Archive of Our Own

"Apparate safely," Hermione called out, waving good-bye to Harry, Ginny, Ron and Pansy as they cheerfully wound their way down the garden path in front of her cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge, the last dinner guests to leave. They skidded on the icy paving in the January dark, meandering out onto the frosted grass, and she frowned. "Give me a Floo when you get home, so I know--"

"Yeth, Mum," called Ginny back, making a very tipsy Harry break down into subdued giggles, knees buckling so that Ginny had to throw out an arm to support him, and Hermione shook her head. She was a little light-headed herself from the wine she'd had with the dinner, but she didn't quite get the fun in outright drunkenness. So shoot her, but she liked being in control. Then again, she could understand the sense of reckless relief that drove the tendency of many of her friends to overindulge. Surviving the war was more than many of them had taken for granted as little as a year ago.

It said something about Harry's stage of good cheer that Ginny was the one offering physical support. Ginny still had a limp from spell damage during the war, and it was a leave of absence for her regular check-up at St. Mungo's that had allowed her the opportunity to come with Harry and the rest to visit Hermione in her new home that evening, despite still being in her final year at Hogwarts. However, Ginny at least was entirely sober. She had to Apparate to the Burrow to endure Molly's fretful interrogation about the Healers' most recent prognoses before Floo'ing back to McGonagall's office at the stroke of ten.

The four of them stopped close to the gate, preparing to Apparate, but Pansy suddenly dug her stylish heels in, giving Ron a significant look.

"So, did you tell her?"

Ron scratched his head and exhaled a cloud of icy breath. "Er ... no. That's right. I was going to but--"

"Coward," sighed Pansy with some exasperation, waggling her finger at him in a solemnly drunken fashion. She gave him a kiss full on the lips and shoved him in Hermione's direction. "I'll be going home. No, scratch that, I'll be waiting here ready to go in and collect your bloodied remains if you're not out in five minutes."

"Wow, thanks for the encouragement," muttered Ron and looked back at Hermione, who was eyeing them both in suspicious bewilderment. What did Pansy want Ron to tell her? Obviously it wasn't good news, but although Ron still possessed the ability to make her blisteringly mad on occasion, those occasions had become much less frequent after Pansy had taken him under her firm raven wing.

As Pansy lit up a cigarette and settled in to wait, Harry and Ginny stayed to keep her company, and Hermione gave Ginny a doubtful look. "You'd better get going to the Burrow, Ginny. Molly won't be pleased if you're late."

Ginny grinned. "No, but if I arrive closer to ten it shortens her third degree. She's driving me insane with her fussing."

Hermione sighed and nodded to Ron. "I've no idea what this is about, but let's get it over with so I can tidy up and go to bed."

Back in the hallway with the door shut behind them, Ron looked pale, hands thrust deep into his pockets, eyes large with nervousness. In fact, he looked as though apprehension was making him sober up by the second. "I'm ... um, not sure where to start, actually."

"The beginning," suggested Hermione with a reluctant smile. "Always neatest."

"Okay, um, well. You remember after the war, the Quidditch Friendship Cup? We were there with Harry and--"

"Of course I remember, Ron," said Hermione with forced patience. "It was all of six months ago."

"Right. Well. A good time. Was had by all. Well, Bulgaria beat us, but everyone was too happy to care, and the next day we went back to London, the three of us, sharing that room at Fred and George's place. And you and Harry went out to buy food for a party."

"I'm with you so far."

"While you two were gone..." Ron drew a fortifying breath. "Krum stopped by."

"He--" Hermione blinked, felt her face grow hot in an instant. "What? Viktor?"

"Yeah, he'd made a flying visit to London to see you before he went back to Bulgaria."

"But ... I thought he'd changed his mind about it, or forgot--" Hermione took a fast, nervous hitch of a breath, and pressed her fingernails into her palms. A face she thought of a little too often hovered in her mind, dark-eyed, hook-nosed, a hint of a smile at the corners of a sensual mouth. "Why didn't you say anything? Or, why didn't he wait until I got back? Was he in a hurry?"

Ron looked acutely uncomfortable. "Well, now we come to the part where ... where you might go just a tad batshit crazy on me."

She was breathing fast, scared now. "Try me."

"I told him--" Ron swallowed and looked away. "To stay away from you. I said you were my girl, that we were together, that you had forgotten him years ago and he was not only pissing me off but making an idiot of himself--"

"Ron--" She stared at him, too devastated even for fury to break through. "You didn't?"

"Yeah." He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "I mean, we practically were together, weren't we? Everyone assumed us to be, at any rate. But then -- well, me and Pansy just happened, before you and me had a chance to get off the ground. And after that I meant to tell you about Krum's visit -- I swear I was going to, but that week we all read in the papers about him dating this Russian actress, and when I saw the look on your face then ... Merlin, I thought if I told you then, it would hurt you worse than if I'd said nothing. Not to mention, you'd hex me completely and utterly dead."

She continued staring, and he threw out his arms, helpless.

"Hell, I'd been jealous of that smooth-moving Bulgarian bastard ever since I was bloody fourteen! Whoever got you, I didn't want him to get you. But I know I was way out of line -- Hermione, please don't look like that..."

"Smooth-moving?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Ron, if you had any idea how kind and gentle that boy was to me--"

Ron looked like he was ready to offer to kill himself in compensation, but then his eyes glinted in defiance. "Oh, I had an idea," he said quietly. "That time at Grimmauld Place, when I came into the library and found you sleeping on his lap--"

"I was not on his--" She reddened at the memory, even though it had all been innocent beyond belief, an hour of respite and forgetfulness resting against Viktor's warm strength.

"Close enough to it to not make a difference to me," he broke her off.

They stared at each other, until Ron glanced away. "I'm not arguing that it wasn't shitty of me," he said. "It's just, you know, there may be a reason that he isn't my favourite bloke in the world."

For some reason, the sharp reply on her lips withered. There was truth in Ron's words, despite his rashness and arrogance -- theirs had been a tentative one-step-forwards, two-steps-back courtship, and it had been mostly due to her, torn between her confusing feelings for Ron and the tenacious romantic dream of Viktor's memory.

"So why say anything now?" she asked finally, feeling numb to the core.

"Well," offered Ron with an eagerness bordering on despair, "turns out he's not dating that actress after all, see? I read it in one of those gossip magazines at the mediwizard waiting room. She'd actually been seeing his flatmate, you know, Zograf, the Keeper -- utterly brilliant player, by the way, has invented a whole new series of corkscrew saves--"

"Ron?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up."

"Yeah."

There was a long silence. Hermione wanted to weep, scream, and throw heavy objects, preferably at Ron, but he looked so profoundly and honestly miserable that she couldn't quite find it in herself to tear into him the way he deserved.

The door swung open. Pansy stood there crushing her cigarette butt under her boot heel and looking at Ron. "Well, you're alive. You did tell her?" She looked at Hermione next. "Oh, I can see that he did. So, what are you going to do about it?"

Hermione shook her head, wishing that sharp little face far, far away, as she pointedly closed the door on Harry's and Ginny's curious faces. She was secretly relieved that Pansy had taken Ron off her hands and ended years of guilty vacillation; she was honestly glad for the way the two of them seemed to complement and support each other. And she did admire Pansy for her courage during the war, when Draco's death had made her re-evaluate her world and turn ally to Snape in his dangerous exile. But she still found Pansy's abrasive bulldozer nature hard to tolerate at times.

Pansy's eyes narrowed in abrupt impatience as she looked at Ron. "You did tell her that he's here, right?"

Ron blanched. "I was going to! Bloody hell, woman. I just hadn't come that far before you--"

With a sigh, Pansy turned to Hermione again. "Krum arrived from Bulgaria today. He's up in Hogsmeade, staying at the Three Broomsticks with the Vratsa Vultures' management and a couple of the other players, to watch the match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw tomorrow. I heard from a cousin at Hogwarts that they're there to scout out a Slytherin Beater who'll be finishing school this year."

There was no way she would reveal to Pansy the turmoil she felt at finding out Viktor was so close ... so accessible. "That sounds reasonable enough," she said coolly over the clamour of her racing heart.

Pansy gaped. It was not a pretty expression on her. Then her eyes caught fire with temper. "You're going to do something, right? You and Krum have been dancing around each other since you were fifteen! If he came back for you after that match, that means something. You've got to grab the tiger by the tail, Granger, face the attraction between you now you're old enough and have time for it!"

Hermione gaped right back. After a moment she gave an angry little laugh of disbelief. "Why on earth do you care what happens between Viktor and me?"

