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Hermione stamped into The Common Grounds, her preferred coffee shop. Only two blocks away from the Muggle entrance to the Ministry of Magic, it felt a whole world away. Her co-workers didn’t come here; no witch or wizard did.
It was an odd thing, that. A clear fifteen percent of witches and wizards were Muggleborn, and another forty-five to fifty were halfbloods of some variety. But most witches and wizards kept to the wizarding world where they could. They worked at the Ministry of Magic, the Floo Regulatory Authority, or any number of other wizarding enterprises; they shopped in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, or Godric’s Hollow. She had originally thought that halfbloods and Muggleborns would be different, but neither the stats nor the qualitative data lied. Most halfbloods and Muggleborns became estranged from their families, hardly stepping into the Muggle world, little different from the old pureblood families.
They were a people apart, most witches and wizards said. They had magic, and Muggles didn’t, and so it made sense that they grew apart, that they were apart from the society around them. Even Harry said so—but in Harry’s case, Hermione was inclined to be forgiving, since the little she had heard of his childhood had made her want to steal a Time Turner, go back two decades, and call social services on the Dursleys.
Hermione was different. She liked her family—her parents, a few aunts and uncles on each side, a cousin or five. She had magic and they didn’t, but it didn’t make any of them less human. She found enough points of commonality that she didn’t accept the argument that Muggles were just different—moreover, she didn’t see why anyone should. The separation between magical and mundane had created monsters like blood prejudice, like Voldemort, and as far as she was concerned, the answer to preventing another one lay in strengthening their connections to the Muggle world.
She probably could have expected the blow up over her suggestion that the Ministry require magical children attend Muggle primary schools before going to Hogwarts, though.
She scanned the menu, bright white and red and yellow chalk on a black board, though she’d memorized it long ago. An Americano would probably be best, but after a morning like this one, she wanted sugar. A mocha—a dark chocolate mocha with double espresso and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Sugar and caffeine, what wasn’t there to like? And maybe she’d take a cookie as well, she had earned it verbally sparring with Turpin this morning, listening to his sanctimonious bullshit about how magical children didn’t need schooling before Hogwarts because all witch mothers homeschooled their children properly, unlike Muggles…
Not looking at where she was going, she collided headfirst into the wool coat in front of her.
It was damp from the misty rain outside, and Hermione grimaced as she wiped the wet off her face. “Oh, I’m so sorry—”
“Hermione?”
The voice was distinctive, accent twisting his vowels such that for a second Hermione heard Herm-own-ninny, though he’d learned her name since. Dark eyes under thick eyebrows, dark curls under a nondescript hat, and Hermione blinked, taken aback.
“Viktor?” she asked, tilting her head up slightly to look at him. “Is that—what are you doing here?”
He was better dressed and better groomed than he had been when they were young. His hair, Hermione could see, had been tortured into something neat, while his eyebrows had been plucked away from its natural unibrow. His clothes were sharply cut, professional, entirely in black and she thought he might even have been wearing a glamour charm.
“Avoiding my manager,” Viktor replied, in such an annoyed tone that Hermione couldn’t help but smile.
“Still avoiding people, I see.”
Viktor scowled down at her. “I would have thought, Hermione, that you could now relate. Now that you are war heroine. Why else would you be here?”
“War heroines don’t attract the same kind of attention as Quidditch stars.” Hermione laughed outright. “And I’m here because I like the coffee. It’s roasted in-house, you know. Why don’t I buy you one? I have some time—we can catch up. It’s been years. How have you been? What are you doing in Britain?”
Viktor smiled, if a little reluctantly. He had always had a shy smile—he had told her, long ago, that smiles were cultural. She had pointed out that while there was some truth to that, god knew the Americans smiled at quite literally everything, the maniacs, the Brits weren’t exactly known for it either and his smile was shy even by their standards. “An Americano, black, thank you. Have you not been following Quidditch?”
“Not even a little,” Hermione replied, without a hint of guilt. Ron and Harry despaired of her attitude towards Quidditch, but what could she say? She just wasn’t interested in sports.
“Bulgaria is expected to make the World Cup again.”
“Congratulations.” Hermione paused to give their order to the barista. An Americano for Viktor, and for her—well, a whipped cream topped mocha with chocolate shavings and a cookie. Her rage at work would burn it all off anyway.
“Yes, thank you.” Viktor looked away. “I am glad for it, but I am less pleased about the publicity appearances. I’m here on an advertising campaign for the latest Firebolt. My manager had business at the Ministry, for some permit or another, and I was not informed.”
Hermione laughed, thanking the barista quickly for their drinks and taking them to an empty table at the back. “And you were swarmed?”
“One would think Ministry employees would have better things to do with their work days than crowd around me seeking autographs.” Viktor scowled. “One would be wrong.”
Hermione laughed again, a full and deep-throated one. “I must have missed it. I’m sorry not to have seen it.”
“Don’t be.” Viktor sighed, taking a deep sip of his Americano. “And you? You joined the Ministry.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Hermione didn’t think much of it. Viktor had always been smarter than people assumed—one could, in fact, be smart and also a gifted athlete. He probably inferred it from her reply, though the Daily Prophet had no doubt mentioned that she had joined the Ministry at some point in the last seven years or so. Trading in war heroics for a job as a minor functionary with the Ministry of Magic.
“I did,” Hermione replied with a sigh, her shitshow of a morning crashing back in on her head. “I wanted to make a difference, public service and all. I’m with the Department of Education—trying to persuade both the Ministry and Hogwarts to make some much-needed changes in requirements and curriculum.”
“Is it going well?” Viktor favoured her with a knowing smile.
“Like hell.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why there aren’t any preliminary educational requirements before admission to Hogwarts—basic reading, writing, and arithmetic would do—but there aren’t. It’s a wonder that as many first years arrive knowing how to read as they do, though I’m no longer surprised at how many people struggle. Then there’s the curriculum at Hogwarts, outdated, especially in History of Magic—did you know most of my classmates couldn’t tell you the first thing about the Grindelwald Wars?”
