a broom without fawning. Without empty flattery. Even with that great pillock of a headmaster associated with him, the Dark Arts background, they had treated Viktor as a worthy competitor. He and Potter, that is. Now they were telling him Diggory was dead, and he had used one of the unforgivable curses on him. Which one? Cruciatus, Dumbledore said, but later he added that Viktor was under the Imperius curse.

The moment Dumbledore said "Cruciatus", that's when he knew he wasn't responsible, stark raving mad or not. If he had been insane enough to want to cheat like that, Karkaroff had taught him a stable of curses that made the Cruciatus Curse seem like a tickle with a feather. Curses that didn't get you put in Azkaban. Curses that left no marks, no trace. Ones that didn't bring Ministry officials running. Sometimes, they left behind nothing recognizable at all, done properly. Call Karkaroff what you will, but he was nothing if not a thorough teacher. Didn't matter that he hadn't willed Cedric's suffering, though. It was still his wand in his hand that did it. He should have been strong enough to fight it off. Reason enough to be ashamed.

All these feelings and memories whirled through his mind in a matter of a moment, but Papa clearing his throat brought him back to the present. Viktor swung his legs down off the sofa and turned from the window, putting his bare feet on the cool stone floor. As he sat, Nikolas scolded, "Your mama would tell you that running around the house at night with no shirt or shoes is a sure way to get yourself sick. Of course, you would tell your mama that you were hot, even if it were dead of winter. We couldn't even keep you in a winter cloak outside. You would hang it on a tree in the orchard and go on your way with your sleeves rolled up. Still, you never got sick, I told her. Mama used to claim you were part polar bear." Nikolas paused, then sighed heavily. "Can't you sleep?" Nikolas asked, still staring off into the mostly dark room.

Viktor studied his father's profile, so similar to his own, for a space in the half light, the planes of his face thrown into a sharp relief of light and shadows. "No, but not for the reasons you think," Viktor replied. He turned his face to the dark room as well. They had conducted some of their best conversations in the dark, no eye contact, nothing but their voices connecting. It was less threatening somehow to converse with a pair of arms, a touch, a voice, a pair of dark eyes could be too intimidating, too much of a challenge. You might see something there that made you hesitate. It seemed both of them were reluctant to change a proven formula.

"You eat now?" Nikolas countered.

"You've seen," Viktor said.

"You have filled out a lot. Reasons?" Nikolas asked.

Back to that. Papa had always bounced from subject to subject and back with no transition, at the speed of his thoughts, generally with an economy of words. Anyone on the other end of the conversation had better be prepared to do some mental gymnastics and tallying to follow a conversation with Nikolas Krum. Mama called it his verbal shorthand. "I slept too late. I needed some quiet to think. Now was as good a time as any. I've made some decisions."

"Decisions?" Nikolas's voice was curious.

"For one thing, I decided I owe Alexei a very long explanation. Seven years worth of explanations. For my behavior. What I should have trusted him with a long time ago."

"Good. You need to tell someone without being cornered into it, Viktor. Even your mama and I have. Alexei won't tell anyone you don't want him to. I know it's not easy, but you did it with the three upstairs, and you haven't known them seven years. Alexei can't be any harder. Next decision?" Nikolas sounded pleased.

"You sure you and Mama won't take the money? I don't need it. If I fulfill my contract this year, I get a bonus in addition to the salary. That would be plenty for me to put to use after school. More than enough. You know I don't need fancy things."

"It's not a matter of you needing it. You earned it. It's your money. You've gone above and beyond what you needed to. It's only a homestead in the end, Viktor, no matter how desperately we wanted to keep it. We could have lost it and still had everything that was truly important if you were okay and Mama and I had each other. Nothing could take our memories of her. But don't think your mama and I don't appreciate what you did. What you sacrificed. We won't be rolling in money for some time, but we are comfortable enough. Most of the debts are gone, thanks to you. The rest, we can manage eventually. We decided to put the money away for you, and as a fallback, just in case. But we didn't need it, Viktor. Put it with the rest of the money you have put away. We'll let you know if we need you to part with any of it."

"You're sure?"

"Boy..." Nikolas warned him with mock sternness, "Mama already fought this battle. Viktor, your mama and I bred that stubbornness into you, you get a double dose. But we've had a lot more practice at it. Don't think you can outlast us. Take your own money. And enjoy it for once," he finished gently. "Actually, I shouldn't call you 'boy'. You've been a man for a long time. Too long. Too soon," he said, an edge of melancholy to his voice.

"There's a lot of that going around, these days. Too much. Upstairs, for instance. All three of them. Him, particularly." He jerked his chin at the staircase. He caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye, his father's sharp chin raising as he followed the banister with his eyes to the top, then his nodded agreement, a quick bob of the head.

"True. You recognize it in him. More decisions?"

"Yes. I'm tying up the loose ends at Durmstrang, then leaving. Three weeks there, at most."

"For which alternative?"

"I'm accepting the offer. Best of all possible worlds under the circumstances. Being able to Apparate has its advantages."

"It will be hard work."

"I'm not afraid of hard work. And I just can't stay at Durmstrang. Too indecisive. Not now. Not when I have the alternative. Choices. Not even with Karkaroff gone. I explained this to you and Mama. The reasons. What happened last year."

"I never said you were afraid of hard work. Quite the contrary, you seem too fond of it. And I understand why you are reluctant to finish your schooling at Durmstrang, even disregarding the other considerations. It isn't the same place where Mama and I went to school. Have you discussed it with anyone else?"

"Not yet. I want to make sure the details are all worked out first. I've learned never to count chickens before they hatch, you only end up disappointed. Usually with a handful of crushed eggshells. I believe it will be well received, though, if things work out. He seemed eager for me to accept. I think she would like it, as well."

"You've made your feelings clear?"

"Yes. I believe I have."

"Is that a decision too?"

"Yes. I decided it was worth it. I have patience and time. I have nothing but time. For once, that's all I have to give that is really wanted. It's all I have that is of any worth in the first place. Time. The thing in which all men are equally rich, but few spend wisely. I think this is worth spending on."

"Ah, so you've discovered the secret then? Look for the one who doesn't want your gifts, but the gift of you?"

"The secret was easy. I've seen that with you and Mama every day of my life. Finding someone who also knew it, that was the tough part."

"Wise creatures. We can learn a lot from them. Like how to spend your time."

"Especially the ones who read?"

"Especially the ones who read. And listen to Tchaikovsky. That all of your decisions?"

"You might add a George Gershwin to your list. I'm going to laugh more, and I'm soon going to bed. My eyes are heavy suddenly. There, that's enough decisions for one night."

"Deciding is hard work. It could be relief, though. You think Ivan and Natasha would like to go with you?"

"I'm not sure it would be allowed. It's a bit fuzzy yet as to where I would be living. Baramir is on the approved list. Besides, don't you need them here?"

"Mikhail has a new batch of older pups, just about the right age. I was thinking of getting a couple of them, starting their training. They would soon catch on. He owes me a favor, so he offered them to me. I know you love those dogs. And they pine over you when you go. If it's possible..."

"I'll take them. If it's possible. More details, Papa."

"You're good at details. You know when to attend to them and when to ignore them."

"Ignore them?"

"Minute details that aren't important. Ones that go away or aren't important in the first place, particularly. Like being too young. You ignore it long enough, you aren't too young anymore. Two more days, you'll be nineteen. You're making your mama and I feel old. In two days, it's your birthday."

"So it is. I hadn't really thought about it. And you two... feeling old? That will be the day. Why do I get the feeling I'll be creeping around like an old man years before you start?"

"Just because sheep aren't nearly as prone to injure you as opposed to Quidditch players and bludgers. I have never had a sheep knock me off a broom into the stands."

"Probably. Goodnight Papa."

"Goodnight Viktor. Sleep pleasantly."

It was a phrase that carried a lot more than the usual meaning, passing between the two of them. "I think I will." Viktor padded across the floor and up the steps silently, to his room, to bed. And he was surprised when he found himself looking forward to it.

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CHAPTER 18

"Oh come on, Viktor. Mum will be insulted if you don't at least stay for dinner. She found out in my last letter it was your birthday tomorrow, she nearly sent me a howler for not telling her sooner. She always does a cake for Harry's birthday, too. Owls it to him," Ron bobbed as he treaded in the water, addressing the rock where Viktor was perched.

"I do not want to be a burden..." Viktor began uncertainly. They all got the feeling he wasn't used to having a big deal made of his birthday. He seemed uncomfortable with the idea.

"Burden! Mum will personally rip my head off if I can't get you to stay. We had given her more warning she probably would have asked your size so she could knit you a loud jumper with a big 'V' on it. Mum has this thing about birthdays, you see. She must like them. She had enough kids to ensure she celebrates them pretty much year round."

"I do not want to put your head in jeopardy, so alright. I will stay if she asks. I don't haff to be back early. I don't haff to be back at Vratsa for a team meeting until three days from now, in fact. I haff an appointment the day before, though," Viktor warned.

"She might let you go, if you make it real clear up front that you need to. Mum likes guests too. She's liable to implore you to sleep on the sofa, though. We run kind of short on beds this time of year," Ron teased.

"I imagine you do. How many are there again?" Viktor asked.

"Bill and Charlie are away from home now. Bill works for Gringott's in Egypt, Charlie works with dragons. You might have seen them both at Hogwarts last year. Well, Charlie certainly. He helped wrangle the dragons. Bill came with my Mum and Dad when the families... Percy, he's still at home until he finds another place to live that meets his high standards. I'm guessing he'll leave in time for his retirement. Fred and George, they're the twins, me, and then Ginny," Ron counted on his fingers. "Seven of us."

"Seven. And all of you with red hair, right?" Viktor folded his arms on his knees.

"Absolutely. The Weasley red hair. Known and loved far and wide. Didn't Malfoy fill you in on our red hair and vacant stare? How the Weasleys always have more children than they can afford?" Ron asked.

Viktor smiled. "It must be nice. Haffing so many people around when you are small. I had to make my own fun. Nobody at home. And I will trade you the Krum nose for the Weasley red hair. Actually, I kind of like it, and you do not, so... I think I will keep it. I could not pull off red hair."

"Fred and George certainly made sure it was never dull, but I don't know about fun. It's okay, I guess, if you're one of the first ones in line. Pain in the neck, though, coming after the rest of them. The Weasley legacy precedes me. Percy was enough perfection for the lot of us."

"You'll make your own way. Think of poor Ginny. Everyone ahead of her and no one ahead of her," Viktor countered.

"What do you mean by that?" Ron cocked his head.

"Six brothers ahead of her, that she has to follow, that everyone will identify her with. But not one sister," Viktor replied.

"I think what Viktor's trying to say is that you might be trailing a long line of Weasleys, but Ginny has to trail all of you. And top that off with the fact that you boys have each other, and she doesn't have a sister. No one who has walked exactly the same path. She's alone in the mob of you Weasley boys," Hermione interjected, climbing onto the rock with Viktor and toweling her hair. "You don't have it so bad, Ron."

"Exactly. You can be alone even in a crowd," Viktor added. "You call your home The Burrow?"

"Bit of a joke, really. Rabbits live in burrows. Nine of us. Couldn't find a family more like rabbits than us. You never did tell us why the inn is called The Pavlova," Ron considered.

"Years ago, my mother's... let's see, it would be her great-great-great...great-grandfather, left St. Petersburg, left his home, made his way south, and came to Prishta, that's the wizard village that's nearby. He was quite educated, fairly well off, his papa had been a court scholar for the Tsar once. But I think he was bored. He wanted to see the world. He worked along the way, it must have taken him months to get here. The first day in the village, he spotted this young woman in front of one of the shops." He resituated himself on the rock, getting more comfortable.

"His name was Yuri Gregorin. He asked around and found out the woman he had seen was named Anastasia. No one knew her last name, they said, she was some Romany witch that had come in with her family and ended up staying behind. She kept a room over one of the shops, a bookshop."

Hermione interrupted him, "Romany? Isn't that another word for..."

"Gypsy. Yes. There used to be a lot of witches and wizards among the Romany. They found that moving constantly was almost as good for being undetected by Muggles as settling in wizard villages and avoiding them. A lot of the Romany ones broke off and settled down, though, because the Romany started getting a bad reputation. There were a few thieves among them. So most of them got called thieves. Unfortunately, a lot of the old Romany curses and charms and herbs have been forgotten because of that. No one to pass them on, anymore. Not for years. Some of the Muggle-born Romany still know a lot of the herbal potions, some of the minor curses and charms. They haff better skill at it than the true Muggles. A few of them can even use the curses effectively. There used to be a lot of minor seers among them. But once the stronger ones broke off, they started having a lot of squibs. Even the most magical among them now are fairly weak. They are a separate world, these days, none of them carry wands, as far as I know. Romany were always interested in magic you could do without wands."

"Yuri found work outside the village, on a farm. He left at dawn, and he did not get back until late. He kept the accounts for them, and he took the job because it paid well. Anyway, he eventually introduced himself to Stasi, found out she worked in the bookshop, and generally started spending too much of his time and too much of his money there, when he was not working, just to be near her. She was smart, capable, loving, beautiful, he thought. He wanted to be with her forever. After several months, he asked her to marry him. She told him she would, if he could give her what she wanted most. He couldn't think what it could be."

Viktor counted on his fingers as he continued, "One day he would come in with his money pouch, and tell her he could give her what she wanted, he could provide for her, he had a good job. She just shook her head. What she wanted could not be bought with the money in that bag. The next day, he would come in with his tools and pledge to build her a house, put a roof over her head. Same answer. Day after day, week after week, for months, he would have a meal with her and try to guess what it is she wanted. Flowers, fruit, candy, houses, land, money, he conjured pictures of children, a family, he even brought in a gazing crystal, to symbolize a future. All the same result. No, these were grand things, and she did want them, but it wasn't what she wanted him to provide most of all. 'You hold my heart, what else could you possibly want?' he asked her. 'Your heart is necessary, of course, but what I want is the secret to you keeping mine,' she told him. He offered her books, he offered to buy the shop for her, she loved books. She allowed she did, but that wasn't it, either."

"Finally, she offered to help him guess. 'If you can answer this riddle, you will know what I truly want. No man can buy it. No man can earn more of it. Its value cannot be fixed, even the largest amounts of it can be wasted and worthless, the smallest amounts precious beyond measure. Every man is equally rich in it, and spends it at the same rate, but some spend it more wisely than others. They trade it for treasures that cannot be bought.' He racked his brain for weeks. I did too. Mama told me the story and then refused to finish it until I had guessed."

Ron furrowed his brow and mumbled, "Every man is equally rich in it. Well, we know it's not money. No man can buy it or earn it, that also leaves out money. Spending, that sound like money too, but it can't be money. Viktor, you're not going to leave us hanging for weeks are you?"

"No, I promise to tell you if you give up," Viktor smiled at Hermione, who was whispering it to herself. Harry repeated the riddle over and over as well.

"Love maybe?" Harry guessed.

"No. The problem with that answer is that love can be earned. It should be earned. Anyone who thinks you cannot earn love has never taken up with an animal or a child. And love is never wasted or worthless. It always has worth to the one who gives it, even when the one receiving it does not value it. No, that was my first guess," Viktor grinned.

"Viktor, just how much time did you spend trying to figure this out?" Harry asked finally.

"Two weeks. She allowed me one guess a day, just like Yuri. When I figured it out, it seemed so simple I nearly kicked myself," Viktor replied.

"Time! That's it, it's time! You can't buy time, or earn it. You can waste a whole day, or spend a precious few seconds, depending on what you're doing!" Ron shouted suddenly.

"Exactly! He finally guessed it one day. 'Time. I thought about the riddle itself, and it is time. But I do not understand," he told her. 'That is the answer. No man can get more time, by buying or working for it. Time can be wasted at something that will not matter in a year, like earning an extra sickle, or it can be spent on a precious moment with someone that will live in your memory and keep you warm in your old age. Ask a drowning man how important a second is. Ask a lonely man how worthless an idle hour is. We all have only the present, we are guaranteed nothing else but that we spend our time at the same rate, both the pauper and the king. You can spend it keeping accounts because it pays well, or you can spend it keeping me because you love me. A fine house and land and money and children do me no good if you are not there to enjoy them with me,' she told him. He quit his job, had this inn built, purchased the land. They married and ran the inn together. Three children. They both lived to be quite old. When they died, they passed the inn on. It has always been in Mama's family. Mama got it when her grandfather passed it on. Just before she and Papa married," Viktor finished.

Ron pursed his lips. "That's a wonderful story, Viktor, but it still doesn't explain the inn name, does it?"

"You guessed the riddle, you mean to tell me you cannot guess where the name came from?" Viktor raised his eyebrows. "It was the one piece of information I left out."

"Her name," Hermione ventured. "You never told us her last name. You just called her Anastasia. If you can trace things back that far with records, you must know her last name," she turned her face to him.

"Anastasia Pavlova. He named it after her. He thought she deserved to keep her name alive in more than a book of records. Stasi, he called her. He recorded that story in a journal he kept. Mama still has it here somewhere, she copied it and preserved the original. Her parents had lived on the steppes, joined up with a Romany band that moved through when they had a drought, she liked Bulgaria and stayed behind when they went back. That journal taught me the grand total two words in ancient Romany that I know. Guerda Engelikos."

"What's it mean?" Harry asked.

"Harry, I haff not a clue. All I know is Yuri wrote down that Stasi said it each night when she put the children to bed. When he and she went to bed. He said it was a Romany charm. Nothing on what it was supposed to do. He said it was ancient, powerful and important, but he did not say how. He said they taught the children to never forget it, to call on it in their worst times of trouble. Said it kept the evil eye away, whatever that means. Maybe the information on it was in another journal that did not survive. Pity no one remembers back that far. A lot of the Romany language, the magic, was lost a long time ago. Like the Celts, " Viktor sighed.

"You two spend entirely too much time reading, I think," Ron mused.

"It is my past. Part of how I got here. If Yuri had not found Stasi, I would not be here. And I had a very demanding History of Magic professor at Durmstrang who was very keen on talking about lost magic. Every fifth lecture seemed to be about some tribe or nationality that lost all its wizards somehow. I think she tried to make the point about not marrying anything other than purebloods with it. She was decidedly against marriage to anyone with a Muggle in their family tree. Watered down the bloodlines, she thought. I guess she would rather the Druids had kept intermarrying until they were so inbred and addled they could not count the pillars at Stonehenge, much less design it," Viktor rolled his eyes.

"Your family seems pretty open minded and liberal, what's kept Muggles out of your family tree?" Harry asked, sprawling on the grass next to Ron to sun himself dry.

"I do not know that there are not any Muggles there. There may be, back before anyone can trace. Luck. Circumstance. Durmstrang was founded three hundred years before Hogwarts. A lot of opportunity to meet a potential mate there. They would certainly be another pureblood wizard, since that was a requirement. You would haff to go out of your way in years past to even meet a Muggle or a Muggle-born."

"Tradition too. Wizards tend to set up communities here, in Russia, most of the places Durmstrang receives students from. Maybe having a Romany ancestor helped. Romany people were persecuted, hated, even among some of their fellow wizards for some time. Even the non-magical ones were slaughtered. As little as fifty years ago. I suspect Stasi might have warned her children and grandchildren against making similar quick judgments. Papa's family, several of them worked in Muggle Affairs, once the Ministry felt the need to establish such a department. Like your papa, I think, they took a liking to Muggles. Papa's uncle worked with them. He said he came away from his job with a greater understanding of them," Viktor traced a pattern with his finger around Hermione's hand.

"How did Anya end up working with them?" Hermione captured his finger, ducked her head beneath his and looked up at him.

"Mama met Madame Korrina's sister on the ship to Durmstrang. They became close friends, they ended up in the same house. They spent holidays at one another's homes. When Mama graduated, Madame Korrina had a job in the museum, in the gift shop, while she went to university in Sofia, and she passed on that there was an opening there. They needed someone who could speak Russian, do translations, preservations. Mama loved reading old books. History. It was her dream job to get paid for it."

"But you said Madame Korrina was a Muggle, how did she end up in a pureblood wizard family?" Hermione tilted her head and pursed her lips.

"There used to be a Muggle village and a wizard village fairly close to one another, up in the mountains, a few days east. Giants. They wiped out most of the Muggle inhabitants. Worse in the wizard village. The Ministry sent wizards to clean up the mess, to relocate the inhabitants, put memory charms on the Muggles that survived. One of them was the man who was to become Madame Korrina's adoptive grandfather. They found her wandering around the village, by herself, about two years old. They could not find a family that claimed her, so they assumed all her relatives had been killed. Of course, they assumed that her relatives had been wizards. She must have wandered in from the Muggle village, though. It was already two days after the attack. She must have walked most of those two days. Braydon Korrina took her home with him. His son and the son's wife had no children then, so they agreed to raise her. They did not find out she was a Muggle until they had already fallen in love with her. So they moved to Sofia and blended in among the Muggles there. When Madame Korrina was eight, they had another daughter."

"No one complained? Gave them a hard time?" Harry asked.

"No. Braydon was a pretty powerful man. Very important. I think most people were afraid to say anything bad about his son raising a Muggle. Besides, how can you fault a man for having pity on a child? As long as she married a Muggle and went to school with Muggles, I do not think it bothered anyone."

"And just how can they be sure she was a Muggle!? How can they be so sure she wasn't born a... a squib! She could be as much a pureblood as her sister!" Hermione snapped indignantly.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "She is not a squib. For a start, purebloods supposedly do not breed squibs. A squib is supposed to be a throwback to a Muggle ancestor. I do not know if that is true, but there are enough other reasons to believe she is a Muggle. She never got a Durmstrang letter. Or a Hogwarts letter. Or a Beauxbatons letter. It is assumed that even if no one knew her birth name, the owl would still find her. Even squibs get invitations to school. Most convincing, though, she is aging like a Muggle," Viktor spoke gently, as though breaking a disappointment to a child.

"What do you mean, aging like one?" Harry wrinkled his nose.

"Aging like one. Even squibs do not age that way. Harry, you do not mean to tell me you do not know?" Viktor's mouth was slightly open. He looked stunned.

"Harry, wizards live longer. It's nearly unheard of for a wizard to die at anything less than a hundred and fifty if they die of natural causes. Nicholas Flamel, he was five hundred, but that was unnatural," Hermione informed him.

"A hundred and eighty is not out of the question. Madame Korrina, she is aging much faster than a witch would... " Viktor added.

Harry sat up, dumbfounded. "You mean...we...the lot of us...are probably going to live over a hundred years... more?"

"It's one of the reasons wizards and Muggles don't mix a lot, Harry. It's hard to explain to Muggles why you're still around after so long," Ron pointed out.

"Why doesn't anyone ever tell me these things?" Harry marveled.

"Because we assume you know. Or maybe that you've cracked a book," Hermione sniffed. "But then, wizards just seem to take it for granted. I don't remember reading much about it. Just a tidbit here and there," she finished.

"Getting cloudy. We had better go in. It looks like it is going to storm," Viktor squinted and surveyed the thick purplish clouds backing up over the mountains.

"Looks like regular old clouds to me. Same ones that have been there all week," Ron said.

"They are thick around the mountain. Low. Purple underneath, gray on the top. If it does not storm tonight, I will eat my wand. Besides, Ivan and Natasha want in. They haff been whining and haunting the door all day. They sense it coming. For such big strapping dogs, they do not like lightning very much. The sheep will be okay. Papa will probably put them in the barn."