Pansy looked taken aback, before she shrugged non-committally. "I'm happy. Happier than I thought I'd be. Hell, I survived the war. Maybe it makes me generous."

"Well, thank you for your generosity," snapped Hermione. "For your information, Parkinson, yes, I was sweet on Viktor Krum when I was fifteen, we exchanged owls for a while. I have seen him exactly once since then, one evening during the war, which we spent decrypting spells of all things. I've not exactly been sitting on my bum pining for him and I'm a little too sensible to think that's enough to build a--"

"Oh, listen to yourself," interrupted Pansy in a cross voice. "Sensible, my arse! You talk like an old maid! One would think you were as virginal as young Ronald here before I took mercy -- oh, no," she broke herself off, looking aghast at Hermione's stung expression, then Ron's, before breaking into an honest to God laugh, staring from one to the other of them. "You are. You really are. Merlin, where would we all be without Gryffindor's sexual sublimation into valour?"

"It really is none of your business," Hermione fumed. "You're talking as if it were something terribly unnatural to still be, er, well, at the not terribly advanced age of nineteen!"

"It's not the age," said Pansy bluntly, "it's that you've had the opportunity of getting in your practice against such lovely specimens as Ron, Harry and Krum, and you've been such a goody-two-shoes, haven't been tempted to peek in either one's pants--"

"Shut up!"

Hermione stared furiously at her smirking tormentor, her face flushed with a memory from when she was fifteen, a brazen blinkered innocent sitting in Viktor Krum's cabin on the Durmstrang ship and pleading with him to show her how to have an orgasm. His moral objections had finally caved in under the pressure, and there were things they'd done that night that could have shut Pansy up at least to a point, but they were rather too private to share, and besides, Pansy was painfully correct on the main issue.

Of course, she had in fact peeked in Ron's pants on a few occasions, too, and it was taking all her fortitude to not throw that bit of information in Pansy's face.

As she took in Pansy's expression, the proprietary little glance the other girl threw at Ron, something dawned on her.

"You ... Ah, God! The reason you're pushing to set me up with Viktor, is so that you'll be certain I won't come after Ron, right? It's pathetic!"

"Girls," squeaked Ron, "keep me out of this. Please?"

"I ..." Pansy strove for an indignant look, but gave up and grinned. "All right. There's no law that says one can't reap practical benefits from sincerity, is there?" She held her elegant hands up in mock surrender. "I've had my say. Viktor Krum, at the Three Broomsticks tonight, single and shaggable. Don't ever say I never did anything for you, Granger." She sailed out the door, giggling to herself.

"You know ... she has a point," whispered Ron to Hermione, hovering on the doorstep. "Honestly, Hermione, if you're thinking sensible, what were the odds that after the war I'd be spending my time with Pansy Parkinson's tongue down my throat? And fucking happily so, I will add. Sometimes a bit of sound animal instinct is worth a ton of common sense."

Hermione sank down on a wicker chair, glaring at him near tears. "Oh, just get your sage arse out of my hallway, Ronald Weasley. I'll thank you properly some other time."

***

Less than an hour later, she Apparated to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, pulling her winter robes closer around her as she walked up the road towards the centre of the village. She'd dressed sensibly under the robes in jeans, a shirt and a woollen turtleneck, but she still shivered in the icy gusts of wind blowing down from the snowy moors.

Or maybe those were shivers of nerves. She oughtn't be nervous for Viktor; he had never given her reason, but right now she felt like she was about to throw every bit of pride and caution to the wind, and she couldn't deny she was rather attached to both.

She was tempted to stop and look in the shop windows, partly for nostalgia and partly to delay, but it was getting close to eleven and if Viktor wasn't already in bed he'd be thinking of it soon. So she hurried on, her mind churning with a mish-mash of memories and hopes and fears.

It was true, what she'd told Pansy: after Viktor left for Bulgaria at the end of her fourth year, she had only seen him the one time towards the end of the war, when he arrived that night as a courier with the Durmstrang papers. They'd been exchanging owls, that was true, long letters, but still it had come as a shock that at the sight of him the attraction was there, immediate and as full of nerve-tingling awareness as before.

Then in the first summer after the war, she'd gone to the World Friendship Cup with hopes to meet him -- they'd sent each other a couple of owls since the war ended, but the letters seemed ... friendly, sure, but guarded too, self-conscious in a way they hadn't been before, as though they were both awkwardly aware of the sudden presence of opportunity. She'd been happy to receive a note from him in the furore following Bulgaria's victory, saying he'd be stopping by to see her in London before going home. And she'd been bitterly disappointed when she'd found out from the Daily Prophet that he'd returned to Bulgaria with the rest of the team -- without seeing her, and no note coming from him in the days after that to explain.

She'd reasoned then that unlike her he must have moved past his infatuation with her, that the meeting she had looked forward to had been only a passing thought for him, and that she'd been naive to read anything more into it. But she realized now, after Ron's confession, that she might have been wrong about that. Not necessarily ... but maybe. And it was enough of a hope that she was determined to see him tonight. Even if he'd gone to bed, she was sure Rosmerta would give her his room number.

The Three Broomsticks was only half-full, in the emptying stages of a late Friday night, Rosmerta quietly polishing glasses behind the bar. Hermione stopped just inside the doors and shrugged out of her robes, already breaking into a sweat from the warmth of candles and hearthfire after the biting air outside.

Rosmerta looked up and smiled -- then, as she recognized her, her eyes widened and she put down the glass she held rather forcibly.

"Hello, Hermione."

"Hi, Rosmerta. Slow night?"

"Oh, it's not bad." She hesitated. "We have some travellers from afar."

Hermione walked over to the bar and hitched her bum up on a stool. She'd gotten to know Rosmerta quite well in the autumn of last year, as she'd done her seventh-year studies over four intensive months, determined to get it done with and start a new chapter of her life. She'd been too restless to stay long in the library and had taken to bringing books over to Hogsmeade, to sit in a quiet corner alcove of the tavern and read, comforted by the noise and warmth of the bustling life around her.

"So I heard." She glanced around her.

"Over in the far corner. Some people from the Vratsa Vultures, here to scout out the talent at the match tomorrow, if the rumours say right. Can I get you something, dear?"

"Just a lemonade, please." Her heart hammered as she resisted turning around to look. "I heard Zograf, the Keeper, is here."

"And their manager, Stoyan Zhelev. Huge ruddy fellow, a terrible flirt." Rosmerta grinned to herself.

"I heard Viktor Krum was here," said Hermione softly. "Have you seen him?"

"I ... yes, as a matter of fact he's here too. Hermione, wait a minute, don't turn around yet--"

But she was already, irresistibly, turning, watching the rather merry group in the corner of the room, eyes narrowing to make out details among the candlelight and shadows.

Her face flamed and she turned back abruptly and slid down off her chair, grabbing her robes. "Here you are, for the lemonade." She pushed a few random coins on the counter and made sure not to look at Rosmerta's face. What an idiot she had been, to expect Viktor to be single, available, just waiting for her in a pristine and celibate bubble that life couldn't touch.

"Hermione!" Rosmerta spoke in a hiss, her hand shooting across the bar and stopping Hermione's red-faced exit with a firm clasp around her arm. "They're all a little drunk, Zhelev chatted up the ladies at the table next to them earlier tonight, and that woman on Krum's lap wasn't there ten minutes ago. If you go over there and say hello, she'll be gone in a second, I guarantee."

"It's his choice. I'm not so stupid I expected him to be sitting pretty, waiting for me."

"Ahhh, it's now you're being stupid! You came here looking for him, right?" Rosmerta's face softened at Hermione's stare and she gave a low self-conscious chuckle. "Oh, you wonder why I meddle, why I care. Believe me, I've seen hundreds of Hogwarts romances start and end and have forgotten most of them, but that thing between you and him, I found that so sweet. Potter's faithful little sidekick, courted by the famous Krum." She sighed. "You changed over that year, became more relaxed and confident. I noticed this secret smile on you, the sort of smile only a really sweet boy will bring out in a girl. Once Minerva and I were having tea in the back room when we saw the two of you walk by outside, hand in hand. He was leaning down to listen to you, so courtly, attentive, and the way you looked up at him ... I swear we nearly melted into little puddles, jaded old hussies that we are."

Hermione's eyes had grown to saucers, the description of McGonagall as a hussy not being the least of it. "You noticed all that? Er, I mean, even I didn't notice all of that."

"You could well say I make a living noticing things," said Rosmerta with an easy wink. "Hermione, sit down. Have a glass of mead, quick, while I go over to Krum and tell him you're here." The honey wine was already being poured, golden, into a tulip glass. "Go on, have some liquid courage. It's after hours now, guests only, and you're my guest. It's on the house."