“Yes.” Viktor snorted. “I became aware of that when I was at Hogwarts, Hermione.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“What was there to say?” Viktor shrugged. “I was a guest. It was not my place to criticize.”
Hermione blew out a heavy breath. “Yes, well. They say that those who don’t know history, are doomed to repeat it. I’m trying to fix that, but it’s been…”
Viktor smiled at her again. “Hard-headed as ever, Hermione. I always liked that about you.”
“You did.” Hermione smiled back, falling back into the past. She and Viktor hadn’t been together long, less than six months—but she had learned more about herself in that time than she had ever admitted to anyone.
“No, I can’t, I’d absolutely die—”
The giggles were loud enough that Hermione might as well have been in the bloody common room, for all the work she was getting done. Her quill stabbed at the parchment, poking a hole in the parchment and leaving a giant splotch of ink on her History of Magic essay—annoyed, she blew out an angry breath and reached for her wand to erase it.
Was there even any point to trying to finish her essay here? It was a Saturday night, so the common room would be even busier than usual—clubs usually met on weeknights, keeping people out, and Sunday nights were when Harry and Ron and all the procrastinators would be attacking their homework. Fridays and Saturdays, though, it would be hopeless. She would just have to power through.
She peeked a glance at the object of the girls’ affection, seemingly lost in the stacks near her. Viktor Krum wasn’t even that good-looking. Among the other Durmstrang students, he stood out primarily by how short he was—he was taller than Hermione and most girls, she supposed, but six feet tall he was not. His shoulders were rounded, not broad, his facial hair patchy when he didn’t shave, his eyebrows thick and almost meeting. He was even slightly duck-footed, his grace and speed in the air entirely absent on the ground. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was a Quidditch star, Hermione doubted that he would have nearly so many fans.
Two aisles over were the girls. Only two of them today, though sometimes it was as many as six. They were upper-years, Hermione knew that much, and one of them a Gryffindor, but she didn’t know their names. She didn’t particularly care about their fangirling—she just wished they were quieter about it, because while Madam Pince would normally have showed up to either shush them or kick them out of the library by now, it seemed that she was out of the library for once.
Hermione gritted her teeth. It seemed if she wanted to write her essay in peace, she’d need Krum to go away. She stood up, slamming a book on top of her essay to keep the parchment roll open, and went over to his section of the stacks. “Excuse me, can I help you find something?”
Krum stopped, looking over at her. “I am… sorry?”
“I asked, can I help you find something? Since our librarian seems to be away.” Hermione fought to keep her voice even and level, instead of including some snide remark. Something like, this is a library. You can take books out and read them outside. Not that she’d ever seen him reading a book, for all the time he spent here.
“I—er.” Krum looked back at the books, looking both very awkward and very embarrassed. “No. I am not—I am not looking for a book.”
Considering he was currently staring at books about dragon breeding for fun and profit, that was probably a good thing, Hermione couldn’t help thinking with a mild hint of amusement. She knew where that ended up. “Then why are you here? This is a library. It is full of books. If you don’t need a book, and you don’t seem to be studying, I don’t see why you’re here.”
Probably sharper than she needed to be—no, definitely sharper than she needed to be. She braced herself for a sharper retort, something about how she was boring or a know-it-all or something else, but to her surprise he smiled very slightly.
“You are here.”
“I am working.” Hermione pointed at her small study table, stacked with books, her essay, her quill and ink and spare parchment.
“No, I meant—” Krum took a deep breath. “I am here because you are here. I—er. I am sure you know of the Yule Ball. I wanted to ask if you would go with me.”
She wouldn’t have been more surprised if Krum had grown horns and started breathing fire at her. There was silence—not even any giggling from the next row over. “Excuse me?”
Krum looked still more awkward. “I wanted to ask of you would attend the Yule Ball with me. The Champions are expected to open the dancing, and I had hoped—of course, I understand if you have already accepted another invitation…"
“Is this a prank?” Her voice came out loud, a crack that echoed in the cavernous library. “Who put you up to this?”
Her first thought would be Ron. Harry didn’t really do pranks, not unless he was roped in by someone else. But Ron hero-worshipped Krum enough that Hermione was certain he’d never spoken to him, not even to ask for his autograph, for all that Krum had never refused an autograph request from anyone. The Twins would have been her next best guess, but this didn’t seem their style—for all that they enjoyed pranking people, their pranks tended towards creative magic and quick laughs, and never anything intended on hurting anyone.
A Slytherin, she couldn’t help thinking. Malfoy might consider doing something like this—and she had seen their heads together at the dinner table often enough. “Was it Malfoy?”
Krum eyes widened in surprise. “I am sorry, I do not understand…”
“Who put you up to this?” Hermione voice came out more bitter than she had intended. “Ask out the school know-it-all only to laugh when I’m foolish enough to accept, or to dump pig’s blood on me at the Yule Ball, or—something magical, I don’t know—”
“No!” Krum turned hot, furious. “Has someone done that to you?”
“It’s a Muggle reference.” Hermione made to turn away, only for Krum to grab her arm. “Stephen King. Carrie. It’s a horror novel. The most popular boy in school and school quarterback asks Carrie, the least popular girl in school, to prom with him. Her classmates dump pig’s blood on her as a joke. She’s a witch, so she burns the town down around her in revenge. There is a lot of murder."
“I do not know what a quarterback is, nor prom, but no.” Krum straightened, his mouth set in a firm line. “No one has put me up to this, as you would say. I—I think you are very pretty. And so, I come to the library where you are to try to get my nerve together to ask you on a date. I would not let anyone dump pig’s blood on you, and I think it terrible that your first assumption is that I would. Both for myself, since you can’t know that I would do such a thing, and for you, since you seem to believe people would do this to you.”
His voice had a hint of hurt to it, and Hermione immediately felt bad. Krum didn’t know her, and he didn’t have any personal connection to her at all. For all that the Durmstrang students sat at the Slytherin table, she didn’t know for a fact whether Krum shared their prejudices, and it wasn’t like all the Slytherins were prejudiced, either. Tracey Davis wasn’t bad, and Astoria Greengrass was positively kind.