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CHAPTER 19

"Oh, get down already you silly dog! Anyone would think you had never seen a storm before!" Viktor pushed Natasha's muzzle gently away from his chest. She had been practically in his lap before the clap of thunder finished. She whimpered and lay down next to Ivan on the hearth, and Viktor picked up the book he had been reading that Natasha had knocked out of his hands.

Ron moved the curtain back from the large window facing the mountains. "I've never seen one like it. I mean, the lightning's almost blue and it's sizzling around here like... like..."

"Like lightning?" Harry supplied.

"That is what happens in mountains full of lakes," Viktor murmured, shaking out the pages and smoothing them where they had bent against the floor. "Things back up and build up and scrape against one another. Then when the cooler air finally nudges things loose, this is what you get. You think this is bad, you should see some of the ones at Durmstrang. We get lightning sometimes during blizzards, even."

"How cold is it there, really?" Harry asked. He had gotten so used to Viktor in short sleeves, it was hard to picture him in those huge robes again.

"Depends. Some years, it gets cold starting in September. By mid-October, it's always cloaks outside when the sun is not out, sometimes inside by then. Last year we had an early blizzard. Freakish. A couple of weeks into September, just after the opening ball. The snow piled up to my waist. Usually it does not snow until December. It usually comes off by April though. May and June are always warm."

"You play Quidditch in cloaks?" Harry wondered.

"When it is cold enough. A couple of matches a year."

"The ship. What's that like?" Ron put the curtain back down.

Viktor looked over the cover of his book, silent for a moment. His eyes flicked to the window and another flash of lightning. "A little musty. It takes four people to make a crew. So we took shifts, usually fifth years and up. Karkaroff took a few of us on some trips during the year where we crewed for practice. When you leave for Durmstrang, you get on at a port up north, a small shipping town in Russia. There are small quarters on board, you have an assigned berth, we get on, sail out past a cliff, into a cove there, and a whirlpool opens up. From there, it is underwater until you get to the lake in front of the castle. Then you come up like we did at Hogwarts. Kind of leaky when you are not careful about making sure things are sealed. Last year, we flooded the bottom berths with four inches of water because some idiot did not check the cargo hold like he was supposed to. But I suppose I should thank that idiot, because it helped me solve my egg."

"You mean the one with the clue about the second task?" Harry remembered sitting in the bath with his shrieking egg, wondering how he was going to get any sense out of it.

"The ship listed a little during the day when we were gone, and the cargo hold door was loose. Water ran in, and when I got back from Snape's class, I had water in my room. I spent the whole night before looking through things from the library, trying to figure out what noise it was making and the thing made my head hurt when I tried to listen to it. Let us just say I was not haffing one of my more easygoing days already and coming in to wet ankles did not improve my mood," Viktor said, his mouth set.

Ron laughed, "You threw it, didn't you?"

Viktor ducked his head behind the book, but not before they saw him smile. "With pleasure. And great force. Alexei tells me I knocked a picture off his adjoining wall. Luckily it came open and fell in the water. It was almost worth the two hours we spent casting drying charms."

"Bit damp in here isn't it?" Hermione rubbed her shoulders and arms.

"Bit damp out there, Hermione," Ron countered.

"Incendio!" Viktor said, not looking up from his book, wand in his hand. The fireplace was so large that they actually felt a blast of hot air as the flames shot up. "She is cold," he explained when Anya looked up from her own book in surprise. "We hardly ever light that except in winter," Viktor explained again. Ivan and Natasha looked rather indignant and stalked away from the hearth to flank Viktor's chair, looking at Viktor as though reprimanding him for daring to light a fire behind them. "You need not look at me like that. You wanted in," he told them, shutting his book.

"What are you going to do when you get these two together with Crookshanks?" Ron got down off his chair and gave Natasha a scratch behind the ears.

"Oh, they like cats," Viktor said lightly.

"Really? They like cats?" Ron had to share his attentions with Ivan now, as he shoved his shaggy head under Ron's arm.

"To eat mostly," Viktor added darkly. Hermione nearly spilled her cup of milk.

"What!?" Hermione wheezed.

"Teasing," Viktor raised his hands, palms outward in a protestation of his innocence. "Unless Crookshanks suddenly turns man eating cat and takes a dislike to me, I think he is safe."

"I wouldn't put it past him..." Ron laughed as Natasha suddenly decided to lick enthusiastically behind his ear, nearly bowling him over.

********************************************************

CHAPTER 20

The rain went on through the evening, but the lightning stopped by twilight. Harry and Ron spent the most of it playing exploding snap. "Hah! Those went everywhere... Harry?"

"What do you think they're talking about? And what do you suppose they got him for his birthday? I couldn't stand to wait if they had already put it in my hand, could you?" Harry peered out the window to the porch, where they could see Viktor's dark head inclining toward Hermione's. There seemed to be a deep, serious conversation going on. All they could see of her above the window was her easily recognizable hair sticking up above the folds of one of Viktor's light cloaks. It was cool when the rain fell outside.

"Who knows? They've been at it a while. Maybe they're just saying goodbye," Ron said. They didn't come in until the sun had gone down completely and the only light was the moon. The four of them went to bed soon after.

Harry woke up and blinked out his window. The rain and the clouds had cleared, instead the bright moonlight flooded into his room. He must have fallen asleep with his mouth open, he thought, as he tested the confines of his mouth with his dry tongue. What he wouldn't give for a glass of milk. Well, why not? He got out of bed and sneaked downstairs as quietly as possible, feeling his way across to the kitchen. He checked the small icebox in the corner of the kitchen and found the milk, and tried three cupboards before finding a mug. Sometimes he missed having an electric refrigerator. Could use a light in there, he thought, poking about with your wand was awkward. He wandered around the kitchen and eventually to the back door, opening it and stepping out onto the porch, into the noise of dripping leaves in the orchard and frogs and crickets chirping.

The weathered and silvery boards were smooth and warm under his bare feet, the air warmer but fresh and clean and earthy, with just a hint of green grass, as though everything outside had been scrubbed. He would have shrieked if he hadn't had a mouthful of milk when Viktor's barely audible voice interrupted his survey of the night and the nighttime chorus in the yard, "Harry?" Viktor put a steadying hand on his shoulder when he jumped. "Sorry," Viktor said softly, "What are you doing up?"

"I could ask you the same thing. I just wanted some milk. You're out to drown me in it. It's a wonder I didn't inhale the mug. How did you know I was out here anyway?" Harry asked peevishly.

Viktor sat heavily in the same chair he had occupied earlier in the evening, next to Hermione. He was in his apparently customary sleeping attire, baggy shorts, and Harry idly wondered if Viktor ever got truly cold. "I sleep light, remember? I wondered where you were going at this hour, like you had an appointment," Viktor replied, sounding a little exasperated. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. "Harry, we need to talk, anyway."

"For the last time, Viktor, there's nothing between me and Hermione," Harry teased. Viktor acted as though he hadn't heard, clearing his throat.

"I owe you an explanation."

"I don't like the sound of this."

"Too bad. You need to know. As much of it as I know, what little that is. I think you need to know. Keeping secrets has caused enough damage all around, I think. Hermione agreed. In theory, anyway, since she does not know exactly what I am going to tell you. She seems to think that had you been told a few things in years past, you could haff been saved a lot of trouble. Since it concerns you the most, I think you deserve to hear it first," Viktor continued in a slightly hoarse voice. He sounded like he could use a mug of milk.

"Okay. Midnight confessions. Round one. What is it you have to tell me?" Harry settled into the chair next to him. He noticed Viktor's hands tightening on the arms of his own chair, as though he were steeling himself for a blow.

"The maze. What happened there. What Karkaroff did for the two years before, or what I think he did. Why I think he did it. Why I could not keep Crouch at bay when he did the Imperius Curse when I should haff been able," Viktor spoke without looking at Harry. When he did turn to look Harry in the eye, Harry almost wished he hadn't. Viktor could be intimidating in the best of circumstances. With his dark, piercing eyes catching the moonlight, Harry felt skewered on his gaze. And there was something else. Viktor looked haunted, oddly out of character. It gave him the same creeping feeling he had when Albus Dumbledore was not his usual twinkling self. When Dumbledore showed rage or that glimmer of triumph. Or that look of defeat.

Viktor swallowed hard. He took a deep breath and began. "I always had this... feeling... about Karkaroff. That something just was not right. I had no real reason to distrust him, except for the way he treated Alexei and anyone else he took a dislike to, like your Snape, until a little over two years ago. That is when the rumors started. Talk of dark marks. Death Eaters. Some of the students pulling away into groups. Ministry...demonstrations. I think Karkaroff suspected even then...that I had a talent for certain... areas. I think he was starting to feel us out, sift through us. See which of us demonstrated skill at certain things. Which ones it would be worthwhile to pursue." He told Harry everything he could stand to reveal without going into unnecessary detail. The voice. The illnesses. The maze. How demonstrating skill at certain things in Durmstrang was a double-edged sword as long as Karkaroff was there.

"You were playing half-crippled, then, if you were constantly doing two things at once, trying to fight Karkaroff. That explains why you fell behind. Otherwise, you should have been able to thoroughly whip at least me and Fleur. You whipped Fleur anyway. Cedric might have given you a run for your money, but you could have pulled well away if it hadn't been for that. That, and the fact that the Triwizard Tournament is about as random a cheatfest as I've ever seen. Crouch feeding me hints, it's the only way I managed to stay with competitors who were three years older. So, you think Karkaroff wanted to buy his way back in?" Harry asked when Viktor finally paused.

"I think so. It makes sense. He turned them in. He would do anything to save his own skin. Getting back into their good graces, it is the only way he will survive. Crouch hated him. Would haff killed him given a chance, I think. I do not imagine that the rest of the Death Eaters would welcome him with open arms. I think delivering something of value, that is the only way he can do it," Viktor commented.

"And you would be something of value. You're good at something they want?"

"I am good at things I wish I did not know about. I would probably be better off. Some of the others, too. At Hogwarts, maybe they would be encouraged to be Aurors, mediwizards, potion masters. You would be something of value, too. Karkaroff may have tried it, if Crouch had not beaten him to it. If he had not been so afraid of what he thought was Moody. He may still. He is desperate. I should haff trusted Hermione's judgment better. She trusted Dumbledore, I should haff too," Viktor's shoulders fell.

"No. Viktor, you were right. You didn't know who you could trust at Hogwarts, based on what you knew. There is an ex-Death Eater on campus. Snape. You never know who to trust at Hogwarts, either. And I owe you an explanation. Hermione, Ron and I are the only ones at Hogwarts who know about this, outside of Dumbledore. Let me tell you about my godfather, and what happened on the other end of the portkey in the maze..." Harry began, feeling the need to reciprocate. He knew how hard it must have been for someone as private as Viktor to share what Karkaroff had done to him. What he was doing to Durmstrang.

*******************************************************

CHAPTER 21

"So, Pettigrew, he was really responsible? He is still alive? And Voldemort has a body..." Viktor's voice had resumed its usual strength.

"Yes...Viktor, you said his name! Dumbledore is just about the only other person I've heard use his name out loud... Everyone else calls him You-Know-Who."

"Voldemort? If you're afraid to give a thing a name, how on earth are you ever supposed to be brave enough to fight it? If you're afraid to speak something out loud because you think that makes it real, you are fooling yourself. Pettigrew. An animagus. A traitor. A rat. How appropriate." Viktor bit his lower lip gently with his teeth.

"Yes. He was hiding with Ron's family the whole time. That fool Fudge wouldn't know a blatant truth if it danced on his head and sang the national anthem. Wouldn't take the word of a bunch of kids. Sirius is still in hiding. All we get are letters to each other. Actually, I was a little surprised when he wrote me back and told me to go on this trip and have a good time. He was a lot suspicious of you last year. Rode me for going off into the woods with you alone," Harry summed up.

"There you go, then. See what secrets do? It is mutual. I would not haff trusted Sirius Black. Wanted murderer, dangerous criminal. Half the wizard world would probably kill him on sight, call the authorities second. I would not trust me either, if I were you. You were a fool to go into the woods with me, I was a fool for watching where you were going instead of watching my back. Couple of fools, and we paid for it, did we not? Well, that casts a new light on things. Definitely. Much better not to be fed fairy tales," Viktor was rubbing his chin as he spoke.

"If it makes any difference, I trusted you before that. You were alright. Now, I trust you as much as anyone I trust at Hogwarts. It took a lot of courage for you to tell us about your sister. It took a lot of courage for you to tell me what you just did. Dumbledore would have let me fumble around in the dark for months and made me figure it out on my own, most likely. Sometimes I feel like he's playing charades with me, and not giving any hints until I've already guessed the answer. Learning experience, and all that. Still, I trust you as much as Dumbledore," Harry said tentatively.

"Why, since that is not the half of what I should probably tell you?" Viktor asked.

"Because, it's obvious you love Hermione. Really love her. Hagrid once said that real dark wizards didn't care for anyone but themselves, no love for anyone else. You couldn't be too dark if you spotted the good in a girl that even her two best friends had missed. And you're... honorable. Hermione's no fool. She would be careful who she gives her heart to. And I don't know if you've noticed, but I believe she's handed it over."

Viktor snorted softly, a noise that seemed to say he couldn't believe his luck. "I will do my best to merit it, then. I had a feeling about her, too."

******************************************************

Chapter 22

"So what did you get?" Ron asked as he finished his muffin and stuffed a stray sock into his bag.

"Get?" Viktor looked puzzled.

"For your birthday! Sheesh! You really aren't any good at this wild eyed birthday greed, are you? You mean to tell me you still haven't opened it?" Ron rumpled his own hair in his frustration.

"Yesterday was not my birthday. If it will make you happy, I will open it when we get there," Viktor grumbled as he trudged back up the steps to fetch the small package his mother had handed him the previous rainy evening at dinner. Harry was sure he and Ron were much more curious about what might be inside it than Viktor. He seemed rather indifferent.

"Come on, then. Stoatshead portkey will not wait all day and The Burrow is not getting to be a shorter walk," Viktor lectured. After much making over from Anya and Nikolas and many goodbyes, they bundled themselves out to the hill overlooking The Pavlova. They reused the knobby old tire they had traveled with from Sofia on that first day. Coming to an unsteady stop, they collected themselves at the top of Stoatshead Hill.

"C'mon! Open it already!" Ron shook Viktor's elbow.

"I'm getting curious too, Viktor," Hermione added.

He took the small box from his robe pocket and untied the ribbon almost reverently. This he folded and tucked back into the pocket. He peeled the paper open at the end flap, and slid the wrapping paper off in a neat packet, which he flattened and returned to the same pocket. A hinged box lay in his palm, and he considered it a moment before prying the top open.

In the box was a small locket on a chain. He removed it and balanced it on his fingers for a second, studying the back. "Guerda Engelikos," Viktor read the cyrillic script aloud, then rested it in his palm, gold chain spilling over his cupped fingers. After a bit, he tapped he small locket lightly with his wand. It opened to reveal four tiny portraits, one on the inside lid, one each side of the middle hinged leaf, and one on the inside back. Nicholas, Anya, Viktor and Violeta as a girl of about two.

He prodded it gently with the tip of the wand again, and the corners of his mouth turned up subtly when the strains of an orchestra came out of nowhere. Not nowhere exactly, but from the locket. "Isn't that...?" Hermione began.

"Nutcracker Suite, Waltz of the Flowers. Tchaikovsky," Viktor finished for her.

"I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation, but I couldn't guess," Ron said.

"I had no idea they even really remembered telling me the story in the first place, it has been years," Viktor said quietly, flipping the locket back over to run a finger over the inscription. "The music, there are two perfectly logical explanations. Papa listens to a lot of Tchaikovsky. Nearly every Christmas holiday, we would go to St. Petersburg and see the Nutcracker Suite. And they danced to it, late at night when I was supposed to be in bed. I used to lie at the top of the stairs and watch them through the banister sometimes. I fell asleep once with my head on the second step. I wonder if they ever knew about that. Oh, they danced to other things, but it was almost always that one, sooner or later." He pressed the small locket closed lightly between two fingers, then put it around his neck and tucked it into the neck of his robe.

"Curiosity satisfied?" Viktor asked as he raised his eyebrows at Ron.

"For now," Ron replied. "Okay, Burrow's that way. All downhill from here." They set off down the hill toward the burrow, soon reaching the door and hearing the usual bustle of various Weasleys inside.

"I still wish you would let me give it a trim, dear. I don't know why Gringott's lets you go to work with that earring, and your hair all silly," Mrs. Weasley was scolding.

"Hey, Bill's here, then." Ron tossed his bag down by the door, and he, Harry and Hermione walked into the Burrow and the kitchen, where Bill was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, completely ignoring his mother's critique of his dressing style while perusing the Daily Prophet. Viktor hung back near the entrance to the kitchen. Ginny was busy putting dishes on the counter, readying to set the table, and Mrs. Weasley was banging away in several pots and pans.

Bill glanced up from his tea. "Oi, Harry, Ron, Hermione! How was your summer then? Come here, tell us all about it and save me from Mum's attempts to remake my image, already. She'll have me in one of those three piece Muggle suits by the time I get out of the kitchen if I'm not careful. Oh, and hullo there! Viktor Krum! Mum didn't tell me you were escorting these three home," Bill added, noticing Viktor for the first time.

"Now, Bill! I did too! And who did you think the birthday cake was for?" Mrs. Weasley interjected.

"Oh, one of my many siblings, probably. I thought maybe I had forgotten one, Mum. It's too hard to keep track. And how was I to be expected to know it was Viktor's birthday?" Bill said cheekily.

"Bill! I distinctly told you! Honestly, you would think you don't hear a word I say. Don't mind him, dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled at Viktor.

"Must have been in the middle of all that haircut, earring, and clothes talk. I listened to the games on the wireless. Sounded like they were real crackers. As good as the World Cup. You were incredible in all of them," Bill said, shaking Viktor's hand.

"Thank you," Viktor replied. Just then Fred and George came running through the kitchen.

"Mum, we're just off to the shed... oh, hullo, you lot... George here thinks he may have the solution to our Exploding Quills going off prematurely!" Fred yelled as they tramped through.

"You boys be back here in time for lunch! And you could at least..." Mrs. Weasley shrieked after them.

"...properly greet our guests, we know. Viktor, you were fab in the games, don't say a word about them until we get back and can listen to the blow by blow. You won us a fair bit in that Wales game when we took a flutter ... oops!" Realizing his error in mentioning betting, George managed to streak out the back door before his mother started her tirade.

"Gambling! Those boys are going to be the death of me yet, and we're not going to have two planks of the garden shed standing if they don't stop cooking up their jokes out there!" She sat the pan she was stirring on the counter a little harder than necessary.

"I don't suppose I would be wrong in guessing that it's our twins that are going to be the death of you, and not any of the rest of them, Molly?" Mr. Weasley walked in from the back garden. "Oh, hello there, Viktor, it's nice to finally meet you in person! I really enjoyed watching you in last year's World Cup. Arthur Weasley." Arthur offered his hand.

"Nice to meet you," Viktor replied.

"Mum, Viktor's got longish hair, you won't be harassing him for a trim the entire time he's here, will you?" Bill piped up, pointing a finger in an exaggerated accusation at the back of Viktor's head.

"Bill! Will you let that drop! Course not dear, Viktor's is nowhere near as long as yours. Viktor, don't you mind the lot of them, I don't know why I bother. Why don't you and Hermione go out in the garden and arrange the tables? Hermione knows where they are, and I thought we would eat out today, since it's so nice," Mrs. Weasley said. Viktor looked the tiniest bit relieved at the prospect of getting out of the noisy kitchen. He wasn't particularly fond of crowds, Hermione knew, and the Weasleys were definitely a noisy crowd.

"Funny, I tried asking her to let it drop several times, and it didn't work. Maybe I didn't hold my tongue just right," Bill laughed. Viktor returned a slight smile, then followed Hermione out the door.

Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue and looked after them. "Dreadfully shy thing, isn't he? Barely said two words the entire time he was in here. But then the rest of you didn't exactly give him a chance to get a word in edgewise."

"More like quiet, Mum. He just doesn't say anything unless he has good reason to. I imagine he's not used to the kitchen being busier than the train station and twice as noisy. His family isn't a constant three ring circus like our crew. Nikolas was probably the most talkative of the lot, and he didn't exactly talk our ears off. Could be because of all the translating back and forth, but he was still friendly enough," Ron said.

"Did you say Nikolas? Nikolas Krum?" Bill interrupted.

"Well, it's his dad, so yeah, I suppose he would be Nikolas Krum, Bill. Fathers do often share a last name with their son," Ron shot back.

"Mind your cheek, Ron. Hmmm, well I suppose that probably would be him, then," Bill said to himself, rubbing his chin.

"Him who?" Ron wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

"Fella I work with, Lestrev, he's got a picture of his first crew that he showed to me. Viktor look quite a lot like his dad?"

"Sure. Dark hair, black, dark eyes, he got the nose from him, tall and built rather like him, too. Surely you saw them at Hogwarts last year?" Ron responded.

"Not really. And I wasn't working with Lestrev then. I suppose it's Viktor's dad, then, in the picture. Lestrev isn't a big one for Quidditch, doesn't really follow sport, but he saw Viktor's picture on a Quidditch magazine I was reading and asked if he might be any relation to Nikolas Krum, maybe his son. Told him I had no idea what Viktor's dad's name might be. Lestrev seemed to think it a little unlikely that Nikolas would have a son in such a ... a public job. But with that longer hair and the way he's filled out a bit since last year, he looks remarkably like his dad in that picture. Suppose he would be about the same age by now, too."

"Why so unlikely, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, putting the potato salad in a bowl.

"Now, Mum, if I tell this, you have to promise not to shriek 'poor baby' and go running out there in the garden and tackling him while you squall," Bill warned. He took a deep breath. "I don't suppose I should really tell this, but... Nikolas had to deal with a family tragedy several years ago. Quit his job and never came back."

"Viktor's mum getting hurt in a Death Eater attack. His sister dying in the same attack. In Russia. He's told us. His dad quit his job to stay home with his mum," Ron said.

"What about him?"

"Viktor's dad?"

"No. Viktor."

"What about him?"

"Lestrev seemed to think Nikolas quit as much to be with his son as he did to be with his wife. Considering the circumstances, if Lestrev heard right, I suppose it would be. I mean, I can't imagine. Nikolas rather dropped out of sight after that. They lost touch really. By the time it happened, they were on different crews, but they were still friendly, saw each other occasionally before that."

"Huh? What are you getting at, Bill?"

"It's got to be hard to see something like that happen, much less to someone you know. You see..."

"I was there. I saw," Viktor supplied from the doorway. "What is it with you Weasleys? Every time I leave a room and come back, I seem to walk in on a conversation about me," Viktor said, not unkindly.

"I'm sorry. It really was none of our business, but I work with a former colleague of your dad's. Lestrev. He seems to think pretty highly of your father. Says Nikolas Krum is a bit of a living legend around Gringott's. For being the only coworker that crusty old Lestrev ever got on with completely, if for nothing else."

"Enormous blonde man with a perhaps overbearing fondness for black pudding, mulled wine... and a limp... and a walrus mustache?" Viktor asked in a lighter tone.

"That's the one. I can't imagine two people of that description ever working at Gringott's," Bill nodded.

"Papa has some pictures of him and I think I met him once or twice at Gringott's. He has not gotten anything else chewed on by a dragon?"

"Miraculously, no. But not for his lack of trying. You would think a man three toes down would learn his lesson and be more careful about where he camps. But no, he's still as oblivious to signs of dragons as a garden gnome with his head in a bucket. He was lucky it was only a young one that got at him the first time, not the mother. Nobody on his team with a lick of sense lets him set up camp anymore. Lestrev hasn't exactly followed Quidditch much, but he saw your picture on my Quidditch mag and asked me if you might be the son of Nikolas Krum. He told me what happened when he was telling me about your dad."