Before she could protest, Rosmerta was gone. Hermione stared at the glass of mead, and, without bothering to sit down first, took the stem of the glass between cold, trembling fingers and tipped back the contents in a few long swallows. She grimaced; she found mead both too cloying and too strong, but she could feel the warmth of it spreading through her belly.

It felt like an eternity. Two eternities, maybe. Then she sensed someone behind her, looming tall and close. She took a fortifying breath, sweet and strong with mead, and looked up over her shoulder.

His face was so dear to her -- strange realization, but there it was. The large beak of his nose, the sensual, sardonic mouth, the dark, scowling eyebrows belied by the frank warmth of his eyes. He looked uncertain now, a faint blush over his sharp cheekbones.

"Her-my-nee." He sighed. "I vish you had sent me a vord you vould be coming."

"That would have been expedient, would it not?" she asked, looking away from his eyes.

He shook his head. "Don't be angry," he said softly. "Is not fair, little Her-my-nee."

"I, I'm not--"

"Liar. You think I not know you enough to tell? You are angry, hurt. Maybe angry because you not think you should be feeling hurt."

His sensitivity to the many complicated quirks of her temperament had never failed to surprise and disarm her. She looked up at him again, and saw regret in his eyes, despite his words.

"I vould not haff vanted you to see. She vos just a girl happened to be there, happened to vant me, and I guess I vos in the mood to..." He blushed. "Nothing happened. A few kisses."

"Your hand on her enormous tit."

His eyebrows arched. "If I fall down on my knees and beg, you vill forgive me, maybe?" His proud tone suggested this was not a very likely scenario.

"Forget it," she said tightly. "I have no claim on you nor any right to judge. I know I'm being unfair and stupid, so don't twist the knife."

"Twist the knife?" He frowned while he mulled over the expression, the way he sometimes had to try to consciously decipher English sayings and idioms. "You think I vant to see you in pain?"

"Viktor--" She sighed, because when he put it like that she really knew her words had been unreasonable. "Please, forget it. Did you send your little friend away?"

"She vos not particular; she laughed and found another lap to varm." He shrugged with a quirk of his mouth.

"I'm sorry. I ruined your fun."

"I look like I'm sorry?"

"You ... you look--" She scrutinized him, a little shy because in fact, he looked too sexy for words. He was casually dressed, lightweight robes open over black jeans and a dark blue shirt that was open at the neck. His eyes were hooded by heavy lids, his mouth wet and glistening with a pronounced stubborn cast to it, his skin flushed from alcohol. "You look like you've been drinking a while. And enjoyed a good snogging session."

His eyes narrowed, a certain bewilderment in them. "You look like you could need some drinking," he told her firmly. He took the bottle of mead and her glass, nodding politely to Rosmerta at the end of the bar, and nudged Hermione with his arm until she walked with him through a small hallway into a more quiet alcove. The one that had been her reading corner, in fact. She sat down in the corner seat, back against the wall like she preferred these days, and Viktor slouched in the seat directly opposite, pouring her another glass of mead before he leaned over the table on his elbows.

"How is Veasley?" he asked without preamble.

"Veasl ... Weasley -- Ron?" She looked at him, taken aback, but then wanted to kick herself. Of course Viktor would be wondering, given that she had turned up here acting like his jealous wife and he must think she and Ron were together.

"Ron," she said, "is fine. Just excellent. He has a girlfriend; they are engaged to be married."

"Engaged?" He looked wary. "Not ... not to you?"

"No," she said and glanced down and to the side, with a soft laugh. "Not me."

"I -- don't understand," he said, his face suddenly stiffer, more unreadable. "I haff thought that..."

"Viktor, I talked with Ron. Tonight. He told me about that time you came to see me and you and he had words." She sighed. "He stretched the truth pretty far that night, Viktor."

"He said to me, you vere his girl, that you vould be married. To keep my hands off you if I had any idea of honour."

Anger welled in her again. Ron had certainly known which buttons to push with Viktor. "Well, I wasn't his girl, and he had no right to say that. It could have happened, maybe. But I was dragging my feet, exhausted from the war, uncertain of my feelings. And then he met another girl, one who was not uncertain. They are very happy together, I believe."

Viktor's blank expression made way to pale-faced, black-eyed temper. "Po dyavolite! Vill get the basta--"

"Viktor, no. I think there is quite enough misunderstanding between you and Ron Weasley without adding any more incidents to the mix," she said, eyes flashing at him. "Oh, he acted like a prize ass, but he's aware of it. He'll apologize to you, I bet, and it won't be easy for him, so I think you can afford to be generous."

He shook his head slowly. "Her-my-nee, you vant to know vot I did that night? I vent to a bar, got very drunk, stumbled around the city for hours in the rain, vet as a drowned cat. Thought of finding a voman to bring to my room, but they all seemed so ordinary, so dull compared to you. And I cursed myself in every language I know for this vay you haff vith my heart."

She had a way with Viktor's heart? Oh, she'd known it, maybe, but still it touched her that he phrased it like that, just as she was touched by the rather pathetic picture of a rain-sodden, bedraggled Viktor-cat, broken-hearted in the London night. "I am sorry," she said, reaching out to take his hand.

"Don't be," he replied, allowing her to curl her fingers around his palm. "Not your fault." He looked down at their joined hands, at her fingers stroking his chapped knuckles, and smiled a little.

"How are you," he asked. "This is vot I should haff asked first, of course, if I had any manners. Are you happy, Her-my-nee; are you doing something you enjoy?"

She thought back to the changes of the last year, needing to sum them up in her mind first. "We'd lost so much of the seventh year, but we were allowed to matriculate from Hogwarts without sitting for our final exams, lots of us in the Order. They felt we had demonstrated our ability in practice, I suppose." She shrugged and grinned. "Well, Harry and Ron took the offer, but I just needed to know that I'd done it properly, you know? I read intensively in the summer and autumn and was allowed to sit for my exams before Christmas. And now in the new year I've moved to Cambridge. I have an application in to study languages, at the Muggle university there, and I expec..." -- she stopped herself with a sheepish smile. "That is, I hope to have the place confirmed any day now when my exam results come in and to be enrolled in October, but meanwhile I'm doing some related reading at the library of the Morgana College of Magical History." She paused for breath, realising her excitement had made her talk fast and gesture with her hands. "The Ministry helped me with my application, and they are financing my studies on the pledge that I work for them later."

He nodded, looking oddly pleased. "Vith a mind like yours, is good you continue studies," he stated. "Vot languages?"

She could feel herself turning bright red. "Slavic languages."

Viktor tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her.

"There is a wealth of truly essential wizarding literature in Russian that's as yet not translated, nor catalogued by Western archives," she said. She was talking too fast, and cursed herself for sounding defensive when every word she said was true and made sense.

"I know." His eyes were crinkling up at the corners. He gave her hand a light squeeze as if to reassure her. "And are you happy?"

"I enjoy my studies."

"That is good," he murmured, "but is not vot I asked you."

With a hard exhale, she glanced down at their two hands, clasped on the table. "Well, maybe I don't know what to say ... are you happy?" she countered. "Living in Bulgaria, playing Quidditch--?"

"I enjoy my job."

She looked quickly back up and met a gaze that was part teasing, part wistful. Her mouth twitched, and after a second they both laughed.

Viktor ran his thumb over the back of her hand, seemingly in distraction. "You remember last time ve met?" he asked in a low voice, "--That spring evening during the var, ven I came to your headquarters vith documents from Durmstrang--"

She smiled. "And we sat in the library, deciphering the encoded spells--"

"And after ve vere done, you fell asleep vere ve vere sitting, your head on my chest." He swallowed suddenly. "My arm around your shoulders."

"I was so tired, hadn't had a proper night's sleep in a week. When I woke up after an hour, you hadn't moved. It must have been uncomfortable for you. You were tired too, I know."

"Not too tired to hold you for an hour. Felt so good. It vos rest for me too, mila."

"And you woke me whispering you had to leave, and I didn't want to let you go." She blushed, remembering how she had clung with her arms around his waist, burrowing her face against his shoulder, sleepy and unreasonable as a child.

"Then Veasley came in," said Viktor, a glint of humour in his eyes, "--breathing fire. That voke you up better."

"I didn't want to let you go," she repeated slowly, feeling some of the fear and sadness of that leave-taking echo through her again. "I was so afraid that if I let you walk out that door, I'd never see you again."