“In the book, he didn’t mean for it to happen either,” Hermione muttered, looking away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed, just… No, I—I don’t have a date for the Yule Ball.”
“Then…” Krum sounded hopeful.
Hermione sighed, looking up at him. His face had a hint of hopefulness, too. It was strange. “I’ll think about it.”
Every girl has a dream moment.
Or, not every girl, Hermione allowed, but enough of them that this dream had permeated society and she wasn’t much of an exception. Maybe, in fact, she was more prone to it than most because she was a bookworm. A bookworm, and a know-it-all, and no one had ever called her pretty before. Her parents didn’t praise shallow things like prettiness, preferring to praise her for her hard work—her extended family, all white-collar professionals, followed suit.
Maybe all of that just made that dream moment stronger for her. The image of herself coming down a sweeping staircase, a spotlight on her for the whole school—the realization hitting people’s heads that Hermione Granger, yes, bookish and know-it-all Hermione Granger, was also very pretty. Not that being pretty was as important as other things, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t feel nice to have that sort of attention paid to her for once. A prince to take her hand at the bottom of the steps came par for the course, in that fantasy.
And here was Viktor Krum, who turned out to be quite different than she had expected. Hermione would have thought him big-headed—in fact, she had thought that—from his Quidditch fame, but he wasn’t. Now that she had broken the barrier, he often came and sat with her in the library, and she found that he was… unexpected.
He didn’t love the attention from being a Quidditch star. “I like Quidditch very much,” he had said once. “I like flying, I love being in the air and soaring against the wind. I am lucky to play it for a living. But the attention…”
He shrugged. “I could do without it.”
“I see,” Hermione had said, though she wasn’t sure she did.
He was smart. Hermione didn’t like to think of herself as being biased, of making unfair assumptions of people, but she supposed that she had long thought that people who were athletic couldn’t be smart. But Viktor was smart, and particularly gifted at Transfiguration.
“Why would you want to do a partial Transfiguration?” Hermione asked once, catching sight of the book that he was reading, while she tackled her Potions homework.
“Many reasons,” he replied, turning a page of his book with interest. “Would it not be useful to give yourself a cat’s night-sight, or a wolf’s sharp nose, or a bat’s hearing?”
“Aren’t there Charms for that?”
“For some things.” Viktor smiled slightly. “But approaching it through Transfiguration is more versatile.”
Finally, he was remarkably in tune with the Muggle world. Harry knew how the Muggle world worked, since he was almost as much Muggleborn by background as she was, but he didn’t pay attention to politics or the news; Ron laughed at the concept of electricity. Viktor, on the other hand, not only had a good grasp of Muggle life, but also of Muggle politics.
“Why the surprise?” he asked, raising an eyebrow when Hermione commented on it, over yet another essay. “Of course, I am informed of the Muggle world.”
“Well, you’re at Durmstrang…” Hermione’s voice trailed away. “It is a pureblood-only school, isn’t it?”
Viktor scowled. “In a manner of speaking. But you know, of course, what the past half-century have been in Eastern Europe.”
It took Hermione a minute to respond. “The USSR?”
“Yes. First Grindelwald and the war, then the Soviets… the magical communities in the former USSR have gone further underground. It is a different political environment than here—do not mistake our caution with the pureblood mania of many of your classmates, Hermione.”
“I… see,” Hermione replied slowly. “What about your Muggleborns…?”
“They attend other schools. We have many schools in Eastern Europe—Durmstrang is only the oldest. Consider it like… your Eton, maybe. It is prestigious, but it is not everything.”
“Oh.” Hermione looked down. “I’m sorry for thinking the worst of you, then.”
“It is an easy mistake to make.” Viktor touched her on the arm—a cautious touch, more a gesture of understanding than anything else. “I am aware of attitudes that some of your classmates hold towards Muggles.”
It was two weeks before Hermione said yes. Yes, to a date with Viktor Krum, the famed Quidditch Seeker who was less egoistic, smarter, and more interesting than she had first thought he would be; yes, to the Yule Ball, where they’d be on display as part of the Triwizard Tournament. Yes, to her magic moment of walking down spiral stairs on a red carpet, resplendent in blue silk robes, to a knight in shining armour on the floor. It was stupid, but she said yes.
In real life, there were no spiral stairs. There was only the Entrance Hall, and while there were stairs, Hermione didn’t get to walk down them, not with a spotlight on her à la Cinderella. Instead, Viktor met her a half-hour early in an empty classroom on the first floor, they navigated the crush of people meeting in the Entrance Hall and waited with the other Champions within the Great Hall. Harry and Parvati were last, hurrying in looking red and breathless. On anyone else, Hermione would have suspected snogging—but with Harry, she knew it had just been plain tardiness.
“Sorry, we’re late,” he panted, only for Professor McGonagall to direct him in the right position before the doors opened and the students came in.
In her dreams, Hermione always imagined people would be surprised and shocked, but awed and accepting. In the fairy tales, no one talked about the undercurrent of hate that followed the shocked glares. Harry took a few minutes to place her, but when he did, he beamed, and so did Lavender, Hannah, the Twins, a dozen other people that she knew and loved. The Slytherins, Hermione should have expected—the taint of her blood wasn’t something that could be washed away with a pretty dress and makeup and hair potions. The fact that Viktor Krum didn’t, Durmstrang pedigree notwithstanding, agree with their blood prejudice would probably speak louder to them.
But it was Ron’s response that night that hit her the hardest. Because Ron, Ron should have been supportive. Ron was her friend—and her moment of happiness should have gone unmarred with his words, even if he regretted them later.
It wasn’t anything big. A random coffee in a Muggle coffee shop around the corner from work, which turned into dinner later that week to catch up, which turned into another dinner the day before Viktor flew out. It had been so many years since the Triwizard Tournament and the War, more than half a decade since Hermione had finished school and gone to join the Ministry of Magic. She didn’t think it’d be anything at all, not really.
She worked here in Britain, in London, while Viktor still played Quidditch. For Bulgaria, for their national team, but also for a professional team there as well. He was gone the entire Quidditch season, coming into Britain only for rare events for his sponsors or for the Bulgarian state, and he had no reason to be in Britain for anything else.