"Why didn't you say you were there, Viktor?" Ron asked.

"I did not think it that important. My sister. My mother, they were important, " Viktor said softly as he slid into a chair at the table and spread his hands, rubbing his palms over the wood. How could I? What good would it do? How exactly do you tell someone that you've seen what Hell must look like, stood ankle deep in it, waded through it, still see it? It was why he didn't press Harry for many details about what happened at the end of the maze. Death did not improve in the retelling, in the reviewing. Some things defy your ability to describe them. And what point is there to sharing what you can't describe? Turning it into useless noise?

"Has she recovered? Lestrev said the last he heard, she was still in for a long road and Nikolas had given notice at Gringott's that he wouldn't be coming back. After that, Lestrev got reassigned to Egypt..." Bill asked the question gently.

"She was very lucky," Viktor mouthed carefully, considering his hands. "It crushed her pelvis and her legs, but she relearned how to walk after she healed. To look at her now, you would never know." Not entirely true. He could just about convince himself of that, if he forgot the way she still winced when she stood too long, or walked up stairs. He and Papa were probably the only ones who noticed. She hid it well. The weakness in her legs. She had never picked him up again. He had grown so much that she couldn't lift him by the time she recovered enough to try it. She still didn't know that he had heard her crying about it that night.

"Lestrev said they got transported to a Muggle hospital first... that your sister might have..." Bill began, but Viktor stopped him with the slow shake of his head.

"No. He does not think that anymore. It would not haff mattered. Muggle or wizard. No one can bring back the dead," Viktor was barely audible, but his voice betrayed a quiet strength. His voice commanded attention without demanding it, much like his father's. It had taken Papa a while to shake that one last 'If only....' No one can bring back the dead. No one can bring back the dead, he had finally told Viktor. For once, the collective Weasleys inhabiting the kitchen were completely silent.

"Where... where were you? When it happened?" Hermione asked, standing behind Viktor's chair, gripping the back.

"Across the street. We went to a cafe to wait for them. Luck. Circumstance. Three buildings up, five down. We were in one of the three. They were in one of the five. Not so much as a scratch," he said, holding out his arms and turning them over, as though looking for a sign of injury even now. Not a scratch. On the outside, at least, he added in his head. The inside was another story entirely.

"I'm sorry Viktor. Lestrev will be glad to hear that your parents are doing well, though, if I can pass that on?" Bill inquired.

"Yes. You can pass that on. They are well. Tell him, believe it or not, Papa keeps sheep now, as more than a pastime. And Mama went back to her job at the museum. And tell him their son might graduate before he is twenty, if he can get through the rest of his studies without an excuse to avoid his exit exams, but he is still not interested in working with Lestrev. I value my toes too much," Viktor finished with a sly smile.

Bill laughed and the tension was broken. Ginny had been on the verge of tears, and Hermione thought she would also become a sobbing mess in short order as well if Ginny so much as sniffled. Mrs. Weasley was determinedly dabbing at her eyes with the corners of her apron. Hermione marveled that Mrs. Weasley had been able to restrain herself from falling on Viktor's neck and sobbing, much less that she was now on her way to dry eyes.

"Now if we don't get out there and start eating soon, we'll still be at it at midnight. Ginny, set the tables, Bill you fetch the salads, everyone carry something and that should take care of it in one go," Mrs. Weasley directed, regaining control of herself. They shifted and grabbed bowls and platters, filing into the back garden and sitting down. Thinking back to last year, Harry recognized the two tables they were using. Bill and Charlie had levitated them with their wands and had a duel with them. He doubted Hermione and Viktor had done anything half as silly when they had set the tables out in the garden.

They passed a pleasant lunch, and Mrs. Weasley actually managed to coax a few sentences out of Viktor. Hermione could tell, though, that Mrs. Weasley was duly impressed with his direct, simple answers, and his respectful attitude. Her own parents had been quite taken with him for the same reason. Arthur, of course, was more interesting in talking Quidditch, as were the rest of the Weasley men. Viktor carefully avoided talking about himself too much, often steering the conversation back to a particular team as a whole, or praising another player's abilities.

"Harry here is quite the seeker, himself, considering he never played the game before Hogwarts," Mr. Weasley said.

"I know. I heard plenty of stories. And I saw him fly once. It is not every seeker that can win a game by catching the snitch in his mouth," Viktor replied.

"That was an accident," Harry piped up, blushing.

"Accident or no, you still had to really be flying. I do not recall catching anything in my mouth during a game except a bug or an elbow," Viktor protested with a smile.

Harry laughed. I wish I had told him the rest of it, that Sirius is an animagus, too, Harry found himself thinking. It would be kind of nice for someone other than the three of us to know that as well. Maybe it will be kind of nice to go to the opening ball and see what Durmstrang looks like, too. Meet some other students there.

Viktor had to protest for all that he was worth to resist Mrs. Weasley's invitations to stay. "I really haff to go. I haff to be at an appointment tomorrow, a team meeting soon after, and then school. We start a week earlier than Hogwarts this year. By the way, I found out the opening ball will be the first Saturday in the Hogwarts year. Dumbledore already gave his permission. I will take care of the rest. Besides, I promised Mama I would be back. I suspect I might be hauled off to St. Petersburg tonight for a concert," he said with a little smile.

"Well, you're more than welcome to come visit any time you like. And if Dumbledore doesn't have a problem with the three of them going, I don't suppose I can find one either. Bye bye, dear," Mrs. Weasley told him.

Ron, Harry and Hermione walked him out the front door and onto the lawn, silent for a moment. "Thanks for the invite, Viktor, I had a really great time," Ron finally volunteered.

"Yeah. The games, they were fabulous. After an entire summer away, I was beginning to miss it. The Dursleys don't exactly let me follow the sport," Harry added.

"C'mon Harry, let's go see what Fred and George are up to," Ron said, jerking his head toward the Burrow.

"Oh. Yeah. Fred and George. Right. Well, goodbye, then, Viktor," Harry called.

"Goodbye. You are welcome. And thank you, I enjoyed having the company," Viktor replied. I enjoyed having the company. That was a foreign phrase in more ways than one, Viktor thought to himself.

"Well, then..." Hermione began, and trailed off.

"Well, then. I would like to kiss you goodbye, but I think we haff far worse to worry about than Rita Skeeter, this time," Viktor said quietly, as he inclined his head subtly toward the house. Hermione looked quickly over her shoulder and saw Fred and George gawping out one window, Harry and Ron trying to drag them away. In another, Mrs. Weasley was peering out from between the curtains with what just might be Ginny's head below hers. "I think Mrs. Weasley would be less charitable if I kissed you the way I wish to, I think she would haff my head," he added, as she turned back and suppressed a laugh.

"Oh, surely not. Although, she did think I was a scarlet woman, last year until Harry told her differently," Hermione murmured.

"Nothing wrong with scarlet. Bulgarian team colors. Durmstrang robes. Maybe I like that color," he said with a grin, remembering what Hermione had told him about her experiences after the Rita Skeeter articles. "Would you settle for a remarkably restrained kiss on the cheek?" he asked softly.

"I would. But only as downpayment until I see you again. At the ball. I think my parents will say yes, since Harry and Ron will go."

He nodded silently, then placed a curled finger beneath her chin. He tilted it upward slightly, then bent and placed a quick kiss on her left cheek. "Until then, Sokrovishte," he whispered near her ear before straightening.

"Until then, Viktor," she whispered back. He took a couple of steps back, pulled out his wand, and disapparated with a small pop. She found herself missing him already.

*************************************************************

CHAPTER 23

"This one?" Hermione asked, holding up a light silver cloak.

"That one. That one's beautiful. And it goes with the dress robes. And your barrette," Ginny said after some consideration.

"This one," Hermione said, handing the cloak to the witch behind the counter. "And the cat-shaped clasp," she added, handing them over as well. The cat stretched and purred quietly as the witch rang up her purchases.

"You'll look great. I wish I could go. It all sounds so nice. It's not fair that Ron gets to do everything," Ginny pouted.

"Oh, Ginny, I wish you could too, but there will be plenty of balls. And Viktor would have had quite a job getting one more head in. He had a hard enough time convincing them about Ron, if it makes you feel any better. Harry he managed to slip in on the grounds that he was a fellow Triwizard Tournament champion. He got them to let me come based on my being his Yule Ball partner. They were a little confused as to why he wanted Ron there. I think they had a hard time believing he just wanted to invite a friend. From what he wrote, he had to throw a bit of an 'after all I've done for this school the least you can do is let me have three guests before I leave' fit before the board of governors would give in on all three of us. They're very secretive at Durmstrang."

"Are you sure it's safe? I mean, they learn the Dark Arts there..." Ginny began uncertainly.

"Viktor promised that we would be safe. He doesn't seem the type to promise that sort of thing without being sure. And Professor Dumbledore gave his permission. He wouldn't have done that if there were any undue danger." She had been greatly surprised when Sirius had also given his blessing to not only the trip to Bulgaria, but the trip to Durmstrang. Maybe he had deferred to Professor Dumbledore's judgment. Who knew what he based his permission on? "It's not as though Hogwarts has exactly been safe these last few years, either," she added.

"True. So... are you going to waltz again?" Ginny asked.

Hermione colored slightly. "I suppose we will. We had better get back down the street and get the rest of our school things," she said curtly.

The rest of the stay with the Weasleys and the trip on the Hogwarts Express was unremarkable. Quiet even. Until the door opened and Malfoy poked his blonde head inside, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. "So... I hear Weasel here actually got to sit in a box at a Quidditch match again. I wonder which of your siblings you had to sell to afford a ticket there?" he sniffed.

"For your information, I was a guest of someone," Ron replied airily.

"And who on earth would have taken pity on you and invited you to the box? Don't tell me the Minister of Magic is taking on more charity cases?" Malfoy drawled.

"No. Viktor Krum invited us," Ron said.

Malfoy's already pale face paled even more. He stammered for a moment, then asked, "And why would he have invited you three?"

"Because. He likes us. Unlike some other people, he has taste," Harry interjected.

Malfoy was so stunned, he left with a halfhearted, "I can't say I care for his taste in guests," thrown over his shoulder.

Hermione finally allowed herself to laugh when Malfoy was out of earshot, and Ron and Harry stared at her, puzzled. "I'm sorry. It's just... well, Viktor wrote earlier in the summer and said that Malfoy was still trying to cozy up to him, as Ron puts it. Malfoy's father tried most of the summer to get them seats in the box we were in. Angled with the Bulgarian Minister, and with Viktor. Lucius Malfoy apparently tried writing to Viktor and using the 'I knew your headmaster very well' ploy, thinking Viktor would do him the favor. Viktor told them he already had the seats in his box filled, and he contacted the Bulgarian Minister and asked him for his own favor. Namely, keeping the Malfoys out of his box."

"Really? Wow, no wonder ole Malfoy is green then. But according to Poliakoff, Viktor already told Draco off once," Ron replied.

"True. But Malfoy just can't believe that his wealth and power and his family name wouldn't open more doors than our friendship. See, he thinks Viktor's like him. In it only for what he can get. Probably thinks Viktor would have come to his senses over the summer and tossed the mudblood and her friends," Hermione said softly. "Can't wait to see how he reacts when he find out we're going to the opening ball at Durmstrang as Viktor's guests. I was half tempted to tell him, if I weren't afraid his head would explode," she added. She looked out the window and recalled Viktor's last letter. The letter in which he had told her what he had shared with Harry on the porch that night. No wonder he wanted away from Durmstrang. He still hadn't told her exactly what his plans were, though.

*************************************************************

CHAPTER 24 (submitted)

"Hagrid, are you sure this is far enough outside for the portkey to work?" Harry called.

"Fer sure. Now you three be careful... no tellin' what some o' them students at Durmstrang might be up ter...I don't hold wi' some o' them foreigners..."

"We will, Hagrid. We will," Harry assured him. It was nearly evening already, on Friday, and the three of them were eager to take the portkey to the as yet undisclosed location near Durmstrang's grounds. Each one of them had a small pack that would serve as a sort of overnight bag, their dress robes and cloaks carefully stored inside with some other clothes. Mrs. Weasley had even insisted that Ron take the new dress robes he had worn to the Quidditch reception, though Harry couldn't imagine how the Weasleys had managed to find the money for such a thing. Of course, Ron had managed to outgrow the hideous dress robes he had worn to last year's Yule Ball, maybe it was out of necessity.

"Well, here then," Hagrid said, handing Harry an old tin can that had once held soup. "Couple o' minutes, and this thing leaves. I'll meet yeh back here this time Sunday," he added.

Soon they felt the familiar jerk behind their navels, and they staggered to a stop in a dark, damp spot. "Where are we exactly?" Ron wondered aloud, gathering himself from the ground again. "It's dark as a cave..."

"It is a cave. I am sorry it had to be here, but it could not be in the open. If I did it anywhere else, they promised to revoke the invitation," came a familiar voice from a few feet away. "Lumos." As the wand burst into a beam of light, they could finally make out Viktor's form against a gray shelf of rock.

"The board of governors?" Hermione asked, readjusting her pack.

"The board of governors. You would think I had offered to host a rabid goblin convention, not invited three people," Viktor complained. "Around this bend, there is the entrance. Then a quick walk to the grounds. I would have preferred the edge of the forest, myself." They followed Viktor's lead and stepped out into the bright sunshine. They found themselves a little surprised at how green and lush everything was. Hermione had half expected frost and nothing but brown, but there was thick green grass, several varieties of wildflowers, a rich and varied stand of trees, there was the sound of what could be a brook or river somewhere in the distance, and the land rolled pleasantly in every direction. The sun was shining and a warm breeze lifted their hair.

As they walked, the sounds of running water could be heard more clearly. After a few minutes, they rounded a low hill, and were confronted with a small pool and a cascade of water pouring from a sizable waterfall, some twenty feet. Viktor walked up to the edge of the pool, placed his hands together, fanned his fingers and plunged them into the side of the curtain of water. He spoke a word, then abruptly parted his hands. To their surprise, the curtain of water parted as well, into two thin layers, as though bent by his hands. It continued to run into the pool as though its flow had never been interrupted.

He then stepped out onto the wet rock beneath the flow of the waterfall, the twin falls of water passing over him, touched only by a slight mist. He walked out to the middle of the falls, then turned back toward the wall of rock and repeated the procedure, also parting the back curtain of water. He then murmured what they presumed to be the password while rapping on the rock three times. A grating noise told them that rock was scraping against rock. He beckoned to them since he would be unheard over the roar of the water. Behind the open rock, a rushing column of water roared by, foaming and swirling. "We have to step into it! Do you want to go one at a time? Once you arrive, you just swim to the surface and wait!" Viktor yelled into Hermione's ear. She shook her head, so he grasped her hand and pulled her aside. "Harry, Ron? Step in or take a hand! I haff to go last either way, the gate closes once the person who opened it goes through!"

Ron and Harry clamped on to the chain, Harry at the head. "Just step forward into it!" Viktor instructed.

Harry took a deep breath and stepped forward, into the rushing column of water. To his great surprise, he remained completely dry, but was sucked upwards, against the current, instead of down. Behind him, he could feel Ron's hand, and he presumed that Hermione and Viktor trailed behind them. There was not nearly as much whirling as was involved when traveling by Floo Powder, in fact, it was rather pleasant, except for the roar and the breakneck speed at which they were hurtling along. After a few minutes, they began to slow considerably, and the roar dulled. They were nudged gently into a clear, still pool of water, apparently very deep. Harry found he could still breathe as easily as before.

"Now, hurry, you haff to get to the surface pretty quickly. Straight up," Viktor said, pointing with his free hand and kicking toward the surface, where the sunlight was filtering through, interrupted by only one large shadow. They all broke through in a few moments, and Harry realized that the shadow he had seen was the Durmstrang ship tied to the dock. Sitting in the sunshine, it didn't look nearly as ghostly as it had when Viktor and the rest had arrived at Hogwarts aboard the great hulk. But it still looked as though it could not possibly be seaworthy, by rights it should be sitting at the bottom, with its leaky looking hull and spiny, skeletal masts.

Viktor let go of Hermione's hand to pull himself up onto the dock. Viktor stepped out of the lake bone dry, but the rest felt a sudden rush of cool water soaking their robes the instant he left the lake. He offered a hand to each in turn and pulled them up as well. "Well, that was interesting," Ron breathed after setting foot on the deck, dripping everywhere. "What happens if the wrong person gets in there?"

Viktor stuck a hand back into the lake and brought it up dripping. "They drown if they do not get out in time. Once you get in, you must know where you are going, you haff to know about Durmstrang to get there. Haff some concept of it in your mind. Else it just shuttles you along forever and never lets you out anywhere. If by some miracle the wrong person managed to open that door, make it through the portal and get into the lake, they would probably still drown. It is a long way down. If not, they would be lunch," Viktor said, shaking the droplets off his hand.

"Lunch?" Ron asked as Viktor fished out his wand and cast drying charms at the three of them, leaving them as dry as himself.

"Lunch," Viktor replied simply. He turned to the other side of the dock, cupped his hands around his mouth, and whistled sharply. For a few moments, nothing happened, then the water around the dock directly in front of Viktor's feet began to bubble and churn. A great scaly head, dragonlike in appearance broke through the water, snorting steamy mist. The creature had large webbed front claws that paddled lazily below the surface as it treaded water, and its large flexible lips peeled back from a mouth full of sharp and uneven teeth that could easily have crushed a full grown man. The head alone rather dwarfed Viktor, big as he was. Right in the middle of the thing's forehead, resided an unblinking third eye, golden where the others were green. Viktor crossed his arms and stood as though waiting to be addressed. Ron, Harry and Hermione scrambled backwards and nearly stepped back off the dock, they were so startled.

The creature snorted loudly, the hot breath from its nostrils blasting Viktor's loose robe straight back, rippling the folds in his pants, as though in a stiff wind. It regarded them all for a moment in silence, and the three half expected to be eaten in turn. "English please," Viktor piped up into the silence. Hope he doesn't mean 'Try the English cuisine first, please' Harry thought to himself.

"English, eh? One of my newer tongues. You belong here on these grounds, though you will be nothing more than a visitor soon, that much is certain. These three, I smell the foreignness on them, they do not belong here at Durmstrang. If you had not called soon I would have come to investigate, perhaps even on land though I rarely venture there any more, for they smell particularly tasty... friend or foe... am I to welcome and protect them, or am I to crunch their bones?" came a deep, snarling voice from the creature, his lips curling back from the teeth again in a grimace. His head bobbed and dipped again to within a couple of inches of Viktor's face on his long flexible neck, and he regarded them all with his eyes narrowed to shrewd green slits.

Viktor bowed his head subtly, a gesture of respect, then raised it and spoke, "These three are here at my invitation. No harm is to come to them. In fact, I would ask a favor."

"Favor? Ahhhh, very well, Viktor. I suspect I know what it will be. You have not asked one of me in all the time you have been here. Not like some of those sniveling idiots who come rushing at every problem, waking me from my rest when they hear I might grant favors. I half expect some of them to ask me to do their schoolwork for them! They do not realize that favors must be earned. You were one who solved your own problems, asked no favors. Your father was the same. As was your mother. They did not come to ask a favor until their graduation. That I promise to look after any children they might send here, if I were still Guardian. Rather useless favor, it turns out, as you seem to have looked after yourself, and the other never set foot on these grounds. More is the pity. The world would have been better off with another child of Nikolas and Anya in it." The great head wagged back and forth, tongue clucking sadly for a moment.

The Guardian tossed his head slightly, and continued, "You have lived up to your name, first, middle, and last, in many ways. Viktor. Often the victor, even when his companions are not victorious. Nikolas. You carry many of the same merits and faults passed on by the man who gave you that name and helped bring you into this world. Krum. The Bulgarian Khan. Those who think you might carry his blood in your veins are wise, for it is so, you carry his legacy."

"Krum nearly conquered the Byzantines, would have, had his time not been cut short. He had the skull of Byzantine Emperor Nikephoros made into a drinking vessel after massacring his army. Silver plated. The Khan drank from the skull of his enemy, civilizing agent though he was. First true governor of his country, you govern yourself now with the same iron hand. I was lucky enough to meet the Khan who bore your name when he visited Gryndel. Krum the Great. Krum the Terrible. Krum the Law-Giver. You have the same set to your chin, and you fairly reek of the same qualities I found in him. Not a common scent on the grounds these days. Or ever, for that matter." The Guardian's head shot forward and nudged Viktor solidly in the shoulder, almost conspiratorially. He neither moved nor commented, and the Guardian cocked a scaly brow approvingly and took a long sniff up Viktor's chest, nearly brushing his chin with the great scaly nostrils. The Guardian's breath ruffled his hair before the creature backed off.

"Worthy companions, I hope, if you find them worthy of your protection. You will continue to live up to all of your names, if I see into you clearly. But I would expect no less of the son of Nikolas Krum and Anya Milyaskova," the Guardian added with a great sigh. "I would have granted you many favors if you had but asked, as I would have gladly granted your parents many favors. Your parents were part of a mostly peaceful time here at Durmstrang. The one who rises anew was just a rumble in the distance. Pity you could not have been a part of that untroubled time," the Guardian said almost kindly.

"I told them I would be threatening to eat their great-grandchildren when they were out past curfew. I will probably be threatening to eat yours, if they are sent here. Very well, Viktor Nikolas Krum, ask your favor, and I will grant it," the Guardian said in a surprisingly gentle tone, nudging his great scaly nose, if possible, even closer to Viktor's face and peering into his eyes with a curious and questioning gaze.

"I ask that while these three are on the grounds, under your domain, you guarantee their safety. Everywhere. Anywhere. From everything," Viktor requested.

"You mean protect them on the entire grounds from any danger, not just guarantee that I or my children do not make them into a meal? Do you know what you ask?" the Guardian probed, narrowing his eyes even further.

"I do. I want you to protect them by any means necessary. From anything. From anyone. From everyone. If that means you haff to tear me limb from limb to prevent me from deliberately bruising one of them, whether under my own control or not, so be it," Viktor said softly but firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Kill then? Kill anyone who threatens them? Anything?" the Guardian asked lightly, sliding a rasping pale tongue across his teeth in a thoughtful gesture.

"Kill if necessary. I do not want one hair on their heads touched while they are here. I promised their safety. To them. To others. I mean to guarantee it, even if it means death. Do you understand?" he replied.

"I understand. I understand that you are truly your father's son. He was loyal as well, and honorable," the Guardian said, widening his eyes and continuing to stare into Viktor's eyes intently. "You have a lot of Anya Milyaskova flowing through your veins as well, I made no mistake by putting you in Gryndel's house same as your parents. You would have done the founder proud," he added, continuing to survey Viktor's face for a moment before pulling back.

"You flatter me," Viktor replied, again giving the deferential bow of his head.

"Sadly I do not. I scarcely do you justice. Very well, Viktor. You have your favor, and I cannot say you have not earned it. That you will not earn it soon enough," the Guardian narrowed his eyes and took them in, then turned to look toward the mountain. "Earth, air, fire, water. Two escape during the old order, defeat him in the new. Purebloods, halfblood, mudblood, too. Two escape from death, now death pursue. The risen cannot last, not when the past is present, and the present past," the Guardian said slowly, then turned back to Viktor. "I will let my children know they are not to be touched, even if that means snapping Headmaster Potenko's head off to keep him from pinching them," the Guardian said. "Oh, and Viktor... this is very important for some reason. Look to your heart. You will know when it is time to put this to use," he added almost as an afterthought. He gave his own respectful nod, then sank slowly below the surface, almost regal in his bearing.