He reached out his free hand, grazed her cheek very lightly with his fingers. Their eyes locked and Hermione felt like she was untethered, in free fall. Viktor parted his lips to speak, then stopped himself and nodded down to her glass, his hand sliding down by way of her neck, tucking the hair back over her shoulder. "You forget your mead," he said, his voice husky. He finally let go of her hand on the table, picked up her glass and took a long sip of it before handing it to her.

Her skin tingled where his palm had grazed it, and Hermione grasped her glass with shaking fingers and took a big swallow -- liquid courage -- then set it down, playing with the stem.

"If I hadn't come here," she whispered, "would you have taken that woman to your room?"

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. He studied her quietly. "Maybe."

She bit her lip and turned her face away, a strange constricting feeling in her stomach.

His fingers were strong and firm on her chin, turning her face to him again. "If I had taken someone to my bed, vould haff been first time in a long vile. I am not a slut," he said emphatically, "but sometimes I get tired of my own right hand."

The visual that the words gave her was so immediate and blatant that Hermione gasped, and at her reaction Viktor seemed to realize exactly what he had said, a wave of painful colour suffusing his face as he glanced sharply down and away. The silence between them was thick enough to be cut with a knife, and she knew they were both thinking of a night aboard the Durmstrang ship, when she'd seen Viktor get busy with his right hand in exactly the way he'd just suggested.

"I ... I don't know vot you must think of me," he said finally. "I haff no right--"

"I've never thought poorly of you," she said, her voice shaky. "I'm not a blushing fifteen-year-old anymore, Viktor, and you haven't said anything wrong."

When he looked at her again, his gaze was soft under hooded lids. "You may not be fifteen, but you are still blushing," he objected.

There was nothing she could say to that. She felt like they'd been taken by a river, the conversation following a path as inevitable as a wild current, when she heard her own voice, "Remember that night? In your cabin, on your school ship, four years ago..."

He closed his eyes for an instant. It was as if he'd been both wanting and fearing that she would say it. But when he looked at her again, his eyes were steady, and incredibly tender. "How could I forget? You vere so beautiful, full of need and fire, and I first to see it."

"You were so good to me." Her throat tightened with emotion at she thought of it. "You could have made me feel so bad, or you could have been greedy and taken too much -- I wouldn't have known to stop you. I'm not sure I realized back then just how decent you'd been to me that night. I was so complacent in my trust of you, took your kindness completely for granted."

"You see," he said with a brief, warm-eyed smile, "that vos, maybe, the thing that helped me not take too much. Betray your trust, I couldn't even think of that."

She took a deep breath. "But you ... wanted more? More than what we--?"

"I vanted everything," he stated, his voice even calmer than his gaze on her. "I alvays haff."

She stared at him. "If you want to take a woman to your bed tonight," she whispered, "would you consider making it someone you ... know a little better?"

"And who vould that be?" His gaze had turned, if possible, even softer, but there was danger there too, or at least something that hit her that way, something that warned, pleaded in the quietest voice, Don't play with me.

Instead of answering in words, she rose up on shaky legs and walked around the table, stopped at his side, and took his hand in hers before leaning down towards him.

Viktor's reaction was so instant and lacking in hesitation that it stole her breath away, and her world went topsy-turvy for some seconds. She was pulled firmly down into his lap, his arms enfolded her surely and at the same time his mouth came down on hers, a groan coming from him as his lips touched hers and opened wide. His mouth was hot, insistent, his tongue strong yet searching in a tentative motion that made her stomach churn, and Hermione tightened her arms around his neck and pressed into him, returning the kiss with all the hungry warmth that welled up in her.

Tiger by its tail, she thought crazily. Oh yes, she had it now. And by God, she wasn't playing with Viktor's feelings, but she understood she was playing with fire for sure.

And she knew she wanted to get close enough to burn. She wanted it so badly.

***

Rosmerta looked up briefly as they passed her, hand in hand on their way to the stairs. There was a shadow of a smile in her knowing eyes, but she turned her back before they'd even passed the counter.

Viktor's hand was firm around hers, enough that she thought he would have tugged on it to speed her along if she hadn't matched him step for step. They didn't look at each other, but the touch of their hands, of their bodies as they brushed up against each other, was so electric she somehow knew the expression on his face. Quiet, intent, single-minded.

He only let go of her hand when they reached the door to his room. He tapped his wand and spoke the charm that opened the door, put his hand lightly on her back as they stepped inside, then did a Lumos and a Silencing Charm when he'd locked it again. He dimmed the Lumos to a soft half-light with another murmur, and put the wand on the dresser by the dark window.

"Just a minute," he muttered, and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. She heard the shower being turned on, heard harsh, shuddering gasps and guessed that he'd put his head under cold water to take the edge off his drunkenness. She hung her robes on one of the pegs near the door, pulled off her jumper and laid it over the dresser, then walked to the window, pushed the curtain a fraction away and looked outside. The last guests were just leaving the tavern; she could hear laughter, Rosmerta's firm, friendly voice, and several pairs of feet moving away on the cobbled street. The moors huddled over the village, their snowy crests glowing with a faint silvery cast of light. The moon was new, sliver thin and looking transparent, playing hide and seek with the snow clouds. It was all so familiar and yet seemed unreal with promise, as though this landscape that she loved was holding its breath for her, knowing how much she hoped for from this night.

The shower had been turned off, and now she heard the bathroom door close shut. She turned and saw that Viktor had come out, rubbing vigorously at his hair with a towel, his shirt damp in patches, half unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. He reached for his wand again, and muttered an Incendio that set the fireplace ablaze with amber and gold.

Hermione's pulse was racing as he glanced up and met her gaze. He raised an eyebrow, continuing to dry his hair. Waiting, she realized. She had initiated this, she had invited herself to his room and he was anticipating her opening gambit. The little smile on his lips was gentle, yet his eyes were sharp, and she felt a thrill at the warm challenge in them.

It dawned on her in a surprised burst of insight that this was one thing she had missed with Ron, something he just couldn't provide. This sort of conversation, in words or in silence: positioning for the upper hand as a loving tease, flirting with someone whose mind turned her on. Ron was funny, and as intelligent as he cared to be, but both too laidback and too literal-minded to appreciate subtle games. He simply couldn't be arsed, and she didn't expect him to.

Viktor was observant, proud, sensitive -- a quiet strategist to the core, and she'd always sensed clearly that he loved their intricate, friendly sparring as much as she did. He wanted to play with her; he delighted in her.

He delighted her.

"Am very curious," he remarked, tossing the wet towel on a chair, "about vot that look of yours means."

"It's only..." She looked down to hide her smile. "That I find your mind ... sexy."

"Aha. And here I thought you vere looking at my manly chest," he said mildly, and on cue her gaze was drawn to the skin revealed by the half-undone shirt, where dark hair grew in sparse, crisp whorls -- just the right amount of chest hair, she thought, although maybe that was simply because it was Viktor, and Viktor had always seemed to her to have just the right amount of anything, even those things he arguably had too much of, like nose and stubbornness and pride, or too little, like straight posture or a concern for niceties.

"The one does not preclude the other." She walked towards him, raising her gaze to his again, aware that she was trembling, that he must notice. "I want you for your body, too."

"Vot a relief that is." His eyes were sparkling, yet somehow wary. Careful of her, and another epiphany hit home: this was what made her feel so safe with him. He read her so well, he took care and pleasure in reading her, and he used what he found with such shrewd gentleness.

She stopped face to face with him, reached out to take his hands in hers. Heart thumping, she walked him back towards the wall. He took her lead as gracefully as though it were a dance, watching her under heavy lids. Unsmiling, now. His palms were dry and warm, not clammy like hers, but his heart was giving him away. She could see his rapid heartbeat on his chest, through his shirt, could hear it on his slightly shuddering breath.

Stopped by the wall, he inclined his head to her in question. Hermione felt vertiginous, aware that once the current took them she would be at its mercy, at Viktor's mercy, out of her depth. She clung to his hands, half aching to take the leap and half scared of the fall.

"Nervous?" It could have been a tease, a challenge, but his tone of voice was too quiet and honest.

"A little. Everything will change," she whispered, not quite conscious what she meant by that.

"Only the things you vant to change." He tugged at her by her hands, a kind but inexorable pull, coaxing her closer. "Kiss me, mila? I vill not bite," he promised.

She smiled, trembling all over as she stood on tiptoe and he leaned in. "And here I'd hoped--"

He laughed, until she stilled him with the touch of her tongue over his lips.