But it was a different time, now, than it was then. Now, there were cell phones—now, it wasn’t letters that took weeks to receive a response, but one sentence text messages sent on a whim that travelled time zones to the other person.
Good morning :), his message said, at 7:05am when Hermione pulled herself out of bed. He was always up at six because his training required it. Hope you’re having a good day.
No coffee, she tapped back. There is nothing good before there is coffee.
That coffee is necessary says you have a problem.
Coffee is the nectar of the gods, and you shall not keep me from it. Hermione found herself smiling anyway. How was your morning run?
A misery, he replied. Rain. Horvath slipped and fell in the mud. How was your meeting yesterday?
They shot down the Muggle primary school, she tapped back. But they’re listening to the educational standards I want to set now.
Am still shocked there weren’t any. In Bulgaria, there were magical primary schools. Otherwise, how would we be able to read at boarding school?
That’s a question I ask myself every day. Hermione sighed, rubbing her eyes. I actually think now that some of my classmates weren’t thick. They were just illiterate. Do you remember Crabbe and Goyle?
There was a long pause. Hermione guessed that, many miles away, Viktor was thinking over her question, or that he didn’t.
They sat with you at the Slytherin table at the Tournament. Friends with Draco Malfoy.
Yes. The reply then was immediate. They did seem slow.
Crabbe’s dead now. Died in the war. Hermione gnawed on her lip for a moment before she tapped out another sentence. I think they were probably illiterate—not slow, just no one taught them what they needed to succeed at Hogwarts.
It’s possible. There was a pause, and then another message came through. Do you have plans for the new year?
Hermione blinked at the message and read it again. No, the question was still there. He was, in fact, asking her about her New Year’s plans. In October. Usually, I spend time with my family, and I visit Harry and Ginny, or the Weasleys. Harry’s going to want to spend time with Ginny this year, though, and Ron has a girlfriend again and will probably want to do the same.
She tapped send, then a second later added a new line. I don’t have plans, no.
I was thinking I would like to see Edinburgh’s Hogmanay, the reply came. The fireworks are said to be the best in the world, better than the World Cup shows.
I’ve never been, Hermione wrote back. The festival is said to be very good, too. I can buy tickets?
I will do that, Viktor replied instantly. If you will come with me.
Hermione smiled down at her phone screen. Then I’ll arrange the accommodations.
The tickets were one thing, while Hermione almost had to resort to magic to find accommodations in Edinburgh over the Hogmanay. In the end, it took a lucky gamble, someone else’s cancelled reservation, and a fair amount of gold, but Hermione found herself with the keys to an entire hotel suite in the heart of Edinburgh over the New Year celebrations. One bedroom, a sitting room, a kitchenette, and bathroom—it was both more than she expected, and less, because the bedroom only had one king-sized bed.
They’d talked a lot, yes. They texted even more. But Hermione didn’t want to make any assumptions.
It was contemplating that that Viktor walked into the suite, rolling suitcase following him. Hermione took one look at him, before raising an eyebrow.
“We’re in the Muggle world,” she said sternly, gesturing to his suitcase which was clearly Charmed to follow him. He wasn’t even pretending to pull it along.
Viktor waved a hand, showing what looked like a silver remote, but it was clearly an illusion. “I tell people it’s electronics. Prototype, self-rolling suitcases.”
“Does it work?”
“Yes.” Viktor raised an eyebrow. “I would be surprised if Muggles didn’t already have self-rolling suitcases in development anyway. They do like their electronics. This is a very nice suite—what do I owe you?”
Hermione found herself smiling back. That was true—even in the last dozen years, there had been so many new toys where she couldn’t tell if it was magic or a computer controlling it. “Nothing. You got the tickets, after all. As for sleeping arrangements… There’s a king-sized bed in the bedroom, and I think the sofa folds out. It’s not ideal, I suppose, but I can take the sofa.”
A long silence followed her words. She waited for a response, feeling her cheeks pink a little and ignoring it. There was a clock, ticking away in the background—funny, how she hadn’t noticed that before. It was too loud, now.
“If that’s what you want,” Viktor said slowly, his voice filled barely concealing a sense of disappointment. “I had thought—well, I suppose I hadn’t said anything—”
“I didn’t want to assume!” Hermione said, flushing as she whirled on him. “We haven’t—neither of us—"
“Neither of us said anything.” Viktor broke out in a chuckle. “Well, then let me say something.”
Hermione’s mouth was curiously dry. She swallowed once, twice—there was nothing bad coming, she was smart enough to realize that Viktor was probably only going to tell her something positive, but some animal part of her brain always worried. She had been a know-it-all too long, too loud, too outspoken, and while she had largely put those fears behind her as an adult, she had lived too long with those worries for them not to niggle at her.
“I like you, Hermione. A lot,” Viktor said, reaching for her hand. “I always have—at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament, but just as much now. I know that a relationship would be hard, with my Quidditch career and you here, but…”
“But?” The word came out small, breathless, while Hermione tried to mentally smack some sense into herself. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t romantic, not like this, or maybe not usually would be the more accurate term. She didn’t like head-spinning romances, didn’t like the sense of losing her head and never had, but Viktor was and had always been a bit of everything. He was shockingly down-to-earth, smart, and knowledgeable about the Muggle world, and someone she liked talking to—but he was also a major Quidditch star, swoon-worthy by quite a lot of people’s books, and that didn’t necessarily exclude herself.
“But if you’d like, I’d like to try anyway,” Viktor finished with a smile. “This was—I hoped it’d be a… date?”
“A week-long date and vacation all rolled in one?” Hermione replied, finding her voice at last and thankful that she sounded more amused than anything else. “It’s good for you that I accept—what would you have done if I didn’t?”
Edinburgh’s annual Hogmanay was thrilling, a festival worth its international reputation. From music to street party to fireworks, Hermione thought it went unmatched as far as celebrations went—but she remembered the small, warm hotel suite better, where she and Viktor had their own, private, celebration.
LEGENDARY QUIDDITCH STAR DATING WAR HEROINE, the Daily Prophet blared.