"Wh...wh...what on earth was that?" Harry forced out finally.

"The Guardian. He belonged, if such a thing can be said to actually belong to anyone, to Gryndel, the founder. Bound to him really, more accurately. Gryndel saved his life and gave him a place to live. He was left with the task of guarding the grounds, and sorting us when Gryndel died and could no longer do so. He is ancient beyond measure, he sees things, some past, some present, some future. Sometimes he speaks in riddles, and it is useless to ask him to clarify. I think perhaps even he does not know what his riddles mean at times."

Viktor looked at the water, and spoke again, "He was probably ancient beyond measure by the time he came here. Heaven only knows what he really is, I do not think he would haff granted Newt Seamander an interview for Fantastic Beasts, and strictly speaking, he is not a beast, since he obviously can carry on a conversation. He will sometimes grant favors, if you earn them and can get up the courage to ask. He has the right to eat you if you ask a favor you are unworthy of, but I do not think he has actually exercised it since Gryndel's day. A certain matter of a dishonest professor accepting payments from parents for grades and asking for a means of escape when Gryndel discovered it," Viktor replied, turning to face them again.

Viktor continued, "He is rather an effective deterrent to students wandering the grounds when they should not, as well. The last thing you want is for the Guardian or one of his children to come on you while they are hunting. When they are hungry, they are not nearly as reasonable as he was just now. They did apologize for eating the horses that time, but then, the last groundskeeper should not haff left them in the field. Little good it does for anyone to shut the door and apologize when the horse is already out of the barn and eaten. They do not hunt often, only once every few months and they warn the faculty so they can keep an extra eye out, but they do not bother telling the first year students that," he grinned. "Alexei and I were one of the few who bothered to read up much on the history of our school, so we soon worked out when it was safe by watching how many faculty were listed for grounds patrol," he added with a wink to Hermione.

"You don't seem the type to be out wandering around when you shouldn't be," Hermione said.

"You don't either but you seem to be in the thick of a lot of things. Have you not heard that it is always the quiet ones?" Viktor laughed. "Alexei and I used to sneak out to the lake at least once a week after hours after we figured it out, down to the paddocks to give the horses carrots and apples, we broke into the library just to prove we could, flew on the Quidditch pitch in the dark... once we went into the woods when we had no business being there and almost got ourselves eaten by a Romanian Longhorn. What it was doing this far north, I haff no idea, but we nearly stepped on its tail, and if it had not been for the trees being so thick and the moon being behind a cloud, I think it would haff found us in two seconds and no one would haff known what happened to us. We ran back so hard we very nearly ran headlong into the moat, and then into Madame Durshenkova on patrol in the hall. I'm surprised she could not track us by the pounding of our hearts and our panting anyway. For a librarian, she is a bit deaf. It scared us so badly, we did not sneak out again for a month. We contented ourselves with raiding the kitchen every night. We did not get to do it much once I started being off campus so much and Alexei started taking tamer company of the female sort on his nighttime walks. It is a wonder we survived a year, we were so foolhardy," Viktor added, sobering a little.

"So where is the castle?" Ron asked.

"You're looking at it," Viktor replied.

"What? No I'm not. There's nothing there. There's the lake, there's the dock, there is the mountain range, there are the woods, but I sure don't see a castle," Ron said, waving his hands about the grounds. He stared off at the base of the mountain, where a light mist swirled in the sunshine.

"Yes you are. The Guardian heard us coming, he concealed the castle. Look, " Viktor spread his palm in front of his lips, pursed them, and blew a short blast of air in the direction of the mist. It scattered as though pushed out on a hurricane. A short stroll from the edge of the lake, there stood a deep, wide moat, and situated behind it, butted up against the foot of the mountain, stood a tall, imposing castle, thinner and taller than Hogwarts, a deeper shade of gray that would blend in quite well with the mountains, especially when the sun was not as bright as it was currently. It looked more welcoming than any of them could have imagined, from Viktor's descriptions of it.

"So how do we get across the moat? I don't see a drawbridge or anything like that," Hermione asked.

Viktor walked up to a great stone pillar on the shore, to the left of its mate. He pressed a sequence of stones, and the water began to churn. "Not another of your friends?" Harry asked.

"No. The bridge," Viktor replied, as large blocks of stone began to rise in sequence out of the water, constructing a curving walkway across the moat, evidently unsupported by anything other than thin air. "Come on then," he said, walking toward the edge.

"Is that thing going to hold?" Hermione asked.

"I haff used it for years," he replied, stepping backwards onto the bridge, jumping up and down on it, the stone not budging under his feet. They walked across and into the castle, greeted inside the foyer by a man not nearly as tall as Viktor, but certainly many times as broad. He rather reminded Hermione of a polar bear, with his sleek white hair, his full face, ruddy round cheeks, and his portly frame. He barely reached Viktor's chin, he had large black eyes, that twinkled rather like another headmaster's, and his robes were trimmed in a shaggy white fur, which furthered the resemblance to a big white bear.

"Headmaster Potenko," Viktor called to him, bowing slightly before covering the rest of the distance between them.

"Mr. Krum. I trust all your guests have arrived safely and find themselves welcome? I must apologize for not meeting you at the bridge, you arrived earlier than I expected," Potenko said in a thick Russian accent, heavily rolling his 'r' sounds. "I must also apologize for the state of the castle. We are still in the first stages of making it...a bit more comfortable, but I hope the guest rooms will be satisfactory. You may find our house elves more evident than usual. Do not hesitate to ask for anything you may need from them. Albus Dumbledore helped me to expand the staff over the summer. I still have a terrible time convincing them that they can call me a dotty old fool if they like, but they have made progress. Is Dumbledore well? Any news from Hogwarts?" The words tumbled from his mouth rapidly, and the three were a bit taken aback that he had mentioned Dumbledore in such an obviously affectionate manner. His voice boomed almost as though it were shouting from a barrel, which seemed appropriate, given his barrel shaped frame.

"He's fine, I suppose. We have our usual one and done Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Fleur Delacour from the Triwizard Tournament is taking the job for a year, so I suppose he will be looking for another soon enough. He did say to send greetings and congratulations on starting your first year as headmaster. Did you say he helped you get more house elves?" Hermione said after a pause. Dumbledore must have really been scraping bottom, she thought to herself. Fleur hadn't even managed to avoid the Grindylows in the second task, what could she know about defense against dark arts? It might be Lockhart all over again.

"He did. I sent some of them to Hogwarts to train with a, err, Dobby, I think it was. Mr. Krum, I think I can work out which one is Miss Granger, but the other two, I may need a bit of help," Potenko waved a meaty hand in their direction.

"I apologize. I am being lax with introductions. This is Miss Hermione Granger. She is entering her fifth year at Hogwarts, and she was an admirable partner at the Yule Ball last year," Viktor lifted Hermione's right hand and placed it lightly in the headmaster's broad, spread hand. He lifted it and planted a speedy formal kiss on the back of it, then folded the other large hand over it.

"Pleased to meet you Miss Granger. Welcome to Durmstrang. May you find your two days here pleasant," he added with an even more formal bow.

"This is Mr. Ronald Weasley, also entering fifth year. I believe you met his father once at a conference. Mr. Arthur Weasley, he works with the Ministry," Viktor steered Ron by the shoulder, maneuvering him so Potenko could shake his hand, sandwiching Ron's hand much as he had Hermione's.

"Ah, yes, Arthur Weasley. He gave a fascinating presentation on Muggle Artifacts. Years ago. He could not have been much older than yourself, but I cannot forget that shocking red hair. You will find we do not see many redheads at Durmstrang," Potenko seemed to barely suppress a laugh.

"And this is, of course, Mr. Harry Potter. Fifth year, fellow competitor and champion in the Triwizard Tournament," Viktor added in a soft voice.

"Mr. Potter. You have my admiration for your worthy performance. Particularly in the face of such a large disadvantage. Viktor tells me you demonstrated some remarkable flying skills, so it is a pity you will not be staying long enough to get a great deal of flying in, or even a team scrimmage." Potenko spoke gently, then smiled. "I do not know what we will do for entertainment when Viktor is not on a house team any more. Take field trips to Vratsa, I suppose. I fear any replacement Professor Pushkin finds for Gryndel House will be a bit of a letdown in most people's eyes," he continued, turning his smile on Viktor. Unlike Karkaroff's flattery, they all got the feeling this was genuine praise.

"You haff not seen Brecht fly yet this year, then? She has been training over the summer, gotten very fast. I would not be surprised if she bumps Masha out of the starting position easily. Her style would be different of course, but a little variety never hurt anyone. That would be five good years counting this one from a first class seeker for Pushkin. There was Quidditch before I played, there will be Quidditch long after I am gone," Viktor shrugged.

"But I do believe it will be a long time before we see someone else here with your kind of skill at such a young age. I feel privileged to have seen you play so many games well before everyone talked about you in the World Cup. But enough Quidditch talk. I am sure your guests want to get to their rooms. I put them near your quarters, the ones nearest the guest baths," Potenko motioned toward the central staircase and Hermione found herself shiver a little when the image of Poliakoff trying to wrestle a delirious Viktor down them flashed through her mind.

"All you haff to do is notify me, and there will be tickets for you, whenever and wherever you want them. How can I not offer them after that high praise?" Viktor smiled back.

"I will be seeing all of you at the Opening Ball, if not before," Potenko added bowing formally once more, before turning militarily on his heel and striding off down the hall, where Hermione figured Karkaroff's quarters had once been, where the infirmary was. Where Viktor allowed in his letter he had almost died. And somewhere at the head of the stairs was the stone floor where he would have died had Alexei not found him in time. She stared up at the staircase for a long while, until her thoughts were interrupted by Viktor's voice.

"I hope you do not think he was presumptuous? Kissing your hand? It is just that it is customary when there is a formal introduction..." Viktor began anxiously.

"No, no, it was fine. I feel like I'm in a fairy tale or something, all this formal bowing and kissing of hands. So if we had been formally introduced, you would have kissed my hand?" Hermione asked as she shouldered her small pack again before Viktor could scoop it up and they set off up the stairs.

"I suppose I would have. Problem is, there was no one to introduce us, Miss Granger. And I wish you would let me take that," he added in a light voice.

"I'll hit you with this pack if you offer again. It's only a few changes of clothing. I had to hang onto it for all I was worth the entire walk. Don't think I didn't see you eyeing it. I'm perfectly capable of carrying it myself," she groused.

"That is not the point. You are a guest. I haff had it drilled into me from birth to carry a lady's luggage when she is a guest," Viktor argued back.

"Well, Hermione's no lady, so you haven't broken any rules," Ron laughed.

"It's a bit close to the truth, Viktor. Tell you what, I'll settle for the formal introduction later in lieu of you carrying my luggage," she laughed.

"Viktor! You back already!" a familiar voice exclaimed from the upper railing. Alexei's dimpled face shone over the banister near the top of the stairs. He ran down a few stairs to meet them, then whirled and accompanied them to the top, almost jogging to keep up with Viktor's long stride. "You might vant to haff your stick ready. I do not think girls believe me anymore vhen I tell them you haff date already. Too many years using that excuse. No surprise vhen they do not believe you. Liesl, she is telling everyone she is going vith you and all the girls who believe her hate her for no reason and Katrina is telling everyone she is full of ..."

"Alexei! I am not interested in catfights," Viktor grumbled.

"Too bad, there haff been some goot ones, more vicious than ever. I haff not even decided vhere to begin picking over the leftovers," Alexei said mischievously. Viktor just rolled his eyes in reply. "I think they got vind you might be leaving before the next ball. Katrina has a big mouth," he added over his shoulder.

"I do not think it was Katrina's big mouth that made you ask her to the finals," Viktor replied with an arched eyebrow.

"Fair enough. She has other charms. Madame. Masters Weasley and Potter," he bowed low repeatedly and backed away. "I vill see you at dinner in a little vhile?" Alexei inquired.

"If you behave yourself. Heaven only knows how I stand the embarrassment of being seen with you," Viktor snorted.

"Same vay you take all the attention. Grudgingly. I vill save a table space for six. Maybe I vill haff my date by then. Back to my own little room," he called, waggling his eyebrows and walking across the landing to the upperclass dorms.

"Your bath here, your bedroom here. You two choose between these two rooms, our shared bath is right there. That one up there at the far end is where I ...sleep," Hermione noticed he hesitated a moment before saying the last word, as though actually sleeping in that room was a new concept, something he had never really tried before. "Potenko let me keep it for the time being," he added. She glanced at the patch of stone beneath his boots, wondering where exactly he had sprawled on that night.

Hermione opened the solid oak door to her room and nearly dropped her pack. The room was large, with a heavy oak dresser and bureau, as well as a bedside table. The broad window looked out onto the mountains behind the castle, and the king size canopy bed was draped with opulent curtains, in a deep purple color. "Helps keep out the cold in the winter. I doubt you will need them while you are here," Viktor murmured, flipping the curtain at the head of the bed back with a finger. "And there is a fireplace. Light it if you get cold," he added, pointing at the small hearth on the other side of the bed." He paused and looked around. "It did not used to look like this," he said wonderingly. "Dinner is in an hour," he said, collecting himself. He stepped over to her and picked up her hand, "Why Miss Granger, I am most pleased to meet you. Viktor Krum at your service," he said solemnly, lifting her hand and bending low to place his lips on the back. "I would be most greatly pleased if you allow me to escort you to dinner this evening," he intoned, every bit as formal as Potenko earlier.

"What's the proper response?" Hermione stage whispered.

"If you want to stay in my good graces, 'I would be delighted' works," he whispered back in the same fashion, not changing his expression and barely moving his lips.

"I would be delighted, Mr. Krum," she replied aloud, with a small nod of her own head.

"Until then," he said, taking a large step backwards toward the door, bowing, then swinging on his booted heel as Potenko had done earlier, closing the door behind him. She smiled to herself and shook her head. She should thank Alexei, annoying chatterbox though he was at times, for saving her from losing Viktor before she ever got the chance to meet him. It hurt to picture him on that floor with nothing left in him to fight Karkaroff. She much preferred him now, not so thin and pale and yellow as he was last year. He could still stand a bit more weight on his slender frame, but somehow, he seemed much younger than he had the previous year, awake or asleep, she realized suddenly. Must be because he doesn't scowl so much, anymore, she told herself as she hung her cloak up to shake the wrinkles out of the silvery fabric. Maybe he unpacked a bit of his own baggage over the past few months. He didn't seem so weighted down.

******************************************************

CHAPTER 25

A light rap on the door told her that her hour was up. "Coming," she called, and swung the heavy door back. Viktor stood there with Ron and Harry.

"Come on then. We are waiting on you," Viktor said.

"You made them wait on me, more likely," Hermione replied.

"I won't deny it's true, will you Harry?" Ron looked at Harry.

"True enough. I mean, I'm pretty hungry myself," Harry answered.

"Alexei cannot hold the chairs forever. Well, he could, but I give him five minutes before he forgets all about the chairs and goes wandering off after some girl," Viktor added.

Hermione stepped out into the hallway and realized there was a steady stream of students of all years milling around in the passages downstairs, and many in the upper years streaming down the staircase in small groups, talking in a cacophony of foreign languages. Wonder if Hogwarts sounded like this to him? she thought to herself. Probably not. He at least knew some English. Her Bulgarian was poor to non-existant, though Viktor had taught her a handful of words, her Russian worse. She recognized the German, but could pick out little that had any meaning. There were other languages, as well, she figured. Surely most of the Slavs went here? She saw what Potenko meant about redheads being thin on the ground at Durmstrang. The school seemed to be a study in extremes. Most of the students had dark, dusky, even swarthy skin like Potenko's, and hair and eyes that ranged from the completely jet black to the dark, dark brown, more like Viktor's coloring. It was rare to spot anyone with just plain brown hair. The rest seemed to be like Malfoy, fair and pale and Nordic looking, with whitish blond hair and milky skin. Occasionally, she spotted someone more like Anya, with milky skin and dark features, but they were rare. Seeing her scrutiny of the rest, Viktor nudged her lightly with an elbow. "We used to joke that it was the Cossacks and the Valkyries," he whispered.

They waited for the staircase to mostly clear before starting down. They were halfway down when a musical, lilting voice with a German accent rang out behind them, loudly enough to echo on the stone walls. "Viktor!" It was backed up by a chorus of giggles. Viktor paused and his shoulders twitched up toward his ears, as though someone had just unexpectedly dumped ice water on his neck.

He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Head Valkyrie," before forcing himself out of his cringe and slowing his descent of the stairs. A flurry of light footsteps overtook them and four girls, all of the Valkyrie variety huddled around in front of Viktor. He bore nearly the same expression he had on his face (or was it lack of expression?) for the conversation with the Guardian earlier. Well, maybe not, he didn't look nearly as pleased. "Liesl," he forced out politely through his teeth. He could hardly have looked less thrilled.

"The ball is tomorrow night and you have been avoiding me, naughty b.." she began in a teasing voice.

"Spoken for," he interrupted.

As they all stood there, various packs of girls trailed by, whispering and giggling and pointing and tossing their hair in Viktor's direction. Viktor gave some of them pointed looks, as though he were willing them to the bottom of the stairs. Most of them slowed considerably when they noticed Viktor on the stairs, and one even squealed "He looked at me!" excitedly once she and her group reached the bottom of the staircase.

"You didn't even let me finish. Okay, so you have a date for the ball, very well, then. We hear this every year from Alexei, 'Oh, I think he has a date already,' and then she never seems to show and you hide in the corner away from everyone or talk to your teammates about Quidditch all night and won't even give a girl a dance. I suspect you danced with Brecht that time two years ago because she was a silly little first year on your Quidditch squad and so awed by you she couldn't talk so you didn't have to carry on a conversation. Last year, she dared to speak to you. She may even have gotten an entire sentence out if you gave her the whole night. At least now she manages to stutter a whole word at you occasionally during practice, I notice, V-v-v-v-v-v-v-viktor K-k-k-k-k-k-k-k-krum," Liesl mocked cruelly, dropping into a high pitched and babyishly sweet voice on his name.

"You just danced with her so none of the rest of us could get at you. Poor thing probably still talks about it, even if she did turn a hundred shades of red the entire time she danced with you. If she has any friends with hours to spare. Or maybe she couldn't tell it was you through those thick glasses of hers, the little four-eyes. But maybe it wasn't just pity, maybe you think you have to dance with Brecht. Maybe Alexei never passes on all these invitations you have been getting all these years from such pretty girls," she pouted prettily. "Perhaps if I speak to you directly instead of going through Alexei you will promise a girl at least a single dance, just in case your date does not show, hmm?" she added, fluttering her eyelashes and reaching to stroke a palm up his chest. Hermione was reminded of the predatory way the Guardian had thrust his nose into Viktor's chest and sniffed, only this time, Viktor stepped back at the touch.

"Spoken for," he said again, more firmly, and opened his mouth to add more, but she interrupted him this time.

"Now, you haven't taken to doing your own lying, have you? Normally you get Alexei to do it for you, you're so pitifully bad at it. You may be shy, but you are an honest and honorable man, Viktor," she scolded, stepping forward again. Viktor actually stepped back hard into the broad railing, which barely reached his waist, and flattened his palms against the top. If she hadn't known better, Hermione would have thought he was contemplating bailing over it, and she felt the sudden urge to step between them and shield him. She realized it was rather absurd to think about her protecting Viktor from this little slip of a girl who didn't even reach his chin, but Viktor looked more wary of her than he would have if she had been something set to devour him alive.

"Actually, he's promised to dance with me already," she found herself saying.

Liesl turned a cold glance on Hermione with her icy blue eyes. "Has he really? And who might you be? I don't remember seeing you before," Liesl tilted her nose upward, in a manner that reminded Hermione unpleasantly of Fleur in her haughtier moments.

"Hermione Granger. I'm a guest, I don't attend Durmstrang. I'm his date for the ball," she replied in an even voice. She felt like punching this ice goddess in the nose. She must have been hanging around Ron far too long, for she would soon be throwing the words 'Eat slugs!' at her if she wasn't careful.

"Viktor? Is this true?" she demanded, folding her arms. From the way she narrowed her eyes, then cocked her blonde eyebrows in surprise, Hermione could tell she recognized the name. There were enough articles about me last year, she thought to herself.

"It is," he answered, "I plan on dancing with someone I do not scrimmage with this year. And even as a supposedly silly first year, Brecht had ten times the sense you haff now. If you mock her in front of me again, so help me..." Viktor's eyes narrowed and seemed to darken, his voice began low and dropped lower, a warning note in it, as there had been when he confronted Rita Skeeter, then trailed off as his dark eyes darted to the head of the stairs.

"V-v-v-v-viktor... a m-m-moment p-please," came a quiet female voice from the top of the staircase. Hermione turned to see a small blonde girl with large wire rimmed glasses, thin and much shorter than herself, trailing down the other banister, then crossing to their side. She barely cleared Viktor's waist when she stood on the same step. Liesl and her gang tossed their hair and glided off down the stairs, haughty as ever. "P-p-p-p-p-p-p-pushkin w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-wants m-m-m-e t-to t-t-t-t-t-t-t-try o-o-out f-f-f-for f-f-f-f-ff-f-f-first t-t-team n-n-n-n-n-n-n-now! Th-th-thank y-y-y-y-y-you," she pushed the words out of her mouth, struggling with her speech under Viktor's gaze, then she shyly stared at the toes of his boots and flushed, her face going very pink. This must be Brecht. Liesl's impression of her had been all too painfully accurate.

Viktor grasped her upper arm and shook her gently to get her to look up at him. His hand was so large compared to her thin arm that he could easily have wrapped his long fingers back and touched his palm with her arm settled in his hand. He made her look like a tiny, delicate doll in comparison. He had to lean over to address her easily. "I did not talk him into anything you did not deserve. I saw you on the practice field last week. You are much faster than you were last year. Pushkin only thinks he wants a bigger seeker. I got him too used to my being able to block. It is just because I put a beater off his broom once when I had to, now he thinks every seeker has to be able to do that. He will see. You will not need to block with the kind of speed you haff. If you learn to feint, I would hate to play against you. Masha is too slow, and does not even want the position. Pushkin barely kept Masha on the team last year while I was gone. Masha is more interested in Care of Magical Creatures and says so. Masha will be warden somewhere, not a Quidditch player. You could be a professional some day," Viktor said softly and the small girl's pink face went even redder. She suddenly found his boots intensely interesting again.

"Y-y-y-y-y-y-your tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-training. W-w-w-w-wa-wa-wa-watching y-y-y-y-y-you," she responded finally.

"Your practice, you mean. Eat with us, if Alexei has not lost our seats or given them away. This is Ron, Harry and Hermione," he said, presenting her to them. "This is Marianne Brecht. She was second team seeker for Gryndel house in her first year. We do two tiers of teams, even haff inter-tier matches, and second team players usually move up the ranks in later years, pretty rare for a first year to be on either one," Viktor explained.

"You three go ahead, Viktor and I will catch up in a minute," Hermione told Marianne, Ron, and Harry.