They both sighed, mouths opening, hands letting go in the same instant to search and hold, his falling to curve over her hips, hers splaying out over his chest. He let her explore him at her pace for a while, his tongue only lightly stroking along hers inside his mouth, before he gave in to the tension she could feel in him and took control, his tongue thrusting warm and strong in her mouth while one hand slid up over her back, the other over her behind, pressing her flush against him. He was erect against her, and Hermione rocked gently into that hard length, whimpering as he rocked back in the same slow rhythm, making full wet heat swell between her legs.

She broke away from the kiss, her knees weak and her whole body heavy and aware. "Viktor, I want..." she whispered, the rest of her thought lost as she let her hand glide down his chest to his flat stomach, over his hip ... her face burning, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted to feel, to discover, to know. She pressed kisses over his collarbone, then raised widening, searching eyes to his face as her palm curved to the firm bulge of his erection, the touch almost diffident in contrast with the boldness of the act itself.

Viktor leaned against the wall, his expression simultaneously tormented and humorous as her hand stilled there and pressed, her mouth falling open at the hardness and size of what she felt under her palm.

"That's right," he said quietly, half-lidded. "Vot are you going to do about it?"

At the unexpected dare, Hermione decided with a stab of challenged pride to show him exactly what. She fumbled a little with the belt buckle -- he didn't raise a finger to help her -- and then with unbuttoning his fly, the tin buttons slipping and gliding as she tried to fit them through straining buttonholes. That earned her a low sound from him, a kind of soft growl in his throat.

Curious, she pushed the jeans and briefs a little down on his narrow, muscular hips, revealing more and more of the line of crisp black hairs running down his stomach. As soon as the restraint of the jeans was out of the way, the tip of his hard length fought clear of the upper edge of the briefs, emerging dark and smooth above the white cotton, and she licked her lips, excited and nervous as she reached inside and eased the briefs' elastic down. And stared.

She'd seen it once before -- exotic like some creature of the underwater or the moon, long and thick with the smooth purple-red skin glistening, telling how hard and straining the flesh was underneath. His ... cock, penis? She wasn't sure she wanted a word for it, nothing too crude or clinical. It was simply part of him.

Her legs shook as she lowered herself down on her knees, fit her palm around it and leaned in to taste.

Her own soft sound of surprise at the small burst of wetness on her tongue mingled with his abrupt, whispered reaction, an elaborate profanity, she suspected, although his voice made it sound like endearment. She opened her mouth wider, fit the tip inside, then more of him, tightened her lips to suck, worrying whether she was managing to keep her teeth out of the way--

With an exclamation she couldn't decipher, he placed his palms over her cheeks, but instead of guiding her motions as she had expected, he coaxed her away, closed his hands over her arms and urged her up on her feet. His eyes were narrowed with concern.

"Her-my-nee." He shook his head as though to clear it. "This is ... first time?"

She bit her lip, crestfallen with confirmed misgivings. She wasn't sure she was more astonished that he hadn't realized this before, or dispirited that it was her performance that had given her away. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes -- oh God, not in that vay," he interrupted himself as he caught her expression. "It felt incredible, but ... it's all new to you. Isn't it? You never did -- vith Veasley?"

She considered lying. If she told him the truth, would he insist on courting her chastely for weeks first? It would be just like Viktor, and she didn't think she could stand it.

"Ah, mila, it is all right," he murmured. "You can tell me, either vay."

"I ... yes," she whispered. "I haven't, Ron and I, we never really got around to anything very ... advanced."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "And you vant to do it like this, your first time? Vith me drunk, and selfish--"

"Oh God, stop it," she burst out. "Viktor, you're not selfish and you're demonstrably not too drunk--" she dropped a pointed glance at his erection rising out of his fly -- "and I ... yes, I want it. With you and no one other. Now. Please."

"Vy?" he asked, with such soft-spoken simplicity, she felt ashamed that she had even contemplated lying to him about this.

She answered as quietly as him. "Because it's you. Because I've always thought that I ... that I would like my first time to be with you. Because ... I guess I never really fell out of love with you. Because I'm sure that it would be beautiful with you."

That was more than she had meant to say, but Viktor's expression made her glad she'd said it anyway. So ... surprised and tender, as if it were grace that had descended upon him in such a stubborn, inexperienced, bushy-haired shape.

"Beautiful?" he murmured, stroking her hair away from her face with trembling fingers. "And here I am getting you down on your knees, ven I am the one should be doing things for you."

She shook her head. "I want to do things for you, too. So many things."

"Yes, but first time," he told her firmly, "it should be I do things for you."

Before Hermione could make any further protests, he had embraced her and swung her up in his arms. "Viktor, what are you--"

"First," he said with a heart-stopping smile, "I carry you to my bed."

She fit her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder, feeling too giddy and grateful to even get flustered over the romantic, possessive gesture. "And then?" she murmured dreamily.

He hesitated a second or two, his arms tightening around her before he spoke with sudden gritty intent and walked with her to the bed. "And then I make love to you so vell, you never vant to look at another man."

"Oh," she whispered, astonished as heat surged in her at his determination. His was an extravagant promise, but it seemed her body believed him absolutely.

She was lowered onto his bed, on cool cotton sheets. Viktor pushed the duvet away from her, and looked down on her with a hunger that made her swallow hard and close her eyes, overwhelmed by the realization that this was it, the moment she'd wanted for so long; she had finally made it happen.

She heard him draw in a sharp breath, and opened her eyes again when she felt his hand over her cheek.

"Her-my-nee ... I vill give you veeks, months if you need me to." He spoke with thick, husky appeal. "But I haff already vaited years."

"Viktor," she said, earnestly, "if you make me wait for another minute, I think I'll go crazy."

"Hmm." He raised his hands to the buttons of her shirt, started slipping them loose, one by one, his gaze fixed on the skin he revealed, suddenly mischievous. "There is crazy and there is crazy. Some crazy ... can be good thing." He opened the buttons over her breasts and pushed the material to the side, then ran his fingers over the upper swell of her breasts and the transparent rose lace of her bra. "So lovely," he whispered. "For me?"

"Well, I hoped," she said, meaning to be wry but only managing breathless, and he smiled, took his fingers away and made quick work of the rest of the buttons. Her shirt was eased off her, Hermione helping him by arching her back and raising her arms at his murmured directions. Her jeans went the same way, and then she lay revealed in her rose-pink lace, blushing from top to toe at the knowledge of the staggering contrast between her outerwear and this, an impulse buy at Harrods that had languished at the back of her underwear drawer since last summer.

Since right before the World Friendship Cup, as a matter of fact.

"It, it's not really my colour," she offered, stammering, as he kept staring and said nothing.

His gaze flew up to her face, alight with desire and laughter. "No vorries." He put his large hand on her abdomen, letting it glide upwards without hurry, skimming her breasts, brushing along her collarbones, tracing the line of her jaw. "It is matching your pretty blush, see?"

Oh, God, she couldn't think of a thing to say, just blush deeper and hope he wouldn't stop touching her. She felt so silly and helpless, and so turned on at the same time. Was this what the phrase "sex stupid" meant, Hermione wondered? She'd heard it used but never realized that it defined an actual state of arousal. It was disconcerting, the way her thoughts kept evading her and turning to primal screams of "more, more" each time she felt his hands on her.

Viktor sat up and wrung off his shirt. He was naked underneath it, his shoulders broad and angular, his torso slender and muscular with the sparse cloud of hair over the centre of his chest, trailing narrowly down to his navel and the thicker bush at his groin. Her fingertips itched to touch him, so as he lay down on his side next to her she did, trailing her fingers curiously through the dark, wiry wisps of curls. She touched one of his small, hard nipples and he took a careful breath.

"That feels nice?" she whispered.

"Mm-hm." He raised his own hand, laid it on her waist as he leaned in and sought her lips with his own.

He kissed her with slow, languid sensuality, coaxing her mouth wide and greedy for him, then invited her tongue into his mouth and sucked on it gently. Hermione moaned, felt the soft pulls of his lips on the tip of her tongue tingle in every sensitive part of her body. She could feel his erection, hard and hot, nuzzling her stomach, and pressed into it, causing a low grunt from him. His hand on her waist glided upwards and cupped one breast, his thumb rubbing the crisp lace over her erect nipple and it felt so intense she arched her neck gasping, breaking away from the kiss.

"Oh--"

"Look," he murmured, and waited until she raised her head and leaned up on her elbows to watch before he let his hand drift higher, fingertips brushing over the curve of her breast as he pushed the cup of her bra down. She understood what he meant at once, biting her lip at the arresting contrast between her pink-tipped, pale breast and his large, calloused hand, closing over her soft skin with a delicacy that didn't seem possible. The sight of it alone was enough to send shivers through her; the touch was almost too much to bear, so reverent and demanding at once. She fell back, her head turning to the side as she breathed quickly.