At least, Hermione thought faintly, it was only in the society pages. The front page was thankfully dedicated to a speech by elderly Newt Scamander at an ICW convention intending to regulate the trade of creature parts, with the usual fare of expected weather, local news, and letters to the editor following. The sports pages came first, and a once-over told Hermione that the Holyhead Harpies were again leading the league, while England had been entirely shut out internationally by the Germans, who would be up against Bulgaria in a week. Only then, on page nine, came the society pages—where apparently some intrepid reporter had spotted her and Viktor leaving The Common Grounds a week prior.
He’d been in town briefly—a handful of days as a rest period before heading back to training. She’d taken vacation days, causing a minor stir at the office that she thought she had managed to glare into compliance. Then, she thought they had kept a low profile, sticking to her flat in Muggle London.
But she did like The Common Grounds, and while it was a little closer to the Ministry than she would have liked, it was in the Muggle world—so she thought it’d have been safe. Even after the end of the war, most witches and wizards didn’t come out into the Muggle world at all.
The picture was at least a good one, she thought absently. She had dressed casually, just jeans and a wool jacket Charmed to deflect the rain, and there was a coffee in her hand and a smile on her face. Viktor was scowling, looking up at the sky, his own coffee in hand. The article beside it wasn’t bad either—just a puff piece on how she and Viktor had been spotted together, and speculation.
Honestly, after reading it through, it wasn’t so bad. Harry and Ginny had seen worse—even Ron had seen worse when his relationship with Tracey Davis had made the news. It hadn’t mattered that the war was years ago now—it hadn’t mattered that Tracey Davis was a halfblood, or that she had never been for Voldemort. All that had mattered, according to the paper, was that Ron Weasley, War Hero, was dating former-Slytherin Tracey Davis. The relationship had imploded under the publicity, which was really too bad since Hermione rather liked Tracey. She had been good for Ron, and both of them loved Quidditch.
Shaking her head, she reached for her phone and typed a message to Viktor. Bad news, she wrote. We made the Daily Prophet. Page 9, Society pages, but it’s not too bad. Will owl you the article.
It was a few hours ahead in Bulgaria, so she didn’t worry when she didn’t receive a response. Instead, she merely pocketed her phone and went to work.
“Is it true?” Tracey Davis asked with an impish grin, blonde ponytail swinging as she poked her head into Hermione’s office. “You and Viktor Krum?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Does it matter?”
“Just want to know whether you can get me tickets to the next World Cup.”
“Not with that attitude, I won’t,” Hermione replied, turning her nose up slightly, and Tracey laughed.
“I better be good to you, then,” she said, before she tilted her head out to the hallway. “I’ll run interference for you, but I suggest you avoid the Department for Magical Games and Sports for the next, oh, until Bulgaria loses the World Cup.”
“Won’t happen,” Hermione quipped in return. “To going to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, I mean, not Bulgaria—is Bulgaria really the favourite?”
Tracey laughed again, shaking her head, before she disappeared.
She wasn’t the only one. Hermione was interrupted, it seemed, every ten minutes with someone asking if it was true. Even Harry and Ron swung by on their first break, which happened earlier than for Hermione, since they were on shift from eight in the morning and got off at four in the afternoon.
“Is it true?” Ron asked, a grin on his face. “You and Krum? Again?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Harry replied, his grin soft in the corners with understanding. “I mean—you ended last time on pretty good terms, right?"
“Not bad, no,” Hermione agreed. “Just—wrong time, wrong place.”
That was a lie, but she forgave herself for it.
“It’s not surprising because ‘Mione is awesome,” Ron said, slapping her on the shoulder. “Good on you, ‘Mione, really. But it might be good not to swing by the Burrow for a few weeks, yeah? Not that I care—I’m all for it—but you know Mum, and since I’m not seeing anyone…”
Hermione made a face. “She’s not still on that, is she?”
The problem with her and Ron was that their relationship had always been about Harry. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him because she did—but everything had always been about Harry. What Harry needed, what kind of support Harry needed to defeat Voldemort, with Hermione on one side and Ron on the other. No one else had understood what it meant to be Harry Potter’s best friends, Harry Potter’s main supports—to be the two people in the world who, it seemed sometimes, could turn the history of world simply by virtue of their influence on Harry. And then, with Voldemort dead and the war done, she and Ron had looked at their relationship and had seen very little in it that wasn’t about Harry and what Harry needed.
Hermione liked school. She was, at heart, academic. She liked reading, and thinking, and writing, and persuading people to agree with her using her words. She had wanted to go back to Hogwarts to finish her seventh year. And Ron, bless him, had gotten a fast-track into the Auror training program, and he’d wanted to try it. It simply turned out that they were very different people, and a relationship didn’t work when they weren’t under the pressure of war. They would always be friends, and even best friends—just not those kind of friends.
Ron shrugged helplessly. “She’s gotten the rest of us married—well, except for Charlie, and she can’t bother him because he’s in Romania. I’m the last. Can’t help it. Sorry.”
“It’s been a decade,” Hermione complained. “A decade, Ron!”
“I know.” To his credit, Ron was apologetic. “I mean, if it helps any, it’d be just as bad for me as it would be for you if you did come over, so…?”
“Message received,” Hermione grumbled, and her phone beeped. “Oh!”
“Is that Krum?” Harry’s smile was wicked, watching Hermione scramble for her phone.
“Hush, you.” She scowled at them, reading the message.
Apologies for the media, Viktor’s text read. Though it’s both our faults this time, I think. Are you embarrassed by it?
Hermione paused, thinking about it, then she looked up at Harry and Ron. “I’m not embarrassed, am I?”
Harry shrugged. “If you are, you shouldn’t be. Like Ron says, you’re great—you deserve whatever makes you happy, you know? We all do after the war.”
“You’re right,” Hermione said, nodding decisively. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m not. I deserve this.”
She looked down at her phone. Not embarrassed. Am being annoyed by idiots asking at work. Are you embarrassed?
I never have been, came the reply, near instantaneous. Not ever.
“Right, then,” she said, reaching for her quill and a piece of parchment. “Well, that makes this easy.”