"Good enough. I'm starving. Dining hall that way, then? Follow the crowd?" Ron asked Marianne, who just nodded and turned a new shade of pink. A few more latecomers were filing around them on the stairs, and before Hermione could speak, one of them stopped on the same step. To her surprise, Hermone recognized her. It was Elena, taller and more elegant looking than she had been even the year before at Hogwarts. She was nearly as tall as Viktor, the top of her head coming just about even with his nose, her hair and eyes just as dark and piercing, but she had light, creamy skin like Anya's. Karkaroff had been right about one thing. They would make a striking couple, for she could easily picture them as royalty. If jaws had dropped when she and Viktor entered the Great Hall for the Yule Ball, they would have come unhinged if he had come in with Elena on his arm. They both had the upright stature, the height, the lifted chin, the firm set to their mouths, the overall bearing, without the haughtiness or vanity of someone like Draco Malfoy, or Liesl. Maybe there was something to this pureblood business, after all, she found herself thinking. She thought back to the Guardian's words. Krum. The Bulgarian Khan. He looked so angry right then, she could just about picture him turning Liesl's skull into a drinking cup like his namesake.

"How is my favorite fellow countryman?" Elena asked lightly, in a husky voice, her Bulgarian accent bleeding through. Hermione had assumed she was Russian, until she heard her speak.

"Tell me who he is, and I will go ask him," Viktor replied acidly.

"Temper, temper. No need to take it out on me. Liesl getting up that considerable nose of yours about Poppet's stutter?" she said in a concerned voice, looking after the tiny blonde head now disappearing around the corner. "Not much else makes you that angry, and the smoke is coming out your ears now. I saw Liesl trying to eat you up earlier, big boy. And in front of your date, too. I bet she felt a fool. Teach her to brag about her date vhen her supposed date is not knowing," Elena said with an arch of her thin, dark, perfectly shaped eyebrow, then looked around at Viktor's guest. "Go eat your dinner and enjoy your company, Viktor. Poppet has to learn to stick up for herself. You vill not be here forever. Alexei and I vill be gone soon enough, too. No dancing vith her this year. You added at least six, maybe seven inches since two years ago, she hasn't grown one, it would look ridiculous, and anyway, your dance card is all filled up vith Herrr-, Herrrr-, Miss Granger, I von't massacre it, he vill be ready to thrash me, next," she said with a cordial nod of her head to Hermione.

"If no one else will, I will dance at least one with her. No one else would these last two years, I had to do something, I could not just let her sit there," he pleaded, his hands spread.

"You just sat there," Elena countered.

"That was by choice, it is different. I do not believe I cried, either," Viktor argued.

"She has to find her own partner soon enough, Viktor, you danced vith her vhen no one else vould, you trained her when Pushkin did not really vant her on second team because she vos so small, you showed her how to get faster, you persuaded him to let her try out tomorrow. You cannot keep this up. Poppet can hold her own in a fair fight," Elena said bluntly, crossing her arms.

"No one who fights with her fights fair," Viktor nearly whispered.

"Then she has to learn to fight dirty. Now get yourselves downstairs and eat before the house elves close the kitchen. I vill try to let it be known in the girl's dorm that Alexei did not dream up Viktor's date this year, maybe you can get some peace tomorrow. His equally famous Yule Ball date is here. And tell Alexei I think about it if he behave himself," she added as she trotted down the rest of the stairs.

"Next time I send out press releases! Viktor Krum has real live date! Alexei Poliakoff tells truth!" Viktor growled after her.

"No goot! No one ever believe Alexei Poliakoff telling the truth! No next time here and those madvomen do not listen, Viktor. Rita Skeeter just haff you married vith ten kids, alone and pining over lost love, or in schoolvide orgy depending on day of veek vith press release! Besides, that Hogvarts girl stuck vith you unless she tosses you off cliff, no matter vhat Rita Skeeter say. You are no Alexei," she called back.

"Elena and Brecht only two sensible girls in Durmstrang. But she cannot say your name yet, either. Now what were you going to say?" Viktor asked Hermione.

"I was just going to ask... no, it's silly," she replied.

"Nothing you ask could ever be silly," he countered.

"I just wanted to know if you wanted me to bother with the hair potion?"

"I prefer you did not. I like it just fine without you slicking it down. Like you care for hair any more than I do. You did not notice I cut mine," he pouted playfully.

"I did too! I just didn't mention it. You only trimmed it. Only difference is you don't have enough in back for that little ponytail now, you didn't touch the front or the sides," she ribbed back.

"I mean, I am sooo concerned with how I look and you do not even mention my drastic haircut..." he said in an exaggerated voice, as they continued down the stairs.

"Oh, good grief, two inches gone and I'm supposed to make over you. Vanity, thy name is Viktor. Oh, alright, I'll go with my hair all bushy and kinky already and have all these sleek and shiny Valkyries and Cossacks staring at me."

"Not all the Cossacks are so sleek," he replied, tossing his slightly wavy hair away from his eyes. "Stare all they like, they still do not get a dance with you, I'm going to keep you plenty busy."

******************************************************

 

CHAPTER 26

"Viktor!" Alexei shouted and waved, indicating two empty chairs by his side as soon as Viktor stuck his head around the door. Viktor waded through the crowded room, clearing a path and leading Hermione by the hand. Hermione noticed that people respectfully shuffled out of the way when they saw who it was, he rarely had to excuse himself to get through. When he did have to speak, and people turned at his soft voice, usually nose to chest, looked up and saw Viktor, they moved even quicker. He stepped aside and let her go first, trailing behind once they reached a totaly clear path.

"Elena says she think about it if you behave, whatever that means," Viktor told Alexei as he caught up and pulled Hermione's chair out.

"I ask her to be my partner at ball," Alexei responded.

"I take back my statement about her being one of the two sane females in this school then," Viktor said as he dropped into his seat.

"Because she has the good sense to consider an invitation from the most handsome gentleman in Durmstrang?" Alexei pouted.

"Who else asked her then?" Viktor jabbed back. Alexei put a hand over his heart in mock suffering and rolled his eyes.

"A-a-a-a-a-and w-w-w-w-who i-i-is th-th-th-th-th-the o-o-o-o-other s-s-s-s-s..." Marianne began, turning another shade altogether. It was obvious that she admired Viktor as a seeker, and Hermione suspected, had a raging crush on him. Hermione had heard her voice when she had been speaking to Ron with little evidence of her stutter as they had approached the table. When she spoke to Viktor, it multiplied horribly. She felt a stab of sympathy for the tiny girl.

"...sane female?" Viktor supplied when she paused for breath, to Marianne's timid nod. "You, of course. Unless we count Hermione, and she is only visiting. Elena at least had some sense before she started dating Alexei. You better not get near him and for heaven's sake, do not date him, Marianne! I swear Alexei eats brains. He turns the girls who have some sanity into simpletons somehow then leaves them littered over the grounds for the rest of us to trip over. I would hate to have to go hitting Alexei in defense of your honor because he is such an idiot and has the attention span of a stunned mountain troll! It would not be a fair fight, anyway." Hermione got the distinct feeling that Viktor had threatened a lot of people on Marianne's behalf. She didn't seem to have many friends her own age, yet the other students obviously treated her well, at least when Viktor was around. He seemed to look after her like a younger sister.

"Not fair, Viktor, you could snap me like a twig. You could snap Potenko like a twig, and that is saying something. Besides, you know I vould never hurt Poppet here. She is probably your replacement on the team unless Pushkin has some other trick up his sleeve. Masha gave notice, if Pushkin gets another seeker, he is quitting. She vill be like a little dragonfly, darting all over the pitch! Big change for those beaters who alvays try to bash you in the nose and get avay vith fouling you because you are a big boy and can take it, they vill not be able to catch Poppet! Her nose is not such a formidable and tempting target, either," he teased, reaching out to pinch her nose playfully. "And I did not hear you threatening to pummel me when Elena and I had that trouble before," Alexei said, waving his fork at Viktor.

"Elena can take care of herself. Any Bulgarian woman worth her salt could skin you alive with her teeth without blinking, Alexei. You Russian boys are soft, big marshmallows," Viktor replied, winking conspiratorially at Marianne.

"True. Ve Russians are poets and lovers and musicians, not fighters, Viktor. Not like you Bulgarians, alvays wearing your army boots and I bet your big sabers rattle vhen you get into bed. But I haff to admit, the idea of scrapping vith Elena is not unpleasant, she could wrestle me anytime," Alexei rhapsodized, wide grin on his face.

"You see? You see, Poppet? This is the kind of rascal you girls haff to put up with while waiting for a real man," Viktor said, rolling his eyes. He turned to Hermione and covered her hand on the table with his own large one, "If I ever start to sound like that, feel free to smack me solidly in the head with the business end of a Firebolt." Hermione laughed at that, but she felt a little twinge when she noticed Marianne looking longingly at Viktor's hand over Hermione's. Oh no, she definitely did have a crush, then.

Hermione tried to draw Marianne into the conversation where possible, but it hurt to watch her long, drawn out words get more and more difficult for her to form. She noticed that Viktor and Alexei both often finished sentences for her without betraying any impatience when they could divine what she meant to say. "I will come to tryouts tomorrow, Poppet. I want to see Pushkin's jaw drop," he told her when she excused herself from the table to head back to her common room for a potions study group.

"W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-would y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-you? I-i-i-i-it w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-will b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-be s-s-s-s-so d-d-d-d-dif-dif-different th-th-th-th-thi-this y-y-y-y-y-ye-year. Y-y-y-y-you a-a-always h-h-h-had y-y-y-y-your sp-sp-sp-spot g-guar-guaranteed. W-w-w-w-w-w-w-we all c-c-c-c-c-competed f-f-f-f-f-for th-th-th-the r-r-r-r-r-r-right t-t-t-to f-f-f-f-fill i-i-in w-w-w-w-w-when y-y-y-y-you w-w-w-w-w-were b-b-b-b-bu-busy w-w-w-w-w-with o-o-other th-th-th-things," she finished finally, looking as though she had been granted a great treasure.

"You promise to practice your feint? I do not want to see the cup go back to Schylar's house for a long time. And as for Konrad, I want Pushkin writing me that you gave him a nice juicy mouthful of mud the next time you play Bronsky's house team," Viktor smiled at her. She just bobbed her head enthusiastically and ran for the door, changing to yet another shade of crimson.

"I hope you do not mind going to the Gryndel house tryouts? Harry and Ron may wish to watch the whole thing, but I haff to go at least for Poppet's tryout. I promised her I would even last year. It was the only way I could get her to ask Pushkin to try out for first team. He will not usually let anyone below fourth year even try out for first teams," Viktor told Hermione.

"So how did you get on?" she asked.

"He was, shall we say, overruled?" Viktor answered, carefully avoiding the name of the person who had overruled Pushkin. Karkaroff, she suspected.

"He did not need much convincing once Pushkin saw you fly. You almost did not need the broom," Alexei commented.

"I don't mind. I can't imagine anyone so tiny as Marianne playing Quidditch. Won't it be rough on her, being so small?" Hermione asked Viktor.

"She makes up a lot for the size difference in speed and skill, and she is tougher than she looks. She broke an arm last year, when Konrad cobbed her, the big brute. He is almost my size," Viktor added, finishing off his pumpkin juice.

"And why do you call her Poppet?" Hermione asked.

"Poppet. Old English. Means 'doll'. We found it in an old History of Magic text in the library, in a passage about Salem. It seemed to fit. It was a lot nicer than what most people called her. Excuse me, I need to go find out when Pushkin is scheduling the seeker tryout, at the beginning or the end of Gryndel's slot. He will not tell anyone who is trying out what order he is going to do the positions in. He likes to surprise them. I will be right back," Viktor blotted his lips with a napkin, tossed it onto the table, then made his way toward the faculty table.

Alexei leaned across the empty seat between he and Hermione once Viktor was well out of earshot. "Sore spot vith Viktor. He cannot stand to see anyvone picked on. Little thing that she is, bookish, those glasses, that stutter, vanting to be a seeker and getting sorted into the same house vith the vone school seeker vith a guaranteed spot, she is a, how you say it? Prime target? Some of them are vicious. Girls especially, because, aside from Elena and Poppet, and now you, he does not give girls the time of day. Usually he bites their heads off or backs away from them like they breathe fire and spit acid. He only treats Elena nicely because she never go after him, she was nice to Poppet, she dated me, and they can reel off that Bulgarian together. Bulgarian is still my veak language. Viktor's much better at Russian than I am at Bulgarian," Alexei said as he shook his head and watched Viktor speak to a large man at the end of the table that Hermione took to be Professor Pushkin. "Does not help that everyvone but Viktor knows Poppet is sveet on him ever since he danced vith her that first time. Forgive me for saying this, no reflection on you, but Viktor is clueless vhen it come to females even if he is vise about them. Knows vhat to look for in a woman, and yes, by that, I mean you, but mystified as to vhy girls act like that around him. He has no idea Poppet likes him that vay," Alexei told Hermione.

"How could he not? I mean, the stutter alone..." Hermione began.

But Alexei interrupted, "He never hear her stutter less. He thinks she is that bad alvays. Elena and I, the rest of the school, they haff heard her stutter just a tiny bit vhen Viktor is not around, seen that she does not blush a hundred colors vhen he is not there. They see her stare at him vhen he is not looking, watch herself in his boots vhen she talks to him. He thinks Poppet is alvays that shy and awkward. Poppet talks like that all the time around him, you see? Vonce she started talking to him at all. I do not think they said a vord to vone another in the first six months they knew each other except 'Vould you like a dance?' at her first opening ball. Viktor could not take her crying by herself in a corner vhen a pack of girls teased her. Vhen a big old sixth year who is already being mentioned in every Quidditch story as a probable Vorld Cup player dances vith you, it shuts a lot of mouths. Even then she did not anything like reach his chest, and he has grown at least half a foot since then. He gave her a dance or pulled her into the Quidditch talk at the rest of the balls he attended, too, before the teasing could start."

Alexei twisted in his seat and went on, "Maybe that vhy Viktor sit vith her at practice vhen neither vas flying. He felt sorry for her and she never talked much. She was no vork vhen he did not even feel like talking about Quidditch. He coached her, because they scrimmage together sometimes and Masha did not vant to practice extra. Masha did not vant the job in the first place. He used to put her on the best broom he had vhile he rode the oldest thing the school owned, just to even things up. Viktor probably vould haff coached her just so he could haff a better scrimmage partner, even if no one else vanted his position. Competitive. Both of them. Poppet vants it. Problem is, she vants Viktor too. I hear tell she cried vhen she heard about you last year. Of course, she vas not only one. A third of the school cried. Elena knows she cried vhen she found out you vere coming here. Elena keeps trying to hint, get him to step back and make her fend for herself so she gets some practice before Viktor leaves for good, but Viktor has no clue. He is soft hearted. Sometimes he cannot see beyond that nose of his, he does not see reason vith Poppet. I just vanted you to know he is not being deliberately cruel to Poppet, he just does not know. He vould not be cruel that vay, he does care for her, but as a friend, a mentor," Alexei summed up.

"Clueless about girls, huh? That mean he's clueless about me?" Hermione asked.

"Heavens no. He loves you madly, I think, a blind man could see that. He contends you are no ordinary girl. I am inclined to agree. No ordinary girl could catch Viktor Krum's eye. It is the ordinary ones that confuse and appall him. I would still like to know vhat you did in that library to get to him. Normally, he vould rather shove a red hot poker in his eye than approach a girl for a drink of vater in the desert. You he asked to a ball. Two balls now. I still cannot get the reason out of him," Alexei mused, watching Viktor return to their table.

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CHAPTER 27

Hermione couldn't sleep. It may have been the bright moonlight spilling in through the sheer drapes, the strange room, the absolute quiet, the anticipation she felt about the next day, or all of these, but she felt as though her eyes were propped with toothpicks. Maybe Viktor was still up. Maybe they could talk. Take a walk, even. Sneak down to the kitchen. Sit together. Hang upside down from the banister by their heels like vampire bats. Anything would be better than lying here staring at the canopy, beautiful as it was. She scooted out of bed and pulled her dressing gown over her pyjamas. She crept to the heavy door and opened it. She would light her wand when she got past Harry and Ron's doors, to avoid waking them. Nothing short of a search light would wake them when you wanted to rouse them, but knowing her luck, better not to risk it. The torches in high holders along the wall would cast enough light to get to Viktor's door. He slept so lightly, she could wake him without disturbing the rest.

She was rather startled when her foot and knee bumped into something quite solid in the dark, in her doorway, where there should be nothing solid. She half swallowed a short, strangled scream, not getting much volume. She was just about to catch her breath and really shriek when she felt a hand curl on her calf, but then Viktor's voice came sharp but soft in the darkness, "Hermione!" It seemed to be coming from roughly in front of her, and below her. Just about where she had nudged her foot into whatever that was in the dark.

"Lumos!" she whispered, lighting her wind. Viktor sat at her feet, twisted around to look up at her, hand steadied against her leg. "What are you doing there?" she hissed at him.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he asked her anxiously.

"I couldn't sleep. I wanted to come get you. I thought we could talk or something. Now answer me, what are you doing there?" she asked a little more kindly.

"Nothing is wrong? You are not hurt? Sick? Scared?" he insisted.

"Scared? Not before I bumped you. That took ten years off my life. I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep. Nerves about tomorrow night, I think. And it's a lot quieter in there than in the dorms. The silence is deafening. Now what are you doing there?" she asked a third time, then answered her own question. "You were sleeping there, guarding the door, weren't you?" she said as it dawned on her. He had seemed so intent on her safety and well-being just now. He couldn't be surprised that she had yelped when she bumped into an unexpected body in the hall, could he? Of course. He had been guarding her door.

"No."

"Okay, so you were sitting there. Wide awake, then, guarding the door," she replied, catching the minor loophole in her question. Liesl had been right about one thing. He was a pitifully bad liar. He might as well wave a sign. His answer had been utterly unconvincing, even if he was technically telling the truth.

"Yes."

She sighed and sat down next to him, hip to hip, leaning into the crook of his arm when he resituated himself with his back against the door frame. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she realized with a start that he was still wearing his clothes from earlier in the evening, boots and all. His wand was in his hand. She peered up at him questioningly. "I promised," he said simply.

"It didn't mean you had to do this. Sit on a stone floor all night. You set protection charms when I came in to go to bed," she scolded. "I can hear, Viktor, and I do a fair bit of reading. I recognized the words and your voice. You asked the favor. I don't know what the Guardian's children look like, but I suspect that big shaggy thing with wings patrolling outside my window earlier wasn't an owl. It was nearly the size of a...a... a... St. Bernard," she said softly.

"I promised," he said again in that same stubborn tone, and tightened his arm around her. She knew it was no use arguing, so she just settled into the position more comfortably, breathed in the scent of him, listened to his heart beat under her repositioned ear, and felt the even rise and fall of his chest. She knew he wouldn't sleep at all tonight. He had a promise to keep. And Viktor Krum, she had learned, was nothing if not an honorable man. After her scare, she felt all wrung out. She didn't have the energy to protest much.

It didn't take long for her breathing to fall into rhythm with his own, for all her muscles to go slack and drift off into sleep with the rest of her as she relaxed into him. He was still quite wide eyed, having prepared for tonight by sleeping late that morning, resting up as much as possible. Not that he couldn't have done it without preparation, since he had gotten by on far less sleep than this each night for years. For what seemed like forever. But he might as well come out of it as rested as possible. It was to his advantage to be alert in case something should happen. It just had to be until the dawn started coming, then he could rest safely. Evil men love the darkness.... where had he read that? And something about night or the dark hiding the wickedness that men do as well, and possibly 'be ye therefore children of the light'...? It must have been Paul ... must it not? It sounded like him.

Just until dawn. Then he could put her back into her bed and lie in his own for a few hours. The Guardian had obviously passed the word on already, judging from Hermione's comment earlier, and all the various Sentinels, the Guardian's children, would be keeping watch outside. According to Alexei this night watch of the passageway was unnecessary if the favor was granted, but past experience nagged Viktor otherwise. Never turn your back. The greatest dangers were often what was inside already, even the things or people you welcomed in with open arms, not something you had to keep out. That applied in all things. Besides, he had a promise to keep. He had committed, he had to see it through. Leaving it solely in other hands was out of the question. Do nothing halfheartedly. If you're going to drown, do not try it in shallow water. An old Bulgarian proverb Papa loved quoting.

Sitting here now, feeling her warm head on his chest, her soft body curled into his side, he was glad he hadn't let Alexei talk him out of it. It had been quiet and still, no sign of trouble, but he would not have rested in his own bed. It was worth a few hours sitting on the floor concealed in the dark just below the light line of the torches in exchange for the peace of mind. He didn't completely trust all the protection charms and security spells he could put on their rooms. Not when he could walk a few feet from his door and put himself, his eye and ears and wand, right there in addition to all those things. At this moment, a few hours on the floor seemed a small price to pay for the present company, unconscious and unresponsive though it might be. He wound a tendril of her hair loosely around a finger and examined it in the torchlight, picking up the highlights, feeling its softness. He caught the occasional scent of her shampoo, something light and sharp, something with a hint of citrus.

Craning his neck around the door frame, keeping his body as still as possible to avoid waking her, he took a look outside. The changing illumination behind the clouds out her window told him the dawn would be breaking soon, the moon was still just visible over the top of the rocks. A great hulking birdlike shape sat in a niche across the way, on the side of the mountain. Right where one of the Sentinels should be. Good. Its eyes, their eyes, alone would be quite good enough come dawn, and he could rest. He was sure there were others he couldn't see right now, in various spots on the grounds. As the first thin rays of light began to poke through the clouds nearly an hour later, he scooped her up as gently as possible, sliding his right arm slowly beneath her already tented knees, placed her back in the bed and closed her door. She never stirred. He took mental inventory and found he was only a little stiff, and tired, which was to be expected. In his room, he paused only to strip and drop his clothes and boots onto the floor with yesterday's clothes, tug on a pair of shorts. Normally he would have picked up after himself, but he had been quite busy with preparations these last two days. He would let the house elves do it this once, whenever they got to it. Crawling onto the bed without even pulling down the sheets, it seemed he could still feel her hair brushing his collarbone, the warmth of her cheek and her breath on his chest. He sprawled onto the pillow with a small smile playing on his lips and slept.

Hermione slept nearly an hour in her bed, then woke to the thin, misty gray light of early morning. It was past dawn, but still early, she figured, from the ethereal quality of the light, and the fog that hung heavy around the peaks and hadn't even started to burn off in the sun. She closed her eyes again, preparing to go back to sleep, but she started awake as she realized she was wearing her robe. Viktor. It hadn't been a dream. He had put her back, obviously. She slipped off the bed and went to her door. No Viktor. She glanced down the hall to his door, the passageway dim, still and undisturbed in the quiet, while everyone slept. She felt her way along the wall, her eyes slowly adjusting to the guttering torch light, and put a hand on the pewter door handle. She held her breath and turned, prayed it was unlocked, willed her heart to be quiet. If he was sleeping, she didn't want to wake him.

It took a few seconds for her eyes to readjust to the dawn light streaming in through the opening between his drapes and pick out his form on top of the bedcovers. The trail of his clothes spread out over a small patch of floor. His long limbs spread languidly over the bed, his bare skin ranged from tan to peach in the half light, the muscles well defined. She picked out his usual shorts riding low, a prominent hipbone jutting above the waistband, his slender frame, not so painfully skinny now, but still willowy, his face turned to the side and nearly buried into the pillow. His hair fell over his forehead, across the pillow in thick waves, brushed his lashes here, skimmed his cheekbone there. She fought the urge to brush it from his face. She could hear his breathing, deep and slow and untroubled. He had the barest trace of dark stubble along his jaw. She tried to stifle the cough that scratched at her throat, but it escaped, harsh against the stone walls and the cool air and the morning silence.

