Hello, Soggy here. I just reread this story and am extremely displeased with myself. I'm going to be rewriting this, and possibly all of my other, stories so they can suit my literacy fancies. Thanks for reading, please review:)
"Are you packed, 'Ermy?" called a tall, brawny man with dark hair and a fair complexion.
"Viktor, the Portkey isn't even set for another fifteen minutes, would you please employ a little patience?" replied Hermione Granger, rolling her eyes at the pet name he'd developed for her when he'd decided he didn't want to bother learning to say her name properly. He'd lost most of his accent years ago, and he still wouldn't say her name!
"Vy don't you suggest that when you are paying for the vacation?" Viktor snapped.
Hermione sighed. She and her famous fiancée got into these tiffs about once every six hours. "You ought to know by now, sweetie, I'm fairly punctual. Stop worrying."
"That's rich," he said huffily, "'Ermy Granger suggesting one lightens up! Oh, the hypocrisy."
Hermione rolled her eyes again. How could he be so petulant in the home, when around his amorous fans he was the definition of all that is good and kind?
Hermione hauled her luggage into the spacious living room of their flat and smiled at him with as assuaging a manner as she could. Three days ago, on her twentieth birthday, Viktor had proposed to her after a six year courtship. She reminded herself firmly that they were in love, that she was used to his rough-around-the-edges persona. She kissed him lightly as he visibly calmed down.
Viktor picked up her luggage with one hand, and took her hand with the other. He led her out of the apartment, down the street, and around the corner, into a dark alleyway.
Hermione shivered in the cold London air as Viktor checked his watch and muttered something about five minutes. He glanced up at her and smiled. She smiled back and looked pointedly at the extra coat he carried in his arm, but he seemed completely unaware of her frigid state.
"Ah, there it is," Viktor said five minutes later, nodding towards a rusting tin can. She wrinkled her nose. Yes, the Portkeys were inconspicuous for a reason, but must they always be so dirty? But she reached out and grabbed a hold anyway, determined not to let their fight or their dirty Portkey or that bastard Jack Frost ruin their romantic getaway.
"Three...two...von..." he counted off. With a familiar tugging behind her navel, Hermione felt her feet leave the ground. She closed her eyes and braced herself for landing.
Thud!
Viktor had fallen over. She laughed and helped him up, trying not to care that he looked like a fool.
"Viktor, you have seriously got to learn how to use a Portkey properly!" she said. When his face began morphing into an ugly expression of belligerent embarrassment, she quickly added, "We can't have the world's favorite Seeker falling over all the time, now can we?"
His face returned to it's normal color, though his disposition didn't completely recover.
She still wasn't sure she loved him. He never gave her that fluttery feeling, the 'butterflies' Ron always spoke of when he talked about Hannah. She knew for a fact that she never adopted the dreamy, vacant look Harry developed while he was watching Ginny look after their children. She only knew this because she often tried and failed to look in love with him—people often asked her if she was feeling quite alright and if she needn't make use of the bathroom down the hall when she attempted this. She wasn't overly attracted to him. Even his residual accent irritated her, so she was grateful that he had mostly lost it. He was a slob around the house. Plus, she had had about three orgasms from him in as many years. And those were only on days he had come home smelling of firewhiskey. Yes, women could be left to their own devices, but that didn't mean that they didn't want a man's help every once in awhile!
She knew, to be fair, she had to take the good things into account, too. He was so sweet to her sometimes. He had financial security—to put it mildly. He could afford things that were beyond her wildest dreams! Well, they would have been beyond her wildest dreams if she hadn't been dating the man for six years. Her friends just loved him. She seldom came across a person who didn't, what with him being Mr. Big Shot Quidditch Man. He never questioned her about her work, although she had to try to convince herself this was a good thing instead of just another quality of his seeming lack of interest in her thoughts and feelings. He could be very romantic and thoughtful.
The big catch, the thing that kept her going, was that they had been together for six years. He was obviously not planning on leaving anytime soon. Things were comfortable—she really knew him, and he really knew her. She could be herself around him, and she knew what things really irked him or made him happy. The same went for him. Sometimes she caught herself thinking this familiarity was overrated, but then she reminded herself to be practical. She'd read about mad, blinding, passionate, desperate love. She did, after all, have to finish herself off with a good erotica novel most nights after Viktor went to sleep. But did it really exist? How could she go looking for that when the sensible thing to do was snoring away in boring practicality right next to her?
She shook these thoughts from her mind and tried to focus on here and now.
Here and now, as it stood, was an exorbitant casino resort in Paris. This little mini-vacation was in celebration of their engagement. Not that that made any difference, really, since Viktor had a reason for going on these little trips about twice a month.