YES, VIKTOR KRUM AND I ARE DATING
IF THAT’S ALL YOU’RE HERE FOR, GO AWAY.
OTHERWISE, KNOCK.
“That’ll do it,” she added, before she threw the parchment at her door and stuck it with a Sticking Charm. “Look good?”
Harry grinned at her, while Ron let out a great laugh. “It looks great.”
HARRY POTTER’S SECRET HEARTACHE, the article blared. It was in Witch Weekly, which Hermione had always seen as a bit of a rag. There were apparently recipes in it, piled in with a mix of celebrity news, self-help nonsense, and weight-loss remedies. It was, in short, exactly the kind of magazine her mother had always snorted derisively when she saw in the grocery aisles.
Better to work hard and make something of yourself, her mother had always said. Men who are worth it will see that there’s more than fluff between your ears, and that’s worth more than anything else.
That was why she hadn’t taken it seriously at first. A pile of old rubbish, she had called it, laughing at the Gryffindor table as she tossed it aside. Even Ron’s comment that it made her out to be some sort of scarlet woman had only met with laughter—both at the way that Ron had put it, and at the very idea itself. What was a scarlet woman, anyway?
It was in a rag that no one read, or so she thought. Even more, the article was paper-thin—anyone who had paid any attention at all would know that.
She and Harry had never been romantic. They were best friends, just like her and Ron, ever since their first Halloween at Hogwarts when they had fought a mountain troll. As for the assertion that she was making Love Potions, well, that was just plain ridiculous. Not only was that strongly against her principles, how would she have done it? Love Potions took months to brew, as well as ingredients that wouldn’t be found in the student stores or, indeed, probably in Professor Snape’s private stores too. She’d have needed a place to brew, a steady supply of ingredients she didn’t have… brewing Polyjuice in her second year had been hard enough, and that had only been a month of brewing time. Surely, anyone with half a brain would have realized that.
The article was actually more disturbing for other reasons. First, the direct comment that she was a Muggleborn—she was a Muggleborn, but it hadn’t been necessary. Putting her blood status in print, alongside a comment that she was unworthy, came too close to pureblood supremacist ideology for her comfort. Second, there were details in the article about her relationship with Viktor that she’d never told anyone—that she had no idea how Skeeter could have known.
Viktor really had said that he hadn’t felt this way about any other girl. And he really had invited her to Bulgaria in the summer, though she was still undecided on whether she’d go.
Those things aside, however, she hadn’t thought the article would be of any consequence.
She was wrong. She was so, so wrong.
There was Professor Snape, reading it to the entire fourth-year class because she, Harry, and Ron had been caught with it under their lab bench. It was unprofessional, and degrading—but then, she had learned over three years that Dumbledore kept Professor Snape in his current role for reasons of his own that probably had very little to do with whether he was a good teacher. She had learned to cope with that.
But then there were the other students, especially the Slytherins, who with a professor’s example, began quoting it at her on a regular basis.
And then the hate mail started. Angry screeds cut out from the Daily Prophet, which Hermione thought was clearly far too much work even with magic to put together, not that handwritten screeds were much better; there were the Howlers, which exploded before she could Incendio them, screaming abuse at her for everyone in the Great Hall to hear. There were the curses that people threw at her, including an envelope of bubotuber pus that burned her hands and made her miss class.
She would never have thought anyone would have cared that much. She was wrong.
“Viktor,” she called out softly as she fumbled with the doorknob. It was the night after the bubotuber pus incident, and she was running late. Madam Pomfrey had given her a tincture to put on her hands, but warned her that the effect wouldn’t be immediate. Harry had already said that he’d give her his notes for all their classes that day and find some people to hand her notes for the classes he wasn’t in, but that wasn’t much comfort as she struggled to do anything.
The door opened, Viktor already on the other side. He took one look at her hands, and he was already scowling.
“That article,” she snapped, shaking her hands. “That damned article.”
“I’m very sorry,” Viktor said, and he even sounded apologetic as he reached out for her shoulders. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione said, leaning into his arms. He smelled smoky—warm, with a dark undertone that reminded her somehow of musty books in a shadowed, forgotten corner lit only with an oil lamp. In his arms, it felt safe, and only there did everything truly hit her.
People hated her. People hated her for things that she hadn’t even done, because people believed rags like Witch Weekly. People attacked her for things that were written in a pile of rubbish magazine article. It wasn’t just school—indeed, she really expected nothing less from Professor Snape and the Slytherins—but it was the whole world, and in that moment, it seemed like everything was against her. She cried, big salty tears dripping down from her eyes and soaking into Viktor’s robes.
His arms went around her, one palm stroking her back in a calming way. Without comment, Hermione could feel that he was directing them backwards to perch against the edge of a desk, where he leaned and held her while she let it all out. It wasn’t long, and she wasn’t loud—she just needed to release some of that pent up emotion—and then she straightened, rubbing her eyes.
“I can say something,” Viktor suggested, his dark eyes flinty and hard. “I am respected—so many of your fellow students, at least, claim to respect me. Surely they would listen to my word.”
Hermione shook her head. “Don’t bother,” she murmured, reaching back up for another hug. Normally—often—they snogged, but she wasn’t really in the mood for snogging. Plus her hands were still aching and fumbling over things, the constant sting reminding her of what was done to her. “It wouldn’t help. Harry’s been trying to set people straight for weeks, and no one cares about the truth. And anyway, you’re you.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“An internationally famous Quidditch star.” Hermione laughed a little, pulling back, and it sounded sick. “You have—there are model figurines of you! Posters! You were papered all over the Bulgarians’ tents at the World Cup, and I’m just… I’m me. Hermione Granger. Know-it-all, and my hair is everywhere, and my front teeth are too big—”
“They are not,” Viktor objected, grabbing her by the arms. “They are not too big, and I like your hair, and I think you are beautiful. Clever, and unique, and beautiful.”
“Don’t tell anyone else that.” Hermione tried for a watery, rueful sort of smile. “It really makes you sound like I snuck you a love potion.”