She held her breath once more, and waited for him to wake. Instead, he barely stirred, only burrowing more deeply into the pillow, then stilled. He was dead to the world at the moment. She felt a twinge of guilt. He was that exhausted because of her. Because of them. She crept back to the door, and shut it as gently as possible, then slipped back into her room and her bed.

*************************************************************

CHAPTER 28

 

He awoke to Alexei's voice at the door, "Viktor! Are you in there?" and the bright light of full morning. He was half tempted to pull the pillow over his ears and ignore it, to try to go back to sleep, but it might be important. Besides, any more sleep would probably be too much, and leave him more tired in the end. Anything that got Alexei up before noon on a Saturday had to be important, he thought as he smiled to himself and headed for the door. He didn't bother with his robe. Alexei wouldn't holler like that in front of anyone. He pulled the door open and caught Alexei in mid-rap, about to strike the door. He looked slightly taken aback.

"What?"

"Still... asleep?" Alexei asked, sounding surprised. He ducked his head to the side and surveyed the room behind Viktor curiously, as though looking for something.

"I was."

"I'll come in then. Cannot haff you out in the hall like that, there vill be a riot. If you do not haff company, that is. Vhat haff you been up to?" he asked, scrutinizing Viktor.

"Company?"

"She is not still here?"

"What?"

"Vell, you come to the door dressed, or should I say, undressed like that, hours past your usual rising time, vith bed head and a grin on your face like Wronski himself just complimented you on your feint, and a big pile of robes strewn all over the floor. Now, either you got up to some gymnastics last night that tired you out or you vere having something besides vhat they are serving downstairs for breakfast?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"Do you ever get your mind out of the gutter? Does it keep a summer home there or haff you moved it there permanently?" Viktor sighed and crossed his arms, exasperated. "I did nothing of the sort. Nothing like what you are implying. Want to check under my bed?"

"If you say so, Viktor. Nothing? I admire your restraint. You must be superhuman. The girl you talked about all this time is just down the hall and you did not even steal a kiss?"

"I prefer not to be a thief."

"Gah! Viktor, if you vere as self-righteous as you are virtuous, I vould get sick from standing next to you, much less listening to you. The purity fairly radiates off of you. I do not understand you. All those girls chase you all these years, and you do not so much as look their vay. Beautiful girls. Villing girls. You go off half a vorld avay and pine after some girl vith her nose always in a book, who does not know Wronski from a drunken leprechaun, pretty enough, I grant you, but nothing spectacular. This girl, who is three years younger, naive, probably, whose name you can barely say. You get her here, three doors down, private room, you know you can get avay vith anything, and you do not even attempt to -"

Viktor held up a silencing hand and broke in, "Do not say it. Do not dare imply that I would take advantage of someone. You would not understand if I explained it. Not yet. You will someday. When you wise up about Elena, figure out why the two of you keep getting back together, when you stop being such a fool about girls."

"Viktor Krum take advantage? Heavens, no. He vill not even accept vhat is offered. I loff girls. All kinds of girls, vhat can I say?" Alexei said with an exaggerated shrug.

"No. You love a girl. You like the idea of Alexei Poliakoff being a ladies man, chasing lots of girls. There is a difference. If you could get that ridiculous playboy fantasy out of your head, you would be much better off. Would you just admit you love Elena? No one here is trying to separate you two anymore. Igor's gone. Potenko would be thrilled if during his term as headmaster, he does not haff to catch you in a closet vith a different girl every week."

"Viktor, you bloody mind reader. Is it that obvious?"

"How obvious is it with me, Alexei?"

"Oh, so I might as vell be vearing a sign?"

"Blinking lights and ten foot letters. I haff seen billboards that are more subtle."

"You guarded her door, that is why you sleep so late, is it not?"

"Yes."

"You know that vas not necessary."

"But I did it anyway."

"Viktor," Alexei sighed, shaking his head, "I came in here to get you for breakfast, but I suppose ve haff missed that now. All this talk. How about ve take the girls on a picnic instead? Harry and Ron too. None of us haff eaten. I haff not seen her. The boys just got up. They vere tired from the trip, I guess. I suppose you vill insist on chaperones anyvay, being the decent and upstanding young man you are. I could trust my sister vith you."

"If you had one."

"If I had one. Come on, ve vill hit the kitchen like old times, go out to the garden," Alexei enthused.

"May I dress first or is that not on your schedule?" Viktor asked dryly.

"Might make for a more interesting picnic if you go that way. I vonder if Miss Granger is as trustworthy as you or as predatory as you seem to think I am? She vould haff to fight off a dozen other girls, but I bet she could take them. She might jump your bones over the orange juice if you go in your sleeping costume. Or out of it... Viktor, you need not glare at me like that. Okay. It was out of line. I apologize. I vas only joking. Viktor? I vill be in the hall... I vill knock on her door, come out vhen you finish dressing... Touchy about your lady, are you not? Loff does that to a man..."

***********************************************

Chapter 29

By the time he managed to get into some clean clothes he had to stop and pick up the pile on the floor. He found he couldn't stand to leave them there. It couldn't make him any later for breakfast. They were going to have to scrounge their own from the kitchen in any case. Elena, Alexei, Ron, Harry, and Hermione were all waiting on the landing outside his door already, Alexei with an outrageously oversized picnic basket on his arm. "The house elves might haff gone a bit overboard," Alexei said in a deadpan, "I told them there vere only six of us, but they packed enough for six regiments. I should not haff mentioned the vord 'guests'."

"So I see," Viktor replied. Hermione stepped away from the group and stood at his side. He noticed she looked nearly as pale as his face had been when he had washed it in the basin. Why was it that lack of sleep washed you out, drained your color? Alexei, evidently was making the same comparison, his eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them, but luckily, this time, he kept whatever he was thinking to himself. "East gardens?" Viktor asked him.

"East gardens. Big hedges this year," Alexei replied, nodding. He whirled and headed down the stairs. Outside the castle, they broke right and rounded the moat and the east tower. Hermione gasped as they came upon what must be the East Gardens. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, rows and rows of thick, towering hedges in various neat formations, crawling with blooms of every color, size, shape and description. "The circle?" Viktor suggested when they all paused. It was the least mazelike formation, nice and open, plenty of room to spread out. Maze. He kicked himself mentally. Why hadn't he thought about this?

The whole garden looked like a big maze, though it really was impossible to get lost inside it. Each graveled path always led out, if you stayed on it. None of the formations connected to one another, there was no dead end and your choice of path between the hedges only changed what scenery you got, which smells, which blooms, which vines, but it was a convincing enough illusion from the perimeter that many of the older students would tease new first years about dropping them off in the maze and letting them find their way out. They were the same type of hedges the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid, had used for the maze. It was what had prompted him to make the connection, to grunt, "Maze," when Bagman had expected them to guess what the third task was going to be.

Harry eyed the entrance a bit uncertainly, and Viktor felt a stab of guilt. Now who was poking at old wounds with a big sharp stick? "I know what it looks like, but it is really just a garden. No way to get lost. Gravel paths lead directly out, there are no dead ends. The circle is straight ahead, in the center," he said softly. They spread out along the wide path between the hedges and walked toward the towering circle in the center.

As they drew nearer, Hermione was able to work out what the monstrous yellow, red, orange and white blooms, some bigger than her head, were. " Lilies... those are the biggest lilies I've ever seen..."

"Lilies. Tig..." Viktor began.

"Ouch! That thing just stuck me!" Ron yelled, yanking his hand back from the wildly rustling foliage and sucking a finger. He had been trying to pluck one.

"Tiger Lilies," Viktor repeated, sighing. "You do not want a hug from one. Their thorns are as enormous as their blooms. They retract when they do not need them, like cat claws. There is a trick to getting one. Alexei here pestered the gardener until he would show him how. I'll show you when you get the picnic basket unpacked."

"So that is how you got vone vithout them eating you alive?" Elena asked Alexei.

"Nevermind I nearly took my hand off on those thorns anyvay." Alexei muttered.

"You are too impatient. If you did not rush, you would haff gotten away unmarked," Viktor told him.

"True. But Elena vas not going to vait all day," Alexei replied, plopping the picnic basket on the perfectly manicured grass in the middle of the circle of hedges and Tiger Lilies.

Viktor rustled around in the basket for a moment before coming up with a sharp paring knife. "You do not need all day," he mused, balancing the handle in his fingers, weighing it in his right hand, then dropping it down against his leg, loosely gripping it. He walked up to one of the hedges, and stood in front of one of the flaming orange blooms, nearly as broad as his hand. He stuck a long finger into the foliage, a few inches below the bloom, and stroked up the thick stem, trailing it up and out of the thick leaves, to the swelling just below the blossom. There he brought up his middle finger, and pinched the stem lightly between the two fingers. Then he stood and waited.

For a long minute, nothing happened. Then, the lily began to rustle, to almost slither out of the hedge. Hermione never knew that a flower could be menacing, but it reminded her too much of a snake, and the thorns were raising like hackles all along the stem, some well over an inch long. Viktor stepped back several times, but never took his eyes off of the flower. He left little slack in the curling stem and before long, he was standing a good three feet from the wall of flowers. Suddenly, the stem tensed, coiled slightly, and the bloom shot closer to Viktor's face. At the same time, he brought the paring knife up from beside his thigh and slashed it across in front of him, severing the stem cleanly. The stump of it hit the ground, then was gathered slowly back into the hedge like a fishing line reeled in. The thorns on the portion of stem he held promptly rained to the ground and withered. He handed it to Hermione without a word, then sat on the blanket next to her.

"Vot? No lily for me?" Elena asked lightly.

"You are more than welcome to get your own," Viktor laughed, laying the knife on top of the basket and she laughed too.

"He told me the same thing about peeling my caterpillars in Potions third year, gah, I hated that job," she told Hermione. "First vords I hear out of him in two months of being my partner. Just nods or grunts or shakes his head for two months, then the only thing he says to me all class is 'You are more than velcome to get your own'," she mocked Viktor's gruff voice.

"I cannot believe I was ever so rude. I will make it up to you. What color? Size?"

"Why the dance? Why can't you just slice it off at the hedge?" Hermione asked, breathing in the sweet scent of the bloom.

"The rest of them reach out and grab you if you are too close. See, the one you are holding, it tries to scare you off by moving, it only springs as a last resort when it realizes it has come out too far and the rest cannot help. If you slice it off at the hedge, the rest will cut you to ribbons before you can get out. Good thing they do not haff teeth! The mediwitch has put a lot of disinfectant on people who think they can get a Tiger Lily that way. They get it all right, but they also get enough scratches to make them think twice about getting a bouquet," Viktor grinned, popping one of the frosted grapes off the bunch into his mouth then opening one of the bottles of milk.

Elena stopped considering her choices for her flower and finally answered, "White, I think, a smaller one, for my hair tonight," she nodded to herself approvingly and held her fingers a short space apart. Viktor stood up and wandered around the inner perimeter of the circle, crunching on an apple and taking the occasional swig of milk, the knife handle tucked between his fingers, next to the neck of the milk bottle.

"Third year potions. The year of the completely random partner that you vere stuck vith all year. Remember that ridiculously complicated lottery system the professor came up vith? She could haff just drawn names, not assigned us all double-blind numbers and all that nonsense! Took her longer to set up the rules than it did to let us draw! My goodness, I had Estefania Bogolova as my partner. I know you vere not fond of her, Elena, but she vas gorgeous if somevhat flightly. It is a wonder I passed that class, staring at her all afternoon," Alexei said, "Luck of the draw, indeed."

At the mention of the name, Viktor did a fair impersonation of Poppet's chameleon routine, turning multiple shades of pink and red in a short space. "They are all too big in here, I will check around the outside hedges, they are smaller," he said a little too loudly and a little too fast. He strode off like someone who realized he had forgotten an urgent appointment but just might make it if he hurried.

Elena shot Alexei a dirty look when his footsteps faded beyond the hedges. "Alexei! Surely you know better than to bring her up!" she hissed in a reproving whisper.

"What?" Alexei asked, genuinely puzzled. "I haff no idea vhat you are talking about."

"Can you really be so clueless?" she whispered back, then slid her dark eyes to Hermione, who was looking at them both as though they had grown extra heads. "He has not mentioned her to you?" she asked Hermione. Hermione numbly shook her head no. What could be so awful about a girl that the mere mention of her name sent him blushing and running? "No, of course not. He vould not be so crass. It is not as though he would see it as something to brag about, like most boys. Estefania... she... she throw herself at him," Elena whispered.

"So? Half of the school does. Has for years," Alexei said matter-of-factly.

"No. She... she ... get herself expelled for it," Elena said.

"She transfer. To Beauxbatons," Alexei insisted.

"You really do not know? Vone night, vhen Viktor come back up rear staircase in early, early morning after travelling vith Vratsa during his sixth year, she vait for him. Tell him she need to be vith him. Offer herself to him," Elena gestured with her hands helplessly, as though trying to pull the words she was so reluctant to say out of someone else's mouth.

"You mean vant to, errrr, sleep vith him? Not all that new. Girl proposition him over breakfast right in front of me vonce in fifth year. He did not even get her name, just blushed at his eggs, then snarled at her and scared her off," Alexei complained as though he just couldn't understand what would have possessed Viktor to do such a thing.

"Vorse. I do not mean she just tell him she vant to go to bed vith him. She offer herself... right there ... on the landing! I mean she hike her robes, bend over the banister!" Elena's voice was urgent and low, which emphasized its huskiness.

Even Alexei's eyes went wide and his jaw went slack at that. "I did not know! How do you know? Vhat did he do?" Alexei tugged at the sleeve of her robe.

Elena waved him off impatiently. "I thought he vould haff told you. Maybe he too embarrassed to even tell you, Alexei. He told her no, yanked her off the banister, pulled her underthings back up and her robes back down, and vas going to run like scared rabbit, but the Potions Mistress already caught them both vhile she is coming back from kitchen. She had seen Viktor coming up the hall and vanted to make sure he made it to his room okay. Lucky she heard and saw whole thing, because Estefania tried to say Viktor vas going to force himself on her vhen she get caught."

A grimace passed over her face and she gritted her teeth. "Stupid, rotten girl. I never hear of a victim doing all the talking, then undressing herself for her attacker. Or a man dressing a girl he is about to attack. Viktor vas completely in the clear, just standing there vith his eqvitment bag, going back to his room, minding his own business. He had permission to be in the hall. She did not. There vas an impartial female vitness. I roomed vith her in same quad, remember? She cried for a day that they vere tearing her avay from the loff of her life by expelling her, the idiotic little trollop. Viktor vent back to Vratsa for a sudden two day practice until she left. They called it transfer. Karkaroff did not vant to embarrass Viktor any more than he vas already. You know Viktor vould haff died. Bad enough, if everyone had found out the truth. Vorse, vhat if they all think Karkaroff really did cover up for him, that he vas trying to..." she trailed off as she stopped and listened. Distant footsteps were coming toward them.

"Ron, close your mouth. Harry, you too. I hear him coming back," Hermione said hoarsely. Hermione, close your own mouth, she scolded herself silently.

"You too Alexei," Elena added, elbowing him. "Thank you, Viktor, this vill look loffly in my hair," she added brightly in a few moments, when Viktor reappeared in the gap between the hedges, holding a small, perfectly formed white Tiger Lily just the right size for tucking over her ear. He seemed to have gotten over being so shaken earlier. He put his empty milk bottle back in the basket and picked out another handful of grapes and ate them in silence.

"They usually haff informal Quidditch scrimmages Saturdays. Not really team scrimmages, anyvone can play if you show up, on a team or not, no coaches. If you vant to go get into a game, you can. Goot vay to burn time until lunch, tryouts right after," Alexei told Harry and Ron.

"Excellent idea. Harry and Ron can go play Quidditch, you boys can go pick up your dress robes at the tailor shop in the village, I know that is vhere they still are, both of you, do not lie, it vill only take you twenty minutes to fly there and back and make a stop besides. Hermione and I can wait here like a couple of queens for you two to bring us back some chocolates," Elena cut in, reaching out to either side of her and patting Viktor and Alexei playfully on the cheek.

"Does not want much, does she?" Viktor flashed a halfhearted smile at Alexei. He still seemed vaguely embarrassed, as though he had done something supremely stupid in front of them that he would just as soon forget.

"Madame commands, I dash. If you two really vant to play Quidditch, ve can show you to the pitches, introduce you, as ve go to the broomshed. Very informal. No set teams, they just scramble and haff fun...whoever shows..." Alexei addressed Ron and Harry.

"I haven't had a good Quidditch match against someone new in ages. I'm up for it. Ron?" Harry turned to his friend.

"Sure. I could use with a game. See you later, Hermione. Elena." Ron shuffled off with the rest of the guys, leaving her there with Elena.

"Males. Forget their own heads if they vere not sewn on," Elena said ruefully, shaking her head and chewing another grape. "They vould haff vaited until thirty minutes before the ball, then gone rushing around like chickens vith heads off."

But Hermione couldn't quite get her mind to shift gears. Not until she had some answers. "A girl really did that to him? Just..." Hermione began.

"Stripped herself and nearly jumped him on the staircase? By her own admission. I heard it from her lips vhen she blubber about being caught. Hard to miss her catervauling at three in the morning, after she get back from Karkaroff's office. Four beds in each quad, close quarters," Elena answered nonchalantly.

"No wonder he backed up so fast when Liesl touched him," Hermione mused, helping herself to another grape as well.

"Real piece of vork, Liesl. Her and Katrina fall out over vhether or not Liesl could get a date vith him. Bah, horrid girls," Elena said, screwing up her mouth in distaste.

Another thought occurred to Hermione. Did Elena...? "Elena... do you...did you ever...like... Viktor?" she asked, somewhat fearful of the answer.

Elena gave a throaty, rich laugh. "You mean the 'hike my robes and bend over the banister' kind of liking for Viktor? No. I like him, but not that vay. But I can see vhy so many girls do like him that vay, though. Does not hurt that he makes a lot of money and is famous, but that is not all of it. He is qvite handsome. Even vith that nose of his. Maybe because of it. Keeps his face from being so perfect, makes it more interesting. And he is a bit self-conscious of it, among other things, so he does not get too full of himself for his looks. Big, strong, athletic, proud looking vhen he is not slouching around vith his chin in his robes and his shoulders drooping like he vas most of last few years. He has very nice features, eyes, mouth, chin, vonderful hair. I hear his papa had a fair number of girls chasing him vhen he vas here, and he certainly vas not famous, unless it vas for being so bullheaded," Elena squinted and considered a moment before continuing.

"He knows how to treat a girl, his refusal to peel my caterpillars excepted. Maybe I should haff cried. He has a soft heart, he is kind, honorable, gallant. He vould never take advantage. I could do much vorse than Viktor. But ve haff only been friends. I got the feeling I just vas not vhat he vanted a long time ago. I still feel sometimes I barely know him. Only person I ever see him open up to is you, and to a lesser degree, Alexei. Karkaroff did not get the hint. He figured since ve look like a nice couple, ve vould be. Both Bulgarian. I vas vone of the few females he even tolerated, so Karkaroff tried to push us together. Viktor very nicely declined vithout hurting my feelings. Karkaroff called us out last year to dance first at the Opening Ball, and Viktor actually muttered at him, 'Ve are still just friends,' before ve started. Karkaroff vas all about looks. Viktor, he is too qviet. I prefer prattling chatterboxes, like me," she smirked a little at that last.

She twirled the flower in her fingers and continued, "Viktor vould vant to strangle me if he knew I had just talked about him to you like that. I can hear him now. 'Elena, Hermione can make up her own mind! I do not need you acting like a publicist! She vill think I put you up to it!' But he did make me practice your name. That vorried him endlessly, that he could not get your name off his tongue the right way last year. He knew how it vas supposed to sound, but could not do it. Tortured himself over it. That is vhen I knew," Elena confided.

"Knew what?" Hermione asked.

"That he loved you, of course. I caught him practicing your name vone evening. Viktor never practices anything unless he finds it vorth his vhile. His coaches and me, ve haff been nagging him for years to practice his English, he never vorry about more than getting by vhen necessary before. He has been practicing more than your name, now. I bet he lived behind a dictionary for a few veeks after he left Hogvarts, so he could write to you. Obviously, he has practiced his speaking. Hermione, do not take this the wrong vay, but I hope you are as trustvorthy and honorable vith another person's heart as Viktor is," Elena put a hand on Hermione's arm. "He has been through a lot. I get the feeling I do not know the tenth of it. I doubt I know as much as Alexei, all told. I think he wrote to you, told you. He came back to Durmstrang fifteen pounds heavier but a hundred pounds lighter, you see? Each letter he sent, even these last two veeks, he got a little lighter, like he was unloading a rucksack he has been carrying the entire time I know him. I know I probably sound like an overprotective mother hen, but Viktor does not give his heart lightly. Do not break it," Elena said gently, an edge of pleading to her voice.

"He told me some of it. Harry too, what concerned him. I don't think he has told me all of it, either. I don't know if he can. Put it in words, I mean. I don't intend to hurt Viktor. I don't intend to," Hermione said firmly.

"Then you are miles ahead of those other girls. None of them care vhat they do to him, just that they vin. He is just a piece of meat to them, a trophy," Elena spat. "Like he vas to Igor. Like ve all vere to Igor."

******************************************************

Chapter 30

"Viktor? I vant to apologize," Alexei whispered in the aisle of the confectionery.

"Alexei Poliakoff? Apologize? Whatever for?" Viktor said lightly, putting yet another box back on the shelf and picking up another to consider. Alexei knew it was forced.

"Vhat I said in the hedges this morning. I had no idea. Elena told me. I never vould haff mentioned her name..." Alexei trailed off as the corners of Viktor's mouth pulled down and he looked somewhat ill.

"She knows?"

"She roomed vith her, that year, remember? In the same quad. That is how she found out. You know Elena. I am sure she threatened to skin the other girls in there vith her if they told another soul. I imagine that is as far as it vent."

"Hermione knows?" Viktor turned, if possible, an even whiter shade of pale.

"She does now." Viktor put the box back on the shelf harder than necessary, snatching up the next wordlessly. "She does not think less of you. If anything, it should make her respect you more."

Viktor scowled and ground his teeth together so hard that Alexei could hear them scraping. He barely moved his lips when he spoke. "That is not the point! Would you want Elena to know if some ... some... girl ... treated you like... like... you were some... horse put out to stud! Like you are looking for some kind of brood mare!" he sputtered with poorly suppressed anger.

"Viktor..."

Viktor slammed yet another box back on the shelf, so hard that the shelf vibrated and the wizard at the register leaned out to give them a curious look. "I haff no idea what she likes. The subject of chocolate never came up," he complained, frustrated. From half naked girls leaning over banisters to chocolate and back. Nikolas Krum's hopscotch conversational style would never be dead as long as Viktor lived, Alexei thought to himself.

"Viktor, pick one."

"What do I do wrong, Alexei? Tell me. I would like to know. What the hell do I do that gives them the wrong idea? I attract all the wrong ones like..."

"Wrong. You attracted one right one. That is all you are entitled to in a lifetime. Some people do not even get that. And I do not think she cares vhat you bring back. You cannot go fix getting famous. You did everything right. Those wrong girls, that is vhat they vant, your name. She vants you. Just you. You trust Granger. Forget about the rest of them. You haff nothing to be ashamed of. More than I can say. More than they can say," Alexei spoke softly and put his hand on Viktor's shoulder.

Viktor turned and looked down at him. "She could haff gotten me expelled. If Professor Malatova had been one minute later coming by, maybe she would haff believed her. I wondered what I did wrong, maybe I encouraged her..."