He opened the front clasp of her bra and brushed the lace cups to the side, and then he lay down and kissed her again, kneading her breasts and rolling her nipples between his fingertips, firing up the sweet ache between her legs until her hips were writhing, the crotch of her knickers soaking with slick wetness. She felt so hot, skin burning, muscles tense and open at the same time. She couldn't breathe, she broke away from his kiss once more and moaned into the sweat-damp skin of his neck. She searched with her fingers down his front to caress the velvet heat of his erection, but after a few tentative strokes he caught her wrist with a low grunt of warning, and she whimpered.

"Viktor..."

"Hmm?" She felt his tongue, tracing over the rim of her ear.

"Please," she whispered, fast and fevered, "I want--"

"Vant more?"

"Yes -- oh!" she croaked as she felt his fingers on her inner thigh, sliding up and inwards, touching ever so lightly at first -- a pulsing needlepoint of bright pleasure. He rubbed the wet silk against her, gently, deeply into her folds, and the feeling flared and spread. She knew if he kept it up a little she'd come from this, and the anticipation made her whole body hitch.

"Her-my-nee, you're so good, so ready for me." His voice had gone hoarse, drenched with lust. He raised his fingers quickly to his lips and flicked out his tongue to taste, his lids falling half-closed. She moaned and grasped at his wrist in alarm.

"Don't stop, please don't stop now!"

He smiled. "Shh, mila. Vill make it better than that."

"No!" She hardly knew what she was saying. What he'd been doing was plenty good enough; she didn't know if she could stand better than that. But Viktor moved down along her body, hooked his fingers under the waist of her knickers and eased them down her legs and off, then spread her open with his palms on her thighs as he moved back up. It dawned on her what he was going to do as he stroked her folds open with his thumbs and lowered his head and oh God, it was his mouth there, ready to--

She shook from head to toe at the first touch -- tentative, lapping tastes, taking his sweet time. His mouth was soft and wet and she was soft and wet too and it was all almost too gentle to bear, and then in a jolt of witless sensation she felt his tongue glide over her clitoris, swirling and pressing in tight, languid circles. She'd read about this, knew it wasn't anything to be shy or hung-up about, but nothing could have prepared her for the intimacy of the act. It felt outrageous; it made her feel so vulnerable that anxiety pounded in her chest, yet the sensation was so perfect she could only open and open to it, thighs wide, her fingers twining into his hair to secure him where she wanted him.

Viktor licked at her steadily, low moans of satisfaction and encouragement in his throat, then dipped his tongue deep inside her gliding and pressing, and she arched into the sensation, her pelvis rocking up to his touch like waves to a shore. Pleasure was running wild in her bloodstream and nerves, firing crazy and random and then surging back to one pure point as he drew her clit in between his lips and began pulling on it firmly. She heard her own gasping breath distantly as her muscles gathered and trembled in transfixed purpose, the liquid hot tug of his beautiful mouth holding her in thrall like a spell of possessive love. Her hands left his head and clawed for purchase in the sheets; her legs stretched out, feet arching, while he moved his long fingers to her opening and pressed inside her to touch--

She clenched hard around him and released in slow shuddering waves, intense enough to make her think she'd pass out, and there were tears on her face and his name on her lips, and everything felt too right and too strange and turning over and over.

He moved up her body and she opened her eyes reluctantly, her breath still coming in panting half-sobs, the aftershocks of orgasm eddying softly between her legs.

"Oh," she whispered, "God, that was--"

Viktor ran a hand over her hair, blew gently on her sweat-damp hairline. "Incredibly hot," he murmured. "Sexy Her-my-nee."

"It must be you, you bring it out in me," she said with a shy, dazed grin, and then widened her eyes as she felt his fingers still inside her, starting to move slowly in and out. It felt like two fingers, and two fingers felt like more than she would have expected. She hadn't felt any discomfort as they pushed inside her on the brink of orgasm, the ecstasy blotting out all else, but the pressure was tight now, sore and needy at the same time.

"Is this all right?" Viktor murmured. "Vant you so much, but I don't vant to hurt you."

"I ... yes. I guess. It's strange," she confessed. He put his thumb on her clitoris, rubbing softly, and she closed her eyes and sighed, feeling how little it would take to send her over the brink again.

"Better like that?" He kissed her before easing his fingers out and sitting up on his knees, then rose up off the bed and walked across the room, pushing his jeans and briefs down and stepping out of them before he got something out of a pocket on his travel bag. She was so busy taking in the lean, muscular revelation of him in the warm flicker of firelight that it didn't register what he was doing before he knelt on the bed next to her, and she saw the foil-wrapped condom he held between his fingers.

"Viktor, I..." She swallowed. Glanced down at his erection, jutting hard and thick against his stomach, and wondered how the logistics of getting that inside her were going to work out, before she forced her focus back to the matter at hand. "I'm actually on something."

He paused, sitting back. "I'm safe," he said. "Haff been careful, alvays. But I don't vant you to vorry about something like that."

"Viktor, if you say it's safe, I know it is," she whispered, smiling at him, so quietly honourable even at a moment like this.

"Sure?" He waited for her nod, and then put the condom on the nightstand and lay down beside her, one thigh straddling her legs. "Vant you now," he murmured, his face tense with longing. "Is it okay?"

"Yes ... yes." She closed her eyes nervously as he moved over her, but then got curious and had to watch anyway, as he pushed her knees apart and up a little and took himself in hand. He leaned on one elbow over her, and she tilted her hips up to meet him while he aligned himself with her and started pressing inside. They both strained; it felt impossible for long, trembling moments, but then she gasped and shook as the tightness yielded and let him partway in. He went slow, but didn't stop once he'd started, and Hermione let her head fall back and closed her eyes again, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to try to deflect some of the pain that way. Viktor was speaking to her in Bulgarian, his low concerned voice strained by intense lust, and it somehow helped to know that what felt so sharp and hard for her affected him as strongly in a different way.

Finally, he lay tense and quiet, his cheek brushing in a caress along her own before he looked down in her face.

"Hurts?" he asked hoarsely.

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to gauge the sensation. Something had torn, sore and throbbing, but overlaying that was a sweet, thick fullness that was different than anything she'd ever felt. "Yeah ... a bit," she whispered. "But I, I like it too. You inside me, so strange."

He brushed a kiss across her lips. He was breathing in shallow, carefully controlled pants, his muscled body wound hard with tension. "Mila moya, you feel so good. So soft, tight, your cunt, holding my cock like that."

Somehow, lying here with him inside her, it didn't matter that the words were cruder than anything she'd expected to hear from him; they sent a hot stab of arousal through her. Viktor's cock. Inside her ... her cunt. She moaned and shifted under him, wrapped her legs around his hips and arched her back to encourage him to move. He barely thrust at first, just rocked inches back-and-forth, keeping the friction inside to a gentle minimum as he watched for her response. She saw the uncertainty in his eyes at her initial wince, saw how his expression flitted between rapture and gritty restraint, and raised her hand, stroking the dark, sweat-lank hair away from his face.

"Viktor, don't hold back," she murmured. "I want you to lose control, want to know what it feels like when you come inside me."

He groaned and began moving in earnest, dragging slowly out of her and thrusting back, sinuous, heavy movement in and out. His expression changed, eyes narrowed to sensual slits veiled by his lashes, lips half-open and slack to ease his ragged breath.

The inexorable smooth slide of his motion inside her, of their motion together, was mesmeric. Hermione hadn't expected to come again, but as he started making a firm grinding motion with each thrust, she felt the tension mounting despite the sting of soreness inside. She clutched at his arms and rocked into the pressure, uncertain how to focus the overload of unfamiliar sensations into the release she ached for. Viktor muttered her name softly and slid his hand around her behind, lifting her into his thrusts as his pace escalated, and after a while he gave a loud, drawn-out groan and she felt shudders go through him, his hand locking her against him as he plunged deeply inside her in the urgent, erratic rhythm of his climax.

Gasping, he lowered himself over her, resting his head on the mattress next to hers, and she stayed clasped around him with arms and thighs, her fingers teasing tenderly through his hair. She still felt slow pulses inside, both from him and herself, but thought she could ignore the restless want and let it subside. He'd given her one wonderful climax and she didn't feel short-changed.

She felt his hand on her cheek, turning her face to him for a slow, breathless kiss.

"Left you hanging," he murmured. "Poor Her-my-nee."

"I'm fine," she smiled, uncertain whether he was offering or not.