Viktor snorted. “As if I were not already regularly checking my drinks for such. I am, as you say, an internationally famous Quidditch star. It would not be the first time someone slipped me one, and I am well aware of those effects firsthand—”
“Don’t say that, Viktor!” Hermione laughed, the first truly bright sound she’d made all evening. “Good god, have people really slipped you love potions?”
“Just the once.” Viktor smiled. “It is… an experience I have no desire to repeat. Therefore, I am perfectly aware that I am not under the influence of any love potions at present, and I still think you are beautiful.”
Hermione laughed again, leaning back in to him. “Well, hopefully it’ll blow over. It’s not like anyone I care about reads that rag anyway.”
“That’s an excellent attitude to the media,” Viktor agreed, tilting her head up for a kiss. “It will, as you say, blow over.”
It was one thing to say that it would blow over. It was another thing entirely to wait for it to happen.
She still Incendio’d all of her mail from unknown addresses, with a grim-faced determination right as they hit the table. Someone could have been mailing her an award, and she wouldn’t have noticed—though she doubted anyone would. There was a Potion to dispel Howlers, but of course Professor Snape didn’t let her have the lab time to brew it, so instead she found a very creative curse that would simply destroy them before they had time to get out more than a few words.
And then Easter came.
Mrs. Weasley always sent chocolate to them for Easter, elaborate treats that Hermione knew took her hours to craft. This year, Ron and Harry received eggs the size of dragon eggs, filled with toffee, and Hermione’s egg was smaller than a chicken’s.
“Does your mum read Witch Weekly?” she asked, looking over at Ron, who already had his mouth stuffed full of chocolate and toffee.
“Yea, she gets it for the recipes, why?” Ron replied, oblivious even as he continued eating, while Hermione looked down at her tiny chicken egg. Breaking it open, she saw that it was hollow.
She couldn’t take it anymore. Tossing the egg on the table, she swung her legs over the bench and grabbed her bookbag. “I’m going ahead,” she said, hoping the boys didn’t notice anything odd, before she bolted and headed for the first-floor girls’ toilets, where she promptly broke down into a storm of silent tears and gasps.
A thousand nameless, faceless people? Hermione could withstand that. The hissing bullying of the Slytherins, who hated her anyway for no reason other than she was a Gryffindor, Muggleborn, and a friend of Harry Potter? That was just everyday routine by now. But Mrs. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley who’d welcomed Hermione to the Burrow every summer since before her second year, that was too much. She couldn’t do it anymore.
She and Viktor had classes all day, and then with a feast in the evening, she hadn’t been able to slip away before their planned meeting time. She had to have second-guessed herself a dozen times, two dozen—and then she saw Ron and Harry, snacking on their dragon eggs all day.
Because public opinion, apparently, did matter—and she was only Hermione Granger.
After curfew, she slipped out of Gryffindor Tower and down the dark hallways of Hogwarts. It was dark and silent, every hallway empty even of ghosts. The moon hung huge in the sky, bright enough to cast looming shadows through every window, and Hermione paused to look at it.
The seas were dark on it, and Hermione counted them off. The Ocean of Storms, the Sea of Rains, the Sea of Clouds on the left side; the Seas of Serenity, Tranquility, Crises, Nectar and Fertility on the right. Somehow, the names seemed gloomy, maudlin, though maybe that was merely her own sense. Shaking her head, she steeled her nerve and stole outside.
The grounds were lit well with moonlight, too bright for her tastes. She dashed across the grounds, knowing that if anyone looked outside the window right now, she’d be plainly visible. She was panting by the time she reached the boathouse. It was dark in there, and it took her eyes a few minutes to adjust. The boats, used for the annual traditional first year journey across the Black Lake, were nearly stacked against the wall to one side. There were none in the water, which lapped in gentle waves against the wooden docks. It smelled wet, like moss and algae.
Viktor was already waiting inside, his arms crossed over his chest. He was stiff, his face fixed in a stern frown. It normally was, but the air that he projected was even surlier than usual, and Hermione wondered if he already had a sense of what she was about to do, even if she hadn’t said anything to him yet about it.
The silence hung between them for one long moment.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Hermione tried eventually. “Just—it took me awhile to get away. That’s all. We have to talk.”
Viktor’s frown deepened in the shadows. She waited for him to reply, but there was none forthcoming.
“We—we should break up,” she said, the words tripping over her tongue even as she got them out. No, that was wrong—she couldn’t put it that way, that was giving him room to argue with her. “I’m breaking up with you.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Hermione looked away. “Because it can never work, Viktor. Because you’re you, and I’m me, and—and everything that people are saying…”
“Why should they have any bearing on our relationship?”
“Because…” Hermione had never felt so lost for words. “Because—just think about the Yule Ball, Viktor. The expression on everyone’s faces, the reaction of your fan club, what Ron said, and then the media…”
“I do not care about my so-called fan club.” Viktor was scowling, and this time he was angry. “Those girls should have no bearing on us, Hermione, nor on what we do or how we behave. They do not see me as Viktor Krum. They see only the Quidditch star and the one who caught the Snitch at the last World Cup, not as a person. The same goes for the media. As for your friend, if he were truly your friend, he should be supportive of you.”
“Well, unfortunately, the world just isn’t like that,” Hermione insisted. “It’s not—think about me, Viktor. What about people say about me? Haven’t you heard what they already say about me at the Slytherin table?”
“Pureblood supremacist filth,” Viktor retorted. “I do not care, and I do not listen to it. Neither should you.”
“But I’m not you, Viktor!” Hermione waved her hands frantically. “I’m not you—I’m not an internationally famous Quidditch star like you. Ron, your fan club, the Slytherins, everyone else—they can make my life difficult the way they wouldn’t dare to do to you. You’re not the one who’ll get the brunt of the comments and so on, not if they find out, I will be. My life—Viktor, it’s hard enough being a know-it-all, and the teeth and the hair—”
“You’re beautiful,” Viktor replied stubbornly. “I think you are beautiful.”
“Well, other people don’t!” Hermione blew out an angry breath. “And I can’t—I can’t do it anymore, Viktor. I can’t. If it were just strangers, that’s one thing, but now that it’s interfering with my friends… It’s hard enough for me already.”