Alexei grabbed his other shoulder and gave him a little shake. "Viktor. Stop beating yourself up. You are not responsible for everyvone else. You are about as encouraging to a girl as a mad hippogriff vith a backache and a bad attitude. Estefania vas a total fruitloop," he said with such sincerity and seriousness that Viktor laughed. "Now! Buy your girlfriend some chocolate, already!" he ordered sternly.

Viktor went and interrupted the middle aged witch with dark hair stocking the glass display with various truffles and chocolate covered fruits. "Look, I give up. I never bought much chocolate. What do I get for a girl?" he asked in Russian.

"One of those Opening Ball dates, hmm? How about a truffle assortment? Guaranteed she will like at least one of them, if she likes chocolate at all. Want me to put one together? One of each kind?" she asked, waving a hand at the rows in the display case.

"Go ahead. I suppose she can take the rest home."

"I vill haff the same," Alexei added.

"This is more money than I haff seen you spend in one day ever. In a month, even," Alexei ribbed in English, nudging Viktor's elbow.

"Say, aren't you Viktor Krum? My wife works at the tailor shop, said she fitted you for your robes. And fifteen girls saying they were going to the Opening Ball as your date," the wizard said as he rang up their purchases.

Viktor nodded to the first query, then waited for him to finish. "No, just one date for me. The one I am taking, she has not been in. She got her robes elsewhere. Could not make it here," Viktor replied simply.

"Too bad. The wife would have given her a deal if the two of you had come in together. She always said you were a nice young man when you came in for your school robes, real polite. If she did that for all of the girls that claimed to date you every ball, though, she would have to redo her price list and be done," the old wizard handed Viktor his wrapped parcel.

"Your wife always does a marvelous job. She even manages to make me look decent. She will not haff to worry about those girls much longer," Viktor told him with a smile. He jerked his head at Alexei, and they walked out the door.

****************************************************

CHAPTER 31

"Really? You like arithmancy? That vas alvays my poor subject. Viktor said you vere goot at everything but Divination," Elena laughed again, her beautiful, rich laugh. Hermione enjoyed listening to her laugh. She was nowhere near as cold and aloof as Hermione might have imagined her.

"Divination! Creative writing, you mean. At least the way Trelawney teaches it. She's nothing more than an old fraud. Maybe it would have been a decent class if someone else had taught it," Hermione said as she finished packing the things back into the picnic basket.

"Maybe Potions teachers are required to be sour. Professor Malatova is not exactly sveet on any of her students. I think it is required. You need somevone to punish, to do those disgusting things like harvesting frog guts and dragonveed and gnat's blood," Elena laughed. "Viktor got stuck doing the last once. He sat there for nearly the whole hour, looking at a book, and she vas furious. Ready to give him a veek of detentions, she vas. Vith ten minutes to go, he pull out his vand and do an extraction charm on them, the whole lot at vonce, he vas done. Turns out he spent the hour looking it up, how to do it vithout haffing to do it himself the hard vay. Madame Malatova could not figure out vhether to brag on him for being so clever or thrash him for being cheeky. She settle for not inventing any more reasons to give him detention. Supposedly he did not volunteer himself enough, the first time she give it to him. Viktor never volunteer himself in class." Elena's laugh tumbled out of her mouth again.

"What tales are you telling on me?" Viktor's voice called from outside the hedge.

"Oh, all of them. Next, the vone about you and Alexei nearly getting yourselves eaten by a dragon," she said airily.

"Too late. I told that one. Hermione, I haff about forty different varieties of truffle here. If you tell me you hate truffles, I am tempted to toss myself into that hedge," Viktor offered her one of the parcels in his hand.

"No, I love truffles. Any kind of chocolate, really," Hermione responded, untying the string around the brown paper.

"Same for Madame Elena. I know you loff truffles," Alexei grinned.

"Come vith me to the castle. I vant your opinion on vhich jewelry I should vear," Elena tugged at Alexei's hand and gave him a pointed look, raising her eyebrow, then casting her gaze back at Viktor and Hermione. "Ve vill leave the basket here. You might vant some milk to go vith those truffles," she called back, pulling Alexei after her.

"See you tonight," Alexei called as he left the circle of hedges. Viktor ran his fingers back through his hair, then scratched the back of his neck and stood there awkwardly, as though not quite sure what to do.

"Sit on the blanket with me. I have to eat at least one of these. You really shouldn't have. A chocolate bar would have been enough," she said as she lifted the top off the box. To her surprise, the truffles were huge, easily the length of her middle finger.

"Never argue with the saleswoman after you ask for advice," he replied. "She said truffles, I bought truffles. I haff not bought chocolate in years," he added.

"Really? Why not?" she asked, biting into one of the darker chocolate shells.

"Saved money. Made my coaches happier, too. Did not get to the village that often anyvay. Not that I did not...or do not make up for it by eating everything else I can get my hands on, so maybe just to save money, then," he said, running a finger over a smudge of cocoa on the inside of the box lid.

"This one's incredible. Dark chocolate on the outside, and semisweet on the inside. Here, you eat the other half, I'm going to try at least one more," she insisted, holding it up to his lips without thinking. He looked a little surprised, but took it between his even white teeth. "Any recommendations?" she asked after a moment, twirling her finger randomly over the box of chocolates. He reached out and stilled her finger, then placed his own on a piece dusted with powdered sugar.

"Those. I remember those, I think. Milk chocolate on the outside, caramel fluff in the center." He removed the piece in question and carefully divided it with his fingers. He offered half to her in the same fashion, and she could smell the caramel. He ate the other half only after she nodded her head approvingly while chewing. Viktor dug two bottles of milk out of the basket, opened them both and handed her one.

"Couple more?" she asked. He nodded. She picked up one that had been iced with tiny blue stripes. "Do I smell orange on that one?" She snapped it open. While it looked like a regular truffle, she could definitely smell orange. She tested it in her mouth. The chocolate had just the smallest hint of orange essence hidden in it.

After he had swallowed his half, he studied the box and laid a fingertip on one with small white icing x markings on the top. "Those are the lemon ones I think. Like the last. Or maybe it is lime. I think they had all three." He divided this piece as well, and smelled his half. "Lemon, so I was right the first time," he told her, offering the other piece to her between his thumb and forefinger. They finished their milk in silence, and he gathered up the empty bottles and placed them back in the basket. She carefully put the lid back on the box and set them aside, putting the Tiger Lily blossom on top. He reclined back on his elbows, closed his eyes, tilted his head back, chin in the air, and let the breeze push his hair back from his forehead.

"Tired?" she asked finally.

"A little," he conceded. "You?"

"A little," she echoed. She lay down flat on the blanket and watched the thick clouds roll by for a moment. Then she gave in to impulse and tapped his elbow lightly. He opened his eyes and noticed her new position, so he reclined fully as well, the top of his dark head nestled in the mass of her hair, so close that they could have touched temples by turning their heads an inch. A loose tendril of his hair, caught by the wind, occasionally brushed against her face, and she studied his profile out of the corner of her eye. They both tracked the clouds for a bit, squinting against the sun, but soon, he dropped his lids a bit too long and his eyes stayed closed, so Hermione turned her head and tucked her chin against his shoulder, her nose just brushing his cheek, his hair tickling her face when the air lifted it. Before long, she dozed too, there in the warm sunshine and the breeze. They both went in and out several times before rousing themselves for the walk back to the castle and lunch.

*********************************************

Chapter 32

After lunch they walked back toward the Quidditch pitch for tryouts. "Seekers first, this time, so you do not haff to stay any longer, if you do not want to. I thought maybe we would go to the library..."

"Viktor Krum? Did you just ask me on a date to a library?" Hermione teased.

"I thought you could sit at a table and I could go find myself a pack of stupid boys and we could hide in the stacks and giggle at you, just to see what it feels like, for a change. I thought you would want to see it. You cannot tell me you are this close to a library you haff not been in and you are not dying to get in there. You had to take a turn through the one in Sofia, even though you do not read a speck of Bulgarian," Viktor teased.

"True. I would like to see it. I just didn't want to sound like a complete wet blanket by showing up for a ball and being all eager beaver about the library, of all things," she confessed.

"You love books. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Remember, I might not be here if several years ago some woman had not liked books so much that she moved in over a bookshop. Maybe someday we will be telling people that books are to blame for the two of us haffing to waltz together at all those formal receptions," he laughed. They slid into a seat a couple of benches up from the front bleachers, next to Harry and Ron, who were already sitting there with Elena and Alexei.

"Well, Poppet's got her full rooting section," Ron told them when they sat down. "Now she just has to deliver. By the way, the scrimmages were great! Loads of fun, I'd like some of the Durmstrang lot on my team anyday," Ron enthused. Pushkin's seeker tryouts proved to be a lot like the Madame Hooch method. Poppet had the top time in the single trials, catching the snitch in forty seconds, and she held her own quite well in the free-for-alls, managing to come up with the snitch first three of the five times. She was by far the fastest in the time trials. By the time Pushkin blew his whistle and dismissed them, she was beaming.

" V-v-v-v-viktor, d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-do y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-you th-th-th-th-th-think I-I-I-I g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-got i-i-i-it?" she shyly addressed his kneecaps rather than his face.

"I would be very hard pressed to pick anyone but you. Pushkin is no fool. I saw him fiddling with his mustache when you were flying, that is his tell, he probably cannot wait to put your name at the top of the list," Viktor responded.

"B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-bet h-h-h-h-h-h-he n-n-n-n-ne-near-near-nearly tw-t-t-t-tw-tw-twirled i-i-i-i-i-it off d-d-d-d-d-dur-during y-y-y-y-y-y-your tr-tr-tr-tr-tryout!" she grinned.

"Oh, I do not know about that. Hermione, are you ready to go?" Viktor turned to her expectantly.

Hermione wrestled with her answer for a moment. Poor Marianne's smile had vanished at Viktor's words, but Viktor was looking at her expectantly, ready to go. There was no way she could pretend that she would just love to sit here for the next hour watching beaters and keepers and chasers try out rather than go to the library. Viktor knew that she wasn't nearly as interested in that sort of thing as Harry and Ron. "Sure," she said finally. "I'll see the rest of you tonight if I don't see you before," she addressed those sitting on the bench as Viktor took her hand and led her back out of the bleachers.

"Poppet, you let me know where Pushkin puts you tomorrow," Viktor called back when he had nearly rounded the end of the stands. She nodded back numbly.

************************************************

Chapter 33

"How much time do you want to get ready?" Viktor asked, looking at the clock over the circulation desk and Madame Durshenkova, a tall, thin witch with a bun and slightly graying black hair. She reminded Hermione rather a lot of Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, we could waste another half hour at least. You know I'm not high maintenance," she murmured, flipping through the book in her hand. "So is that what Durmstrang looked like when it was built?" she asked, jabbing a finger at a woodcut illustration.

"According to the caption. See there, those are the numbers? Remember, cyrillic reads differently. Was not much to see then, was it? They added the other buildings on the grounds something like a hundred years later, best I remember. Come here, I will show you my favorite shelf," he took the book from her and put it back in its proper place.

He led her by the hand back a few stacks, to a deserted corner. The shelves were sparsely populated by some older, slightly frayed books with worn bindings. She was somewhat surprised to see that the subject card on the shelf read "Muggle Writings". It looked oddly out of place, a scruffy little corner in the small, but nicely kept building and shelves. "This is your favorite shelf?"

"Guess why."

She studied the titles intently, passing her finger over the collected works of Shakespeare, a compilation of quotes, the poems of Shelley, even a King James Bible that looked as though it had been there since the time of King James himself. Buying time to think, she studied the nook, a dim corner with an aging wooden bench covered in pillows that were a bit threadbare at the seams. How on earth could this be his favorite shelf, she wondered to herself, it looked like the most neglected portion of the otherwise quite well-appointed library. She was just about to say so, when it dawned on her. "Because it's deserted," she whispered with a smile.

He reached up and pulled a thick book with what looked to be Russian (she could never be sure, but Viktor had said most of the books in the library were in Russian with only a few in English, German, and Bulgarian) writing on the cover off the shelf and turned it over in his hands. "Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment. I had to haff something to read while I hid out back here. I got tired of packing things back here, so I started reading what was already here," he replaced the volume while he spoke. "War and Peace," he said, pulling out another thick volume, sitting on the bench and setting the book on his knees, flipping the pages. He soon shut the cover and slid it carefully back onto the shelf. She sat on the bench next to him and leaned into his side, much as she had on the floor the previous night.

 

He dipped his head and buried his cheek in her hair, arm draped across her shoulders, his chin against her temple. She reached up and put her hand on his other cheek, cupping his face, twisting to put her other hand on the opposite side, turning him toward her, then examining him. "May I?" she asked him, grinning. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he leaned over slightly. She gave him a soft kiss on the mouth, then pulled away, hands still on his face. "We should go get ready," she added under her breath.

"Yes. We should. But I think I could spend the evening on this bench," he replied in an undertone as the librarian appeared at the end of the shelf.

"But you cannot. Go get yourselves ready so I can close the library," she said with an indulgent smile. "Viktor, you haff a funny idea of what to do vith a date before a ball. Most girls like somevhere other than the library," she smirked at him.

He blushed slightly and got up, grabbing Hermione's hand and trailing her along behind him. "She is not most girls," he told Madame Durshenkova as he passed, and tossed her a small smile. She chuckled under her breath and shook her head as she watched them go.

*************************************************

Chapter 34

"I bet Viktor isn't doing this," she said to herself. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Hermione twisted her hair up into a bulky French twist and put the silver clasp in firmly. That's got most of it, at least, she thought, looking into the mirror and tucking a few stray tendrils back into and under the twist with bobby pins. It was a losing battle to get all of her hair tucked in without at least a gallon of hair potion, because curls wanted to spray from the twist in every direction, so she simply fluffed the longer curls, ignored the smaller, loose ones brushing the nape of her neck, and hoped she looked stylishly mussed, rather than just messy. She surveyed herself in the mirror and nervously smoothed the skirt of her dress robe again, though there wasn't a crease or wrinkle in sight.

She had chosen a sleek, satin robe in silver with a matching pair of sensible but dressy platform sandals and a light cloak. She fastened the clasp onto the cloak at her throat, and took one last look. Madame Malkin had assured her that the silver looked fantastic on her. The slit over her left leg made it easy to wear, to dance in, the shoes were perfect with it. It was a bit more than she was used to spending, but they had seem worth it. Used to spending. Who am I kidding? Like I bought tons of dress robes in years past. The Yule Ball robe was the first time she had so much as considered the existence of dress robes, much less shopped for them. I don't know why I'm so nervous, she thought to herself. He asked me here. He wants me here. He's already seen me dance, so I can't possibly embarrass myself any more than I already have by being a klutz on the dance floor. He has the hard job. He has to lead. He leads well. He made me look more than decent at it. I didn't kill anyone with my waltzing. Or even my flying. He liked me with my big teeth and bushy hair, just as much as he liked me with dress robes and my hair all slicked down. Surely he'll meet me halfway and like me in a dress robe and my hair up, if not tamed.

She mentally shook herself and began a stern lecture in her head. Hermione Granger, he doesn't care if your hair is perfect or if you have on the most expensive robe in the room. Get a grip on yourself. Stop obsessing. She stayed her hand from reaching up to a stray curl at her temple. Leave it. If he's so bothered by your escaping hair, he can fix it, she thought to herself with a touch of hysteria. I like it. Isn't that what he said? He wouldn't have said that, if he didn't mean it. Not even to take the mickey out of Katrina. On impulse, she smoothed a little lipstick onto her mouth. There. That's it. I'm done. No more fussing. I've already wasted thirty minutes on my hair alone. Unbidden, her hands smoothed over the folds of her robe again. I've gone completely obsessive compulsive, she laughed to herself. Is this what being in love is like? You develop a rousing case of mental illness? Freak out over every detail? Go completely barmy, spare in the head? I bet Viktor isn't doing this.

I bet Hermione is not doing this, Viktor thought to himself as he opened up the cupboard for the third time, intending to fetch the same pair of boots he had already come after twice already. How do you manage to forget something twice when you only have to travel a few feet across the room? First, boots... oh, no wait, I need the sash. What was I going after in the first place? Oh, yes, boots. But I would need the clothes first. Boots last. Great, and I still forgot the stupid boots. Is this what happens to you when you fall in love? Your mind goes on permanent vacation and you lose the ability to do something so basic as dress yourself? Fantastic. As though I did not have enough trouble out of that task in the first place. Never gave much thought before to what I looked like, anyway. School robes have their advantages. No thinking about what to wear. Today, the scarlet I think. Or maybe scarlet. No, I will be really adventurous and wear the scarlet instead. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Boots. Boots. Boots? Oh, look, a right and a left, and both from the same pair as well! I have managed to count up to two, hurray for me! Most intelligence I have shown in the last half hour. It is a wonder I did not drown in the bath!

Good grief, I am going to look a right idiot in these things. Why on earth do I ever let Alexei talk me into anything? To shut him up, probably. Me and my big mouth. Telling him she liked the new Quidditch uniforms. What was I thinking? Then you should get something dressier made the same way, indeed. Pants and short robe. Everyone else is going to be wearing long robes, and there I am going to be in these things. Katrina or whatever her name was had one thing straight. I am royalty alright. A royal twit. Well, they have to be better than what I am wearing now, right? I could just show up in this towel, and while I am at it, with my hair dripping wet, that would make for a pretty short date. Then Rita Skeeter can print 'Viktor Krum struck dead by Durmstrang Opening Ball date for daring to show up in a towel' tomorrow. I will just go to her door and suggest we stay in, forget the ball. He snickered as the completely absurd picture crept into his mind. Sure, Viktor, do that in the towel and put your foot in your mouth again. Have not done that enough this weekend.

He considered the pile of clothes nestled in the unwrapped parcel from the tailor shop and tried to talk himself into putting them on. Viktor, you bought them, you are stuck with them, you cannot get something different in the next twenty minutes, and you have outgrown everything else in your closet that would be half decent to wear to this thing. Put them on already. She liked the Quidditch uniform. She said so. Hermione does not engage in petty flattery. If she had hated it, she would have said so. Well, maybe not, but she would not have told you that you looked nice in it if she had not meant it. It is not like you have a choice at this point. Put the things on, do something, just stop standing here like a big lump!

The pants first. And the bloody boots I have had such a time getting all of ten feet with. Heaven help me, I have huge feet. Three sizes bigger than Papa's, and he is not exactly what I would call dainty. But then, they go with the nose and the outsized hands, do they not? At least you stand up straight occasionally, now, instead of ducking your ears into your shoulders all the time. Now the robe, then the sash. This is a first. Standing in front of a mirror before I leave for a Durmstrang ball. For anywhere, for that matter. Do I look like something of a prat? No. I probably look like a complete prat. White pants. Oh, that is asking for it. I give myself ten minutes before I get something on them. Maybe I should not have gotten my hair cut. Maybe I should have cut all of it, not just the back, since it is nearly in my eyes. Maybe I should just get out from in front of this mirror and walk down the hall already. I will turn into another Alexei at this rate, always fussing over himself and preening.

The nose is not going to get any better in the next ten minutes, either, no matter how much you stare at it. Get over yourself. You had the same damn nose last year at the Yule Ball. It was every bit as big and hooked and crooked then. It is not like De La Croix's bony elbow did any more damage to it. She seems fine with it. Teach you to stop catching bludgers with your face. Now get you and your nose and your big feet and hands down the hall, or you're going to be late, and that's not being very gentlemanly. Alexei and Elena were going to take Harry and Ron down, they're probably already gone, all you have to do is walk a few feet down the hall, knock on one door, walk one girl down the stairs and manage not to make a complete fool of yourself before you get down there. Or after. But it is not just a girl. It is her. It is Hermione. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, so tight he saw stars behind his eyelids. "I bet Hermione is not doing this", he scolded himself.

He forced himself out his own door and into the hall, staring at her door. You would think doing things like being in the World Cup would make you immune to the jitters. But somehow being with this one person all night was a thousand times more intimidating than being in front of those crowds. That was just a stupid Quidditch match. I did that a hundred times before. Did the words 'stupid Quidditch match' actually go through my head? Where did that come from? Knock, you fool. You cannot just stand out here all night, staring at the door like a starving stray crup, willing her to come out. He raised his hand and rapped lightly with his knuckles. That was a weak, weak knock, Viktor. Miracle if she heard that. He gathered his courage, raised his hand to rap again, harder.

Hermione leapt up from her perch on the bed at the first rap, grabbed the doorknob and twisted, pulling it open to catch Viktor there, with his hand raised, a look of mild surprise on his face. "Oh. Sorry. I thought maybe you hadn't heard, I did not knock very hard," he said.

"I thought it was about time, I was listening for you! Let me get my cloak, just in case, and I'll be ready to go! Oh, and I forgot to give this back to you in Bulgaria. It's the snitch you handed me," she said, pulling the golden ball from her bag. Gah! Quit being so eager beaver, Hermione! You nearly ran him over getting the door open! Oh my. Oh...oh...my. Shut your mouth Hermione, you're gawking. But I can't help it. She ran her gaze from the bottom of his boots to his face. It was something like his dress uniform, but even more formal, somehow. Softer and less structured at the same time. It was the first time she had seen him in a robe of any color other than red. Blood red Durmstrang robes. Bulgarian scarlet for the Quidditch uniforms. Now...this.

This is different. She still would have called the boots "riding boots", since they were smooth, round toed, and had a low, blocky heel, but these were so smooth and highly polished she was sure she could have seen herself in them. They gleamed, and they were so black, they looked like polished onyx, hugging his calf to just below the knee. Close-fitting white pants, wool from the look of them. A soft cream color, really, not white. Not harsh white, but subtle and warm. On top, a black satin robe with long sleeves, tied with a matching sash of the same fabric and color, softly draped over him, the neck laced loosely with silvery gray laces and mostly open, his collarbones and the chain of the locket he had been given peeking out over the neckline, the bottom hem striking his leg midway down the thigh. His hair fell in thick dark waves over his forehead, brushing his brows. Even his eyes looked almost black in the dimmer light. Black, black, black, from head to toe, broken only by the tan of his skin, the silver of the laces, and the light pants. A heavy school cloak was folded neatly and hung over one arm. Once again, she was struck by the change in his physical appearance over the last few months. Weeks, really. Alexei was right. He looked so much healthier and approachable. Not all bones and angles and hunched shoulders and invisible walls. Sleek. Shiny. Even his hair shines. And I bet he did not spend the entire hour tormenting himself about getting ready, either.

Oh my word...she looks even better than at the Yule Ball and the reception, and I did not think that was possible. Her arms were bare, the robes sleeveless. Held on her shoulders by simple spaghetti straps, they cascaded over her in silver, satiny falls and her left calf just peeked through the demure slit that started about level with her knee. The hem fell just above her ankle, and his eye was drawn down to the platforms sandals, with their silver flowers and leaves worked in metal. He looked back to her face. That smile. It might be nice if you answered her, instead of just gawking at her like a simpleton. "You keep it. I wanted you to haff it," he said.

"Are you sure?" she said, giving him another shy smile. He nodded. She turned and dropped it back into her bag.

"You..." they both began at the same time, verbally stepping on one another. "You first," she insisted.

What was I going to say? What do I want to say? He reached his right hand up halfway to his face, abruptly dropped it, then quickly braced it on his hip, bending his knee and shifting his weight. Get your hand away from your hair. Put it down. On your hip. How do you forget how to operate an arm? Off my damn hip. Stop slouching! This is not hanging out at Quidditch practice! Stand up straight and spit it out! "You ... absolutely incredible...it... does not...do it justice by a long shot." Grrrr! What the blue blazes was that? Is that the best you could come up with? Maybe I should take a page from Petyr's book and just say 'You haff pretty hair', although I suspect that works better when you are his age...