His raised his eyebrows. "Vill be 'finer' in a minute," he promised, mischief sparking in his eyes. He raised himself up on one elbow and dipped his head to one of her breasts, licking at the tip before he grazed it lightly with his teeth. She exhaled in a shudder, raised her hips involuntarily, and he took his cue, moved his free hand between them and brushed two fingers through her wet folds. His touch was gentle and knowing as he found her clit and slid his fingertips the length of it, over and over, still working his tongue and teeth over her nipple, until the tension he was feeding coiled too tight to hold and burst in a shivering, light-flooded current of sensation. He was still half-hard inside her and she felt her muscles clutch at him in shocked greedy pulses, increasing the intensity of the orgasm.

She was moaning, had been moaning for a while, she realized, as she slowly came down from the high. Viktor was watching her with lazy, satisfied eyes.

"Finer now?"

"You ... you can be a little smug, Mr. Krum," she gasped. "I'll have to work on..."

"Hmm?" He was laughing at her mock-indignant tone which was rather pitifully hampered by her breathlessness.

"On getting back at you somehow--"

"Getting back, that means revenge, yes? I can't vait," he grinned, not exactly less smug, but it was hard to argue with him when his gaze was so warm and adoring and he was holding her like that, gathering her to him like he couldn't get her close enough. He shifted, and she winced a little as he eased out of her, but it wasn't as though the experience as a whole hadn't been worth some soreness.

She sighed and rested her cheek on the arm he offered, felt his other arm over her waist, his thigh coming to rest between her own. "Oh, that was so nice," she whispered.

"Nice?" Viktor chuckled. "This is English vord that means unforgettable and fantastic, right?"

"Yes. Among other things. It's a very practical, all-purpose word. Like 'fine'." She smiled, traced with her fingertips down his upper arm, felt the sheen of sweat on him cooling. Viktor reached to pull the bedcovers up over them. Outside the window, the clouds had finally loosened up on their burden of snow, sending wisps of icy flakes dancing scattering against the dark pane, a teasing whisper of how lucky they were to be lying in the warmth of each other, a fire's heat, and a comfortable bed.

Maybe it was the reminder of the world outside that made her focus drift from the moment to wider considerations. She raised her gaze to look him in the eyes. "Viktor, I--"

He shook his head. "You don't haff to say--"

"I need to," she interrupted. "I, it's difficult, I don't want you to think I'm saying this merely because you just gave me two orgasms that made my legs cramp and my toes curl -- please don't laugh," she sighed as she felt his stomach muscles tremble.

"Not laughing, Her-my-nee." Oh, he definitely was, a laughter of such love and satisfaction she couldn't help but laugh with him.

"You've always been the shining knight, the lover in my dreams," she said softly. "How could I help it when you turned up the way you did, sweeping me off my feet before I was old enough to even have begun longing for such things? But it seemed so fanciful and unrealistic to believe in a future for a romance that started that way."

He watched her quietly. "I understand."

"Do you? Every time we've met, you've been as kind and down-to-earth and just, just loveable as ever. And your letters, so attentive and understanding, even when they were filled with your own thoughts and experiences. It made it impossible to stop wondering -- whether maybe we might..."

He stopped her with a tender kiss. "Tonight you sleep in my arms, and tomorrow, I answer, mila. Vords in daytime are harder to say, but easier to trust." He smiled as he brushed his lips across the frown furrowing her forehead. "No fears. I promise, I von't be the one running avay."

"Nor I," she murmured. She nestled her head against his chest and felt his arm tighten around her, thought briefly of getting up and going to clean up, but it was too perfect just to lie here for a little while longer and listen to his steady heartbeat.

As she drifted to sleep, she realized she hadn't felt so safe, nor as peaceful, in years.

***

She woke from the sound of a rambunctious wind whistling and clattering around the corners of the tavern. Outside, trees swayed and clouds chased across the sullen sky, breathing small gales of snow at the windows at intervals, but inside she was snug under soft covers and flames danced quietly in the fireplace. Viktor wasn't there, but she could still smell him on the bedclothes, on the pillow ... on herself, even.

A note lay on the pillow beside her, written in a large, steep, so very familiar hand. She sat up, wincing at a rather less familiar soreness as she did so, and stroked her hair out of her face, a goofy grin spreading over her face as she read the note.

Hermione, lyubima --

I had not heart to wake you, you slept so well. Must go to meeting with my colleagues over breakfast. If there is time, I will bring you breakfast when we're done, or else I will see you when the match is over.

Did you know you make the cutest tiny snores, like cat asleep?

Remember your promise to not run away, please. I have interesting plans, involving you, me and the big armchair.

Love, Viktor.

"I do not snore," she proclaimed to the empty room, and then burst out in a small giggle somewhere between glee and anxiety, fitfully clutching her stomach which was doing somersaults of some incredibly giddy emotion.

She checked her watch -- it was nine, and the match would begin at eleven. Quickly, she jumped out of the bed, taking a moment to stretch luxuriously. Her gaze fell on the armchair, and her stomach did new somersaults as several 'interesting' possibilities came to mind. Oh, he was a very wicked man, she decided, to make her wonder about such things.

She went into the bathroom and took a shower, using Viktor's shampoo and the bar of cedarwood soap that was still wet with suds from when he had showered earlier. She hadn't brought a change of clothes, superstitious that any sign of overconfidence might backfire in failure, so she just did a cleaning spell on her underwear, a perfunctory tidying spell on her hair, and dressed in her jeans and shirt from the day before.

Downstairs, the Bulgarians were sitting at the same table as yesterday, their discussion still louder than an English one would have been but rather more subdued than the night before, the ghost of a collective hangover hovering over most of the company. Viktor sat leaning back against the wall in his chair, his head resting back against his raised, bent arm, his long, slender torso in a lazy stretch as he listened with a frown to something the manager said -- then he caught sight of her, unabashedly ogling him from the bottom of the stairs, and got up on his feet with a brief word of excuse to the others.

He came across the room towards her with the warmest smile playing in his eyes. His hair was still damp from the shower and his shirt had the top two buttons open so she glimpsed the wiry black swirls of chest hair, and she wanted really badly to just pounce on him and drag him with her back upstairs. She took a step forwards to meet him, and that was the moment at which she heard interested murmurs nearby and noticed a group of familiar faces around another table.

There, around heaped breakfast plates, sat Harry, Ginny, Luna, Fred, George, and -- thank you God, she thought with a sarcasm that was more resigned than blasphemous -- Ron, looking apprehensive, and Pansy. Of course.

Ginny waved with her slice of toast and spoke carefully around a mouthful. "'Morning, Hermione! You're here for the match, as well?" Her grin had an unmistakable quality of mischief. Hermione looked at Pansy, who smiled angelically back, all innocence.

Oh yes, that was likely.

She gave an arch smile in response and concentrated on Viktor. He'd never been overly demonstrative in public -- burned at too young an age from being constantly watched, she supposed, adding to his innate reserve -- but she presently found she had no need for grander gestures than the gentle way he took her hand in his large one, and kissed first her fingertips, then quickly dipped to brush his lips over her cheek.

"Hi, there," she whispered, feeling absurdly shy as she folded her hand around his. "I didn't mean to, I mean, I don't want to take you away from your breakfast meeting--"

"Vill be finished in a couple of minutes," he promised. "Then ve can talk." He threw a nonplussed glance over his shoulder. "I suspect ve vill have an audience, though."

"This is Pansy's work," said Hermione with a sigh. "Long story. I'll explain later. Go and finish business."

With a smile that balanced on a knife's edge between resigned and threatening, she walked over to her tableful of friends. "Fancy meeting you all here."

"Pansy claimed we risked missing out on the match of the decade," Harry said with a quiet grin.

"And we wouldn't dream of that," asserted Fred. "Also, I've missed the fresh Highland air." He sniffed in an enthusiastic noseful of the egg-and-bacon-scented air in the tavern.

"George has always said he fell for me when I did my first Quidditch commentary in my fifth year," said Luna with a dreamy glance up at George, "so he's come today to relive the thrill."

"That's right, sweetheart," said George cheerfully, and placed a fond kiss at the crown of Luna's head. "And I know you'll be spectacular."

"My cousin Annabel is a Chaser on the Slytherin side," purred Pansy, studying her impeccable manicure. "I'm here for moral support."

"And I'm just here with Pansy," added Ron quickly.

Hermione looked at each of them, her gaze finally settling on Ginny, who hadn't yet offered an excuse. Ginny seemed to be casting about for one that hadn't already been taken, and then she just gave up and shook her head laughing.

"Oh, sod it," she said sweetly. "Pansy and I decided to make sure you and Viktor wouldn't get yet another chance to screw this up. But it seems we didn't have to worry, did we?"