The silence fell between them, heavy and impermeable. Hermione didn’t know if she had made any sense to him, but it was true—it was all true. Mrs. Weasley, Ron, his fan club, the Slytherins, the public, they would all make her life difficult in a way they wouldn’t his, and it wasn’t fair, but it was reality.
“I’m really sorry,” she said, when it became apparent that Viktor wasn’t going to reply. “Can we—can we be friends, still? I like you, I really like you, I just… this isn’t the time or the place. I can’t.”
It was a very long time before Viktor replied.
“Friends, then,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “And maybe—another time, and another place.”
Three years, eight months, and nineteen days. That was how long she and Viktor had been together, she thought as she set the table with a wave of her wand. She was no Molly Weasley—she had never been brilliant in the kitchen, and she likely never would be, either—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use her own powers for the purposes of a great dinner.
The point being: takeaway solved many ills.
There were two large brown paper bags sitting on her counter while her plates and dishes arrayed themselves on the table. Three wide, flatbottomed bowls for the butter chicken, palak paneer and lamb korma—a big platter for the naan, and another for the samosas. It was a large spread, bigger than Hermione and Krum could eat in one night, but who cared? They’d live three days off the leftovers.
She was humming as she unpacked the bags, a wave of her wand getting food in their appropriate bowls with a minimum of mess. Another sharp stab of her wand had the plastic containers disintegrating into its original, component parts, before she Vanished it back into nature.
There was a low whistle of appreciation behind her. “Very nice.”
“Viktor!” Hermione said, whirling around. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Not a surprise,” he said, surveying the spread she had summoned from the Indian restaurant down the street. And by summoned, she meant ordered. “I am very quiet.”
“Not that quiet.” Hermione laughed.
“Very well,” Viktor smiled. “You seemed preoccupied with the spell. What was that?”
“Just something I invented,” she replied, waving a hand. “I figured, with magic—why not use it to make the world a little better? Just minimizing what goes to the landfill, that’s all, and it’s no real effort on my part.”
“Most witches and wizards would not think so far ahead,” Viktor commented, tossing his set of keys onto her counter. “I am impressed.”
“At me, or at the spell?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.”
“Both.” Viktor smiled at her again, reaching pull her in his arms. “Indian food?”
“It’s practically British, by now,” Hermione replied, breathing in his scent. These days, Viktor smelled of the outdoors—of fresh rain and wet grass and cool winds. “Our own government calls it the national dish, and Greater London has more Indian restaurants than Delhi and Mumbai combined.”
“I am not complaining,” Viktor said, his voice warm as he let her go. He set his bag down and pulled out an unlabelled bottle of what Hermione knew to be rakia. “It will not go with dinner, unfortunately, but I thought…”
Hermione waved a hand, motioning for him to take a seat at the table and to help himself. “Don’t worry about it. How long are you free this time?”
Over more than three and a half years, Viktor had come to Britain whenever he could get away from training in Bulgaria. That meant a week here and a week there, mostly, but often he could spend most of the winter with her. He lamented the lack of snow, and what he called the unreasonable warmth, and one winter Hermione had laughed and joined him in Sofia for the Christmas season. Her own job didn’t let her be away as often as his, however, so they spent more time in her flat in London than anywhere else.
Truth be told, Hermione hadn’t much minded. More time together would have been wonderful, of course, but circumstances were what they were. She loved her job in the Ministry, despite the amount of time she spent complaining about it, and it wasn’t as though they didn’t text multiple times a day anyway. Things worked for them. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked for anyone else, but they worked for her.
Viktor hadn’t replied. Instead, he was taking his time spooning palak paneer onto his plate.
“Viktor?”
“How long would you like me to stay, Hermione?” he asked eventually, looking up at her with an astonishingly serious expression.
Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?”
It was a moment before he replied. “I’ve had some new offers,” he said, fiddling with his spoon. “They’d let me live in Britain full-time.”
“Go on?”
“Puddlemere United offered me a position as an assistant coach,” Viktor admitted, looking across the small table at her. “I’m getting old.”
Hermione snorted. “You are not. You’re what, thirty? Thirty-one?”
“Thirty is getting old for Quidditch.” Viktor was smiling ruefully. “For Seekers especially. I’ve had offers for years, but none I wanted to take up. Now, however…”
“Now?” Hermione frowned at him. “Get to the point, Viktor.”
Viktor shrugged. “Now there are other considerations. Do you—would you—want me here that much? What we’ve had is untraditional, and I know you understood that—”
Hermione stared at Viktor as if he’d turned into Fluffy the Three-Headed Dog. “Of course, I would want you here more! But the better question is—do you want to? What do you want, Viktor? I want you to be happy doing whatever you want for your career, and we’ll make it work. Do you want to be the assistant coach for Puddlemere United?”
“It’s an opportunity,” Viktor said, turning his fork over in his hands. “It would be different. I do not know yet. I was thinking—we could buy a house together. Live together full-time, instead of texting a hundred times a day. Maybe even—”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Even?”
Viktor shrugged, not looking at her. “Get married. Have a family.”
“Viktor Krum, are you proposing to me?”
Viktor looked up on the other side of the table. “No! Or, yes—or do you want me to propose to you?”
Hermione stared at him even more, at a complete loss for words.
Did she want a more traditional relationship?
She wasn’t sure. In some ways, it would be nice—it would be nice to have Viktor there at home with her every night, and of course their sex lives would be much improved. She had never been sure what to think about children, neither wanting nor not wanting them, and she’d love any if she had them. Getting married would cause another storm of comment by the media, she was sure—but then again, that wasn’t anywhere near her list of concerns anymore. There were more important questions.
“What do you want, Viktor?” she asked again. “Do you want all of those things?”
He was silent for a long moment. “One day, I will.”
Hermione smiled. “Then on that day you’re ready, I will be too,” she replied. “And until then—there are phones, and week-long escapes around the world, Christmases in Bulgaria, and winters in London. That’s all enough for me, Viktor, and until you find an opportunity you want, I’m happy.”
Viktor’s smile was slow. “All things in their right time and place?”
“That’s right.” Hermione nodded judiciously. “And until then, eat your curry."