Hermione followed Viktor through the casino acquiescently, wondering when she had become so docile. Where was the passionate, irascible, my-way-or-the-highway girl of her youth? She sighed again, adding searching for that girl to her ever growing 'Things To Do To Fix My Psyche' list.
Viktor checked them in, and Hermione noticed that Viktor's gaze didn't linger a moment too long on the attractive concierge's overexposed breasts. Where was the man in him? Did he have no eyes? Then she recalled her self-proclaimed title of Avid Feminist and scolded herself for thinking so degradingly.
After a twenty-floor ride up, they finally reached their destination. Viktor described their luxurious suite, one of the two really fancy suites in the hotel, on the way up. Hermione had stopped listening by floor three, and had stopped nodding along as if she were listening by floor seven. When they finally reached their floor, Viktor held the elevator doors open for Hermione before sweeping her off her feet—not figuratively, of course—and carrying her down the short hallway to their room. He opened the door and carried her across the threshold, smiling down at her with unexpected tenderness.
"I cannot vait to do this for real," he murmured before kissing her hair and putting her down. She smiled and told herself the urge to throw up didn't come from the counterfeit feeling she got from the action and had more to do with the elevator ride.
"Velcome to home sweet home for the next veek! Now, lets celebrate!" he said, putting his hands on her waist in some semblance of what he must have thought of as gentle ardor. He began to kiss her hungrily, pushing her back on the large, overly fluffy bed. She could barely refrain from rolling her eyes.
'Here we go. Again.'
Draco Malfoy glanced up from the craps table and looked back down, only to do a double take. His hand fell from the tiny waist of his female companion.
Was that Hermione Granger?
Yes, it certainly was. He surveyed her—the same bushy brown hair framed same fair face, which he had never actually looked closely at before. Not bad cheekbones, no unsightly blemishes. She had a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that he'd never taken any notice of before. Her mouth was the sculpted, natural crimson lips most women tried to achieve with lip gloss and surgery. In his opinion, it usually resulted in uncanny likeness to red water ballons, but he never mentioned that to his dates. Her eyes, though admittedly rather boring, had a spark in them that didn't suit the compliant way she was following her beau through the casino.
He had to admit, the girl had grown up well. Her body had grown in all the right places, not that she knew how to dress to accentuate it. She was wearing an effortless get-up of jeans and a bagger sweater, but he could discern voluptuous curves and a practically nonexistent waist under the fabric. It was nice to see a woman who actually appeared to have something to play with in the bedroom—things his more vulgar mates referred to as 'handles', things women seemed completely petrified of having these days. She seemed to be wearing a small amount of makeup, and her bushy hair resembled wild curls, so he deduced that she had finally begun to put a little effort into her appearance once public outings with her famous boyfriend became mandatory.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if she were quite devoted to the someone she was with. He knew exactly who that someone was--the entire wizarding world knew that the great Viktor Krum had proposed to girl genius and philanthropist extraordinaire, Hermione Granger. He just hadn't known she had grown into something he could actually appreciate.
It was no matter, really, that she was there with someone. Three out of four people can always be bought. He knew Granger would be the fourth—or at least, the Granger from school, though he wasn't sure if that Granger existed anymore, since he knew for damn sure that Granger wouldn't follow anyone around in such a meek manner as the girl who'd just walked by him was—but he was certain Krum would be first. Famous people were all the same. He bid his date adieu and headed for the elevators.
Draco smirked to himself as he walked, as he smoothed out the rough edges of his plan with his mind. You see, he and Hermione had grown to respect each other during that terrible war. They didn't become friends, no, but when Draco made his hate of Voldemort widely known, they had developed a mutual understanding. He had long since given up on his hate of Mudbloods, though he could hardly stomach Muggles. Since he'd allowed himself Muggleborns, though, he hadn't found one that struck his fancy. At least, not until he'd seen Hermione Granger in all her mature glory. And Granger, without any warning, earned herself a high-priority spot on Draco's List.
He entered his suite--2001--and immediately grinned. Hearing, you see, had always been one of his better senses, and what he heard in the next room pleased him immensely.
He heard one passionate set of deep moans and groans and howls, with a slight Bulgarian accent. A Bulgarian rich enough to afford a penthouse? Had to be Krum. But, even better than that, he heard another set of vaguely familiar, feminine, dainty moans and praises that would barely have hidden the disinterest to the normal person's ear. But Draco Malfoy, who had nymphomaniacal tendencies to say the least, could detect this sort of thing even better than the normal sex-addict. She wasn't just bored--she wasn't enjoying this 'Lovemaking Session' at all. She would rather be whipping herself like that ridiculous character from the Da Vinci code. Hermione--for it was her, most definitely--hated having sex with her fiancée, who thought she enjoyed it greatly! This just made everything so much easier.
He popped a new bottle of expensive champagne in silent celebration of his newest conquest.