Hermione shook her head, rendered speechless. She sat down where Ginny made room for her, and swallowed before venturing a question. "Am I really that inept at romance that you couldn't trust me to manage this on my own?"

"Inept is a strong word," said Fred, and laughed when she threw him a dirty look.

"Surprisingly unskilled might cover it better," said George with an apologetic smirk when she shifted her glare to him.

"A little too ept at being depressingly sensible," suggested Harry good-naturedly. "Shut it, Hermione, 'ept' should be a word."

"Oh, look," said Luna with a contented sigh as she stared out the window, "aren't the clouds truly amazing today?"

"Yeah, but it's bloody awful weather for Quidditch," said Ron, giving Hermione a rather endearing grin.

Hermione gave up. She felt far too happy this morning to take anything the wrong way, and anyway the loyalty behind the insults, such as they were, was actually rather heart-warming. "Oh, bugger you all," she said, laughing in spite of herself. "Thank you. I think. I'm going to order breakfast."

Rosmerta, as opposed to other present company, was discretion incarnate, giving Hermione nothing more than a knowing little quirk of her lips along with her tea, bacon and eggs.

"You didn't see us here this morning, did you?" said Ginny with a cheeky wink up at her. "We'd be in a spot of trouble, Luna and I."

"One doesn't make good business by tattling on the customers," was Rosmerta's reply, as she poured Hermione's tea. "And you're hardly the first Weasley courting a spot of trouble, young lady."

Her gaze went from Fred to George, who simultaneously put their hands to their chests with a wounded, "What?"

"We resent the implication," said Fred, blowing Rosmerta a kiss, and she shook her head at him, but was chuckling as she left their table.

"Yes, how did you two sneak out, anyway?" asked Hermione, a suspicion rising in her as she looked at Ginny. "Did you happen to emerge at Honeydukes, by any chance?"

"Who do you think Harry gave his Map and Cloak to?" said Ginny, giving Harry a brisk peck on the cheek.

"Well, you have better use for them now, than me," he asserted, and grinned. "And it means I get to see you more often."

Hermione gave them a half-hearted stern look. "Just don't get yourself thrown out of school on account of an unprincipled boyfriend," she said to Ginny, putting a big bite of bacon into her mouth to hide her smile. Somehow, it felt right that the Marauder's Map and the Invisibility Cloak should stay at Hogwarts, being passed on from one student with a penchant for trouble to another.

"Heavens, don't you have a healthy appetite this morning?" drawled Pansy as Hermione tucked in.

She put down her fork and knife, carefully chewed and swallowed her mouthful, and sighed. "All right, Parkinson. What will I have to admit to in order to get you off my back? That I had sex with Viktor Krum last night and yes, it was in fact just completely wonderful?"

Unfortunately, she promptly ruined the effect of her cool delivery by blushing and grinning as bright as a lighthouse.

"Damn it!" said Pansy and leaned eagerly forwards, all but pumping her dainty fist in the air in triumph. "I knew it. I knew that if that lovely man just got you laid, you would see the light!"

"I do not think I know you, but your faith in me is touching," remarked Viktor, red around the ears as he joined them, pulling up a chair from the next table to sit between Hermione and Ron.

Pansy actually had the good grace to turn crimson, and coughed out a nearly inaudible stammering sound that immediately had them all, except Viktor, in stitches. Viktor, who didn't know how rare it was for Pansy to be struck dumb, merely gave a bemused smile.

Ron, who had looked very uncomfortable at the sudden company, momentarily got over his embarrassment in his shock over Viktor's accomplishment. He offered Viktor his hand. "A speechless Parkinson," he marvelled with a huge grin. "Thanks, mate. I'll be able to exploit this moment for years."

Viktor hesitated only for a second or two before, with the discreet incitement of Hermione's elbow in his side, he accepted Ron's hand. "You are velcome."

"AndbythewayI'mawfullysorry," squeezed Ron out in a rush, probably figuring this would be the least painful chance he'd ever get to apologize. He held on to Viktor's hand with determination. "You know, about that day. When you, er, stopped by. And I. Well."

"Was an idiot?" murmured Ginny.

"Oh, that day," intoned Fred and George together, sotto voce.

"I accept your apology, Veasley," said Viktor, and even spared Ron a grin as he shook his hand again, then released it. He turned his attention to Pansy next, his smile curious now. "Hello," he said. "I do know you, right? I remember you vell from Slytherin table at Hogvarts."

Pansy raised her chin in challenge, her gaze turning hard and uncertain. "Sweet memories," she said with quiet irony.

"You look happier now," said Viktor as quietly, but without the irony, and got a smile out of her.

"I imagine I do." She cast an almost demure glance at Ron, who dropped his gaze with a modest, yet smug expression.

Harry gave an awkward cough to clear his voice after a longish silence, and got up from the table, pulling Ginny up beside him. "So, anyone for a good and dirty game of Quidditch?"

***

"Sorry," said Hermione when they were finally alone. "They mean well."

"Yes," said Viktor, amused. "I noticed."

She looked across to the Bulgarians' table where Ron had gathered the courage to approach a player whom she suspected must be Zograf, of the amazing corkscrew saves. She smiled, noticing Ron's glee as he pocketed Zograf's autograph. "Thanks for playing nice with Ron."

"Don't mention it," said Viktor, and took her hand. "So," he said, "now is ven ve vill have big, nervous, meaningful discussion?"

"I suppose." She took a deep breath as she tried to gather her thoughts. She really did feel nervous, all of a sudden, as she realized how much she'd been taking for granted. "I didn't alarm you last night, did I, with all those hopeful assumptions? Total breach of first-night etiquette, I'm afraid."

"I guess it vas," he said, regarding her with sly warmth. "Is good thing I am not easily offended, yes?"

"Not to mention that my friends just now showed staggering presumption on my behalf, too. I mean, it's perfectly understandable if you need some, some time to figure out where this is headed -- in fact, that would no doubt be the most sensible way to proceed with--"

"Her-my-nee." Viktor rubbed his thumb sensuously over the pulse point at her wrist, his eyes steady and alert to her immediate intake of breath. "Do ve haff to use many big vords? You spoke to me not only vith your voice, last night, and I think I heard you vell." He furrowed his brow, dropping his gaze for a second as he searched for words, and in that unguarded moment she finally managed to see through her own hopes and vulnerabilities to recognise the same emotions playing over his rugged, sardonic face. When he looked at her and spoke again, his voice was husky. "Ve can find vay to make this vork, yes?"

She swallowed a big lump in her throat that had appeared from nowhere. "It would be really so nice if we could," she whispered.

"Vouldn't it?" he agreed, the corners of his mouth lifting.

He ran his thumb across her palm, next, tilting his head in query when she gave another little exhalation at the touch. "Aha," he murmured. "Is not only me who vishes Quidditch to the devil so that ve could go upstairs and say hello to the armchair?"

"Maybe not," she admitted with a sheepish laugh. "What exactly did you have in mind for the poor armchair?"

"That vould be telling," he teased. "I had planned on showing."

"And what's with the sudden kink for armchairs?"

"Is not sudden." Viktor's smile was inscrutable as he watched her blushing face. "I haff had fantasy about you in armchair for years."

A scandalized little grin escaped her. "Since when?" she said, although she suddenly thought that maybe she knew.

"Once, a young girl sat in big chair in my cabin, and asked for my help." He stroked his fingers tenderly over the warm curve of her cheek. "Her face very red, her eyes very brave ... her knees closed, so sweet and proper. The things I longed to do in that moment--" He shook his head. "Of course I could not. You vere fifteen, and it vould haff been too much. So I lay vith you on my bed, and showed you only vot you needed to know."

"Ah," she whispered, giving him a hopeful smile. "Well, I'm grown up now."

"Exactly." He traced a light circular trail with his fingertips on the inside of her knee, and she sighed and squirmed. "Sore this morning?" he asked her, low and matter-of-fact.

"Er ... yes. But interested!" Hermione hurried to stress.

Viktor stood up, pulling her up from the chair by her hand with a promising smirk. "Hmm. I think I can vork vith that."

"Now?" she whispered, throwing a furtive glance around. But her friends had all left the tavern, and the Bulgarians seemed caught up in their own discussion. "What about the match?"

"Is..." He checked the clock on the wall. "...Fifty minutes until ve leave for the match. Do you think I can manage to hold your interest for that long?"

Hermione felt her whole face relax into a carefree, and rather frivolous smile. "It will be very interesting to find out if you can," she said, raising her eyebrow in a challenge that had Viktor laughing as she tugged him towards the stairs.

-end-