She smiled shyly at his boots, blushing from the compliment. Stop staring at his boots! You'll be stuttering next, like Marianne, and you do not have the next hour to stammer at him about how wonderful that outfit looks on him. Those Hogwarts girls would really want to rip me to pieces if they could see him now. See me now. With him looking at me like I'm some sort of dream girl. Standing ten inches away from him...staring at his feet like a big idiot! Like some sort of fascinated magpie...ooooooh....shiny! Look at the shiny boots! Say something! "Thank you. I was just about to say the same thing. You look fantastic. First time I've seen you in anything but a red robe," she murmured. Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. Oh, well spotted, Hermione. It's not red. Duh. I bet he noticed. He knows his colors. He's not three!

"You look lovely. I could go on and on, but it would just be useless noise. We should head on down now. If we wait much longer, Alexei will be back up here with a posse," he told her, offering his arm. Oh glory be, I managed a few sentences. All by myself. I think they might have even had a subject and a verb in the proper order. Now carry her cloak, already. She laid her hand on his forearm, and he offered the other, with his cloak draped across it. "Your cloak? You might need it later, after dark," he told her. She draped her cloak across his, and they walked to the head of the stairs. Just make it down the stairs. Stairs now. Panic later.

Don't trip going down the stairs. I would absolutely die if I go tumbling down the central staircase in front of all those people milling around down there. Who am I kidding? In front of him. Stairs now. Panic later.

************************************************************

Chapter 35

"I vas beginning to vonder..." Alexei said as Hermione and Viktor approached. "Now, did I know vhat I vas talking about or not?" he asked Elena.

Elena gave a low whistle. "I haff to admit...much as I hate to... you vere right. Viktor... that is some outfit. You might be the only man alive who can get avay vith formal dress that looks suspiciously like a Quidditch uniform."

"Uniform! That reminds me... Viktor, thank you. The tailor made an entire set of robes for the team, and they look great," Harry said, readjusting his glasses on his nose. Viktor smiled, but stayed silent.

Elena continued, "Good thing you do haff a date. You vill start a new trend. And Hermione... see, I haff done my homework, unlike Alexei... you vill be Miss Granger or Madame for the next six months for him... your robe is fabulous. You look vonderful," Elena said, playing with a fold of Hermione's skirt. "And the both of you need to stop imitating Poppet every time anyvone pays you a compliment tonight. You vill be getting them a lot. You are acting more bashful than Anton and Ivanova's little boy, Viktor."

"Homework? Elena, you at least haff spoken some English your whole life. Some of us vere not so lucky, Viktor and I, ve got our first real English lessons here," Alexei said.

Elena shrugged and smoothed Hermione's skirt back down, then her own. "Liesl and Katrina haff both collared a date, so I do not think you vill suffer too much wrath. Heaven help the poor boys, but at least you do not haff to vorry about either of them blaming you for them being dateless. Oh, and you know that little boy, oh, what was his name? Third year, heart shaped face, and the tiny cowlick he can never get to lie down? Bronsky's House? Hans Hauptmann?"

"The vone who came first in the seeker time trials among the second team tryouts?" Viktor asked.

"Yes, that vone. You vould associate him vith something Quidditch vould you? I think he is interested in Poppet. There has been a lot of staring going on, even out here in the foyer. Maybe you ought to haff a talk vith him," Elena said with a soft smile.

Viktor looked over the crowd and across the large foyer just outside the hall, to a large crowd of third year girls and boys, separated by a few feet. Marianne was with the girls, and sure enough, there was a slender boy with a heart shaped face and rather sharp chin, and a small cowlick that waved above his head like a flag looking at her longingly from among the pack of boys.

"Why? He looks harmless enough, or haff you heard something I haff not?" Viktor asked her after studying them both.

Elena sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Not that kind of talk. He is harmless. He likes her, you big dolt. You just might haff to nudge him toward her, he might take all night to ask her to dance othervise. Or vorse, not do it. Give him some advice. Or do you vant Poppet to stand there all night vhile her friends dance? Or shall ve just draft Ron and Harry rather than letting them talk Quidditch vith that group over in the corner or dance vith somevone else or eat, vhatever they vant? Look, you go plant the idea in his head vhile I take her to the powder room and put a little makeup on her. Not that she needs it, but I need some excuse. You do not mind if I borrow him a moment before we go in?" she asked Hermione, who shook her head.

Elena glided across the corridor, looking as regal and elegant as ever in her light rose robes, and collected Marianne. "Be back in a minute," Viktor told Hermione after they had disappeared around the corner. He strode over to Hans Hauptmann, whose wide eyes got even wider when Viktor spoke to him, pulled him aside and steered him around the opposite corner.

"Quite the matchmakers around here," Ron observed.

"Not normally," Alexei said. "Not Elena, anyvay. Nor Viktor. Do not vorry. Your bachelorhood is safe. She vill not be trying to get you married at this dance."

"Hey, Harry, you think that lot we scrimmaged with will be able to continue that debate on strength versus finesse, or do you reckon most of them will be dancing?" Ron asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Don't know. I only heard one or two of them say they had dates they had to get ready for. We'll see," Harry said.

"You would think you two would get tired of Quidditch all the time. Honestly," Hermione said.

"You would think you would get tired of books all the time, but you don't, now do you?" Ron countered.

"Books are good for you," Hermione said.

"So is Quidditch. Viktor likes both, so it must be possible for them to peacefully coexist in the same brain, now mustn't it?" Ron said sweetly. "Really, you would think Harry and I never cracked a book."

"We almost don't," Harry whispered and made a face. Hermione laughed in spite of herself.

Viktor came back around the corner and deposited a dazed looking Hans back in his group of friends. "Well?" Hermione questioned him.

"Well what?"

"Well... what did he say?" she pressed.

"Nothing. Just gawked at me with his mouth hanging open. It could mean, 'Yes, I'll ask her to dance' or 'I do not speak English" or 'I haff lockjaw' for all I know. I assumed it meant the first. I think there might haff been a nod, but I would not bet on it. It might haff been wishful thinking on my part," Viktor shrugged.

"What did you say to him?" Hermione asked.

"I told him he had better dance with her and behave himself or I would boil him in oil," he said flatly.

"Viktor! You didn't!" Hermione scolded, hoping he was joking.

"Of course I did not! I just told him it would be nice to ask Marianne to dance, if he wanted. I told him I was sure she would be happy to dance with him since neither of them seem to haff a date. Just a suggestion, no more no less. No mention of boiling him in oil. But if he does pull something..."

"You vill keep your big nose out of it," Elena finished for him, having come up behind them, circling back from the powder room. "Time to let go and see if she can valk on her own Viktor. If she falls, she gets back up. Stop being so overprotective. And here I thought I vas a terrible old mother hen."

"But..."

"But nothing. Attend to your own date. Vone is enough to keep you busy. You and Hermione keep each other busy, Alexei and I vill keep each other busy, Ron and Harry keep themselves busy however they vish, and Hans and Marianne keep one another busy if they vish to, agreed? If anyvone deserves boiling for something they do to Poppet, let her do her own," Elena ordered with a raised eyebrow. Hermione was beginning to see that Viktor wasn't the only one who could be pretty stubborn. This was the nearest she had ever heard anyone come to bossing Viktor.

Viktor mirrored her expression for a moment. "Big talk from a lady who just made me go over there and wrestle a third year I haff never so much as said 'good morning' to around the corner to strongly suggest that he pick Marianne as his dancing partner. The least you could do is haff the good grace to be ashamed of yourself for meddling then grouching at me for the same thing. Very subtle Elena. Why did we not just smack him with a club and drag him over there by the hair? Or her," he said.

"Matchmaking is not alvays meddling, Viktor. I am just hurrying things along. I am sure he vould haff gotten up the courage eventually," she countered, but she looked somewhat embarrassed.

"Sure. He looked every bit as eager as a rabbit about to hop into a lion's den, and I probably scared him out of it if he had any inclination," Viktor chuckled, offering Hermione his arm again. The doors had opened and couples and groups were starting to stream into the hall. When they came through the doors, Hermione gasped. She would have hardly recognized it as the same room where they had eaten the night before. The ceiling and walls had been decorated with a deep, shiny blue fabric, and white ribbons and bows dotted it like stars in a midnight sky. The hall was dotted with great stands of flowers she recognized from the garden, including some Tiger Lilies of various colors, mercifully absent their thorns. Elena was sporting her white lily over her right ear, tucked into her neatly pulled back hair. It gathered into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and once again Hermione was aware of the many little strands brushing the back of her own neck.

"Oi, Harry, there they are. You want to go over and talk to them?" Ron pointed to a clump of boys and girls across the room. All of them looked to be fourth years or older.

"Sure. See you later, Hermione, Viktor, Elena, Alexei," Harry said, ambling after Ron with his hands in his pockets. He wasn't really in the mood to cramp the two couples anyway. Maybe later he would dance with one of the girls from the scrimmage earlier who didn't have a date. Some of them had offered to take a turn. Not the same as dancing with Cho, but they had seemed nice enough, and they weren't all twittery and prissy like some of the girls at Hogwarts. They had seemed content to talk Quidditch and maybe give him and Ron a dance or two. It would be good practice if Hogwarts ever had another ball.

The two couples were just settling into their chairs when a loud voice rang out, "Meet with your approval, ladies?" Potenko had come over from the faculty tables.

"It's beautiful," Hermione said.

"I can never remember the hall looking this vonderful," Elena added.

"I really came over here as much to ask the four of you a favor. To start off the ball," Potenko said, beaming as though he were offering them the chance of a lifetime.

"Of course we all will!" Alexei said with gusto, then an odd expression passed over his face and he jumped in his seat. Hermione got the distinct impression that he had just been kicked solidly under the table by Viktor.

Too bad, I would have liked to kick him myself, she thought. Waltzing at the reception was one thing, here was another story. There... no one had really cared that she and Viktor were together. They were all adults with families of their own, not schoolchildren with nothing better to do than gossip about who was with who. Sure, they had been mildly curious about the girl Viktor had talked about, but no one was likely to be telling Viktor who he should be with, or worse, wanting him themselves, at the reception. The reporters had even been respectful. Probably a requirement to get in, to not act like Rita Skeeter. Here...how many people would want a look at her? The entire room. She had already noticed plenty of open staring her way. At the Yule Ball, she had the advantage of surprise, no one expected Hermione Granger to be Viktor's partner. Half the school had to look three times to recognize her. Here...her reputation preceded her. What was it Elena had called her? His equally famous Yule Ball partner? Her stomach felt as though it had dropped right out of the bottom of her chair.

Viktor bit his lower lip, trying to think of a polite way to refuse. It was a simple enough request. No undue burden. Potenko had not ordered them to open the ball, he had asked politely. He thought he was doing them a great honor. And he was. He does not realize I would rather not, he is not a cruel man. And Alexei had just volunteered them. Nothing came to mind that did not offend. Hermione suddenly looked almost as pale and sick as he felt thinking about the four of them being out there in front of the entire school. Best he could do is put a few more people on the floor with them and delay the inevitable a few minutes. "On one condition. Give us a few minutes to pick some music," he said finally, surrendering to the idea. It is not as though I was going to sit at this table all night, right? I will simply dance a little earlier than I planned. "And that you let me go fetch one more couple," he added, "Third years. Actually, if you could round up at least one couple from each year, maybe that would be better," Viktor said in a rush.

Potenko looked a bit surprised at the request, but he seemed pleased by the idea. "That would be a new tradition. Usually it is only sixth or seventh year couples that get picked. I will recruit a few of the faculty and see who else we can come up with," he said with a large smile, whirling off in his formal robes.

"Alexei!" Elena hissed at him, "You and your big mouth! You could haff let them answer for themselves!"

"Sorry," Alexei shrugged. "Viktor could haff not tried to break my shin vith those big boots of his, too," he muttered. "Vhat other couple?" he asked, looking up from under the table, where he was no doubt massaging his leg.

"I just thought of a way to ensure Marianne gets her dance," Viktor said, sliding his chair back. "Congratulations, Hans Hauptmann, you haff been chosen to help open the Opening Ball for the third years, grab a partner," he said under his breath, dropping his gaze across the room to where the elfin boy stood shyly taking in the hall with his friends, and then setting off across the room like a man on a mission. Elena suppressed a laugh.

"Well, I suppose something good has come of it, then," Hermione said, shaking her head.

Elena turned in her seat and watched Viktor and Hans. "You would think Viktor vas going to eat him alive the way Hans looks! Poor boy, probably thinks he has looked at Poppet crooked and Viktor is going to get him for it! If his eyes get any bigger, they vill roll across the floor," she said, laughing. Viktor had finished talking to Hans and gave him a little push between the shoulder blades toward the three girls in the corner. Toward Marianne.

"Vhat did you tell him this time?" Elena asked as Viktor rounded the table.

"That he does not haff all night, get a move on! Worse than me," Viktor said, shaking his head and pulling the chair back in. "He might get it out by the time we get called out, the timid little mouse! Now, one problem solved, one to go! What do we dance to?" he asked Hermione.

"I think Elena and I should get some choice..." Alexei began, but Viktor interrupted him.

"Oh no you do not! You had no business volunteering me. You forfeit any input. Elena can vote, but you can guess who I am going to side with when it comes down to it, Alexei," Viktor said.

"Oh, I do not care. Pick vhatever you vant," Elena said idly, propping her chin on her fist.

"Something faster?" Hermione ventured. The last thing she wanted was to be standing still for very long. With all those people staring at them.

"Faster...Vivaldi maybe... 'Concerto for Two Trumpets'...or how about 'The Spring' from 'The Four Seasons'? It is long, but not bad to dance to. Or 'The Autumn'. No, too long. They are both ten minutes. That one from 'Swan Lake' maybe. Three minutes or so. Something of the Swans, I cannot remember the name... 'Scene of the Swans', I think. 'Capriccio Italian', Tchaikovsky, but that is worse than ever. Fifteen minutes if it is one. We would drop. No, I haff it. 'Puss-In-Boots' from 'Sleeping Beauty'. Tchaikovsky. Only a few minutes. Even a first year could dance to it. Perfect," he said, smiling.

"I don't know that one," Hermione said softly.

"Oh, sure you do," Elena said dismissively, then began to hum a tune. Hermione was surprised to find that it was indeed familiar, and from a source she would not have expected. It was from the Disney version of Sleeping Beauty she had seen as a child. Of course, they had taken Tchaikovsky's music from the ballet suite. In the movie, Aurora had sung the words 'I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream...' to the same music. To her imagined prince. Then with her real prince as they danced in the woods. She almost blurted this information out, but then realized that no one at the table, least of all Viktor, would know what she was talking about, so she kept it to herself. He would only know about its ballet origins.

"Oh, I do know that one after all," she said simply.

Viktor leapt up and made his way over to the conductor, renewing acquaintance with him and passing on their selection for the first dance. Potenko was coming toward their table with a pack of couples, and Hermione felt her heart leap. That looked like at least one couple to represent each year. "Come on, then, the lot of you. Soon as Viktor comes back to collect his partner, we will begin," Potenko said with an even larger smile than usual. "Rest of you out on the floor," he directed cheerfully.

"Relax. Enjoy it," Elena whispered, giving Hermione's hand a reassuring squeeze as she and Alexei joined the group and Potenko began stationing them at various spots around the floor, leaving a space for Viktor and Hermione. He strode back from the conductor's corner looking far more confident than she felt, stopped in front of her, and offered his right hand wordlessly. She took it and stood, positive her legs would fold when she rose. But they held, and they stood motionless for a moment, looking at one another. He put his left hand on her upper back and guided her gently toward the spot set aside for them. Once there, he stood on the outer rim of the circle, as all the other boys had, they took their positions, and he pulled her close, giving her a light, bracing squeeze toward him and a slight smile. Suddenly having everyone watching didn't seem so bad. Let them watch.

As the horns and violins began to play, they started off, and all her worries about tripping or making a fool of herself or anyone watching, everyone watching, were gone. She found herself smiling broadly, and all the curious onlookers were just part of the scenery. Unbidden, the vague memories she had of the animated scene from the movie she had last seen as much as a decade ago ran through her mind. Ridiculous, really, how familiar this felt, how right, how comfortable. You can't dance for beans, Hermione... now look at you. She could do it, as long as his fingers stayed against her back, as long and he held her hand, as long as he kept looking at her like that. Then the music stopped and they all applauded. "Now, we are off the hook, is that the right phrase? You do not haff to dance the rest of the night if you do not want to..." Viktor said, grinning.

"Oh no, I'm just getting started. I'm going to dance you under the table by the end of the night!" she teased, and she surprised herself by really meaning it.

"I would like to see you try," he said, throwing his chin up and crossing his arms.

"Watch me! Besides, what do I have to worry about? You have to lead! Looks like Hans and Poppet might be hanging around for a few more, too," she added, pointing at the two small blonde heads that lingered on the dance floor not too far from them.

"Good. I might not haff to boil him in oil after all," Viktor murmured. Several more couples streamed onto the floor after the applause died down, and though a few of them stared at her as they passed, Hermione found she didn't mind so much. Even the slightly hostile appraisals from some of the girls. One dark haired girl fixed Hermione with such a glower that Viktor scowled right back at her, so fiercely that she quickly wiped the nasty look off of her face and scurried after her partner so fast that Hermione couldn't help laughing. After that, she paid more attention to the dancing than she did the other dancers. The first few songs took in several composers, most of whom she could identify easily, such as Borodin, Debussy, Mozart, Respighi, and of course, Strauss. They danced to everything that the orchestra played. She even dragged Viktor across the room to request the Emperor Waltz, and they danced to it, slow and stately for when the music was, then whirling off madly when the horns came in and the tempo picked up.

"Chopin. Waltz in D... is it flat or sharp or major or minor?" she observed when the tinkling piano and the speedy runs began sounding.

"I cannot remember. What does it matter? Neither one of us are going to be playing it, are we?" he asked.

"But I might want to request it next time," she said without thinking. I'm assuming there's going to be a next time, she realized with a jolt.

Viktor caught it as well. Next time. She said next time. So maybe I have not handled things so badly after all. Next time. Those are the best sounding two words I have heard in a long time. He felt his smile creep a bit wider.

He taught her a reel, and they used a box step on some of the songs, but by far, her favorites were the waltzes. Nothing else made her feel as much like the heroine of a fairy tale or a romantic movie. She almost chided herself for being so stupid and ridiculously giddy over it. It just wasn't sensible to be so full of yourself, to keep hearing this voice in the back of your head saying 'I feel like the queen', but she couldn't help it. Why do I feel like the only person in the room, the only person in the world, when he looks at me like that? How can such a small smile make me feel like I'm about to explode and fly in a million different directions at once? They danced to so many songs that Hermione soon lost count, but many of the other couples had already filtered onto and off of the floor around them multiple times when Headmaster Potenko and Madame Durshenkova waltzed up to them, literally, and the headmaster politely asked if he could cut in on the next dance. "May I cut in? If it is not too big an imposition? I would like to have one dance with the first female guest we have had here in many years. And one of the privileges of being headmaster is that I can be a big oaf and ask for other people's partners and no one thinks less of me. I am sure Madame Durshenkova would be glad to keep Viktor occupied while we take in one dance?" he said to Hermione.

"Certainly," she replied, and they switched partners as the current song ended, the men bowing to their new partners before starting the next dance. Dancing with Potenko wasn't quite as easy as it was with Viktor, but he was nonetheless an able dancer. She just didn't seem to fit into his hands and his arms quite so naturally as she did with Viktor.

"Miss Granger, I thank you for the dance and return you to your rightful partner," he said, bowing low after the music ended and offering her hand back to Viktor. "You have wonderful taste in partners, Mr. Krum. May you two enjoy many, many more dances together," he added warmly, giving her a small wink and giving his short, trimmed beard a tug. She felt a rush of warmth and affection for the brawny headmaster with the twinkle in his eye, so reminiscent of Dumbledore's, as he collected Madame Durshenkova and headed back to the faculty table. He was so different from the sleek, cold, fake exterior that Karkaroff had presented.

"Hot in here, isn't it?" Hermione said airily, "I sure could go for some fresh air... truce on dancing one another under the table for now?" Two hours of dancing had left the both of them hot and ready for a break.

"Truce. I will go get our cloaks," Viktor said and soon returned with his over his arm, holding hers until she could get the clasp fastened. He flung his around his shoulders and they headed for the door to the outside. It was chilly, the air crisp and the stars stark and clear against the black sky, the harvest moon large and with a hint of orange. Hermione was surprised to see her own breath as a foggy mist after the warmth of the day and she shivered a little as the bracing air hit the perspiration that had formed on her forehead and upper lip. They walked the path through the low bushes until they were several yards from the outside entrance to the hall, seeing a few other couples strolling in the moonlight, sitting on the stone benches that dotted the grounds, each in their own world. Indicating a low stone bench out in the open, Viktor asked, "Is this alright?" She nodded her approval.

"Wait a minute," he said, sitting on the bench and fanning out his cloak on the right side, spreading it over the seat and holding it open. "Now, sit. That light cloak of yours is probably not going to be enough once you cool off," he said as she sat next to him. The bench just held the two of them comfortably, and she once more tucked in beside him, their thighs touching, his right arm draped over her shoulder. He flipped the cloak down over her and back toward him, covering her. Once again, she was shocked at the warmth she could feel radiating from him. No wonder he never gets cold, she thought to herself. He's a human furnace. He must burn off everything he eats. How on earth he put the new fifteen pounds on, I'll never know. He must have eaten like Ron does during the first part of the summer.

"What is so funny?" he asked, breaking into her train of thought.

"Oh, nothing. Everything. I was just thinking it's no wonder you never get cold. You're twice as hot as I am," she said, smiling.

"The big cloak helps. I should haff warned you it would be pretty cold out here at night," he said with some regret.

"No. No, this is better, I think. No fun being out here in my own cloak. More fun being in here with you," she mused, laying her head against his shoulder and reaching up her hand to take the one he had draped over her shoulder.

"Hermione... you scarlet woman you... you didn't really want to get air," he chided.

"Absolutely. I just suggested air so I could get you alone and take advantage of you... I just wanted to get into your cloak like all the other girls. Then your local Snape can come along and blast us out of the bushes," she said and laughed along with him.

They sat for a few minutes in a silence broken only by their breathing and the occasional strains of music when others opened the doors to enter or exit the hall. When the cold air began to sting her cheeks, Hermione finally raised her head and asked, "Go back in? Let me put you under the table for good? There's what, a good two and a half hours left? This thing goes until one. I'm game if you are."

He ducked his head so that his face was right in front of hers and he could look her in the eye. "I need to tell you something first. I need to tell you several things, but most of them can wait a bit. I should haff said it earlier," he told her in a low voice. "If there is one thing I learned early, it is this. Always say it while you haff the chance, there might not be another," he said, drawing a deep breath, "I love you."

"You already told me that, you wrote it. You even said it out loud," she said, smiling up at him.

"No, I did not. I wrote it, but I did not say it. And I haff kicked myself several times for missing a good chance. Several good chances."

"You called me 'Sokrovishte'."

"Ah. But I thought you would not consider that the same as saying those three words out loud."

"No, it wasn't the same as saying 'I love you'. It meant more. It was better. I would call you that if I could make it sound half as wonderful as it sounds when it comes out of your mouth. I can't do it justice."

He covered her mouth with his and kissed her softly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze and murmuring "Then I must remember to call you Sokrovishte more often," as he pulled back. She was half tempted to suggest they stay where