Set during GoF, just a bit of fun. Not JK, but I hope you enjoy.

The dormitory door slammed open, then snapped shut as she pressed her whole body against it. She turned her head to touch the cold, ancient wood that had been worn soft by so many hands. The fire in her cheeks burned steadily, heating her body with its glow. Her throat wanted to express this feeling, her stomach glowed with it, but she could only giggle breathily, surprised at how giddy she sounded. Her brain was fuzzy, filled only with the memory of his long-fingered hand next to hers, then examining her handiwork. His fingers smoothed the fine, even stitches that had taken her so long to master. He had said they were like his mother's, had gestured to his sweater with the beautifully rendered P on his chest. She knew she wasn't nearly that good, that he was being kind, but his praise was…she giggled again and pushed off the door, plunging into her bed past the thick hanging curtains. High. He was going places, she knew, and he could recognize talent. She reminded herself that it was her knitting, after all, and not her house-elfitarian initiative that he was complimenting. Still, he hadn't poked fun at her, like Ron, or gave a poor attempt at being supportive, like Harry. She knew they thought she was too ambitious, too proud, too passionate. She embarrassed them, though they tolerated her enough so that she would help them write their essays. Sometimes she wished she could hide it, be like other girls who channeled their passion and ambition into landing a good boyfriend and having the best hair. Hair. Hermione pressed her dry, frizzy mass to her head, trying to block out the feelings of inadequacy that threatened to dash her pleasant mood, and only managed to remind herself of one of her greatest sources for self-loathing; her bushy mass of dirt-colored dead cells.

For the second time that evening, the door to the dormitory was thrown open, and the dark room was suddenly filled with light and loud laughter. Lavender Brown and Padma Patil tumbled through the doorway, clutching each other's arms and howling. Hermione sat up, her thoughts disturbed by their noise.

"God, Jan Evingsby is a bloody Hufflepuff, and she's panting all over the place, sweating—"

Padma snorted, "Thinking she has a chance in hell. It's really pathetic, and then she fell—oh!"

They had finally noticed Hermione, who was now sitting at the edge of her bed.

"What's pathetic?" she asked, then wished she hadn't. After pausing for a moment to glance at her hair, which had been bunched to outrageous bushiness by her earlier fluffing, her flashy S.P.E.W. badge, and her obvious isolation, they again dissolved into laughter. You, Granger. She turned a deeper shade of red than the stripes on her Gryffindor tie.

"OH, sorry, SO sorry, God—" Lavender gasped.

"You surprised us, we didn't know you were in here, sorry" she said when their mirth had died. "We were just dying because Evingsby tried to talk to a Durmstrang—"

"The Durmstrang," said Lavender with a sigh.

"Krum." They giggled, same pitch, in unison. Inside, Hermione vomited. She thought about saying something. Show off a bit. Tell them how he had approached her, touched her hand. Show them the notes in broken English, with his signature—an autograph many a fan would die to have—scrolled at the bottom. Instead, she stood, and went to dinner.

Ron's mouth was packed to capacity, and that was saying something. To be heard over this sloshing mass, he chose to yell while he chewed, creating an effect that was anything but charming.

"Friggin-mom pric-g. Showsh up here like a friggin God after Harry got de egg, nommomand shtarts chattin away wi hish old professuhs like hesh shome bi shot."

"I thought it was pretty cool he showed up," said Harry, just beginning to dive in to pumpkin pie.

"He ha to. Hesh Crouch's bitsh."

"Ron! For God's sake, don't be so crude!" Ron's mouth hung open in shock, and Harry looked up from his pie.

"Hermione, are you alright? Hey, if you're stressing about what we're going to do for the second task—" Harry broke off as Hermione abruptly jumped from the bench, spun on her heel, and headed out the double doors.

Once outside, Hermione took a grateful breath of the crisp autumn air. Why did they have to broadcast their failure as friends so loudly, make it so hard to ignore the way they used her? For Ron, she was another body to boost his ego. For Harry, an encyclopedia and shoulder to cry on. Done, done, done, she was so so done. She repeated this mantra to herself as she tromped down the path of loose pebbles that led to the edge of the lake. After navigating her way deep into a thicket of trees on the water's edge, as far from Hogwarts and the light of the Great Hall as she could get, Hermione settled on a moss covered rock where she often found solace. However, this solace was usually ushered by a book and the afternoon sunlight. Now, she was without the comforting weight in her hands, and the autumn was bringing nightfall closer and closer to the dinner hour. She watched her breath, and remembered she was without a coat. But not without a wand, you fool. She produced a merry little flame from the end of her wand and danced it over the surface of the rock. Biting her lip, she focused the flame into a shape. A glowing rabbit bounced back and forth over the moss, and played at her feet. She giggled—then screamed. She heard it, the sound of a man, and the bunny had vanished, along with her light.

"No scared! No-I-I mean, do not be scared! I so-I am so sorry! I saw the light, I was on a walk—"

"Viktor?"

"Yes, Her—"

"You weren't following me?"

"Why would I? I have not the need. Why the fire?"

"I was cold. I left the castle…I had to—"

"I understand."

She thought he probably did. Although he appeared to be agile only on a broom, he moved soundlessly through the underbrush to sit beside her. After pausing to become accustomed to his nearness, Hermione again produced the flickering rabbit. Soon, it was joined by a larger rabbit with long, floppy ears. Hermione laughed when Viktor made his fall over his feet in pursuit of her lighter, faster bunny. The warmth from the flames made her sleepy, and she relaxed against the boy's side. He laughed when her bunny fell trying to help her hefty new friend up. Then, after righting himself, the rabbit flopped over to where the bunny was lying and gently pressed his nose against hers. Hermione's heart stirred, but her bunny stayed perfectly still. Slowly, the rabbit's long ears perked until they were completely vertical—Hermione had to laugh again. Viktor looked at her and grinned, his rabbit vanishing into burgeoning firelight.

"Wheech made you laugh more, ze Rabbit or my English?" he raised his eyebrows, teasing her.

"Your English" she said, playing. "I can barely understand you."

She thought he was bending in laughter, until his warm lips pressed against hers. They stayed, like a hug, lingering softly.

"You understand" he blushed, pausing, gasping, "zat?"

Like the bunny had been, she was silent, waiting for her mind to tell her how to react. For the first time, perhaps, her mind failed her. During this realization, Krum had absorbed his attention in the flames, the blush on his cheek a combination of embarrassment and cold.

"N-no. I—" He tried to stand as she spoke, his flame extinguished. She grasped the sleeve of his thick coat, and was again very cold. "I mean, I don't. I don't understand—" she paused—perhaps too long, because it gave her time to think—but she was a Gryffindor after all. She kissed him lightly. "That. I have never…learned. It is not in books."

"Eet iz not in books." He grinned. He understood; her fear, her inexperience, everything. He tucked her hair behind her ear, then shot a glance at her bunny, who stood, watching him. The silent spell he cast was one she had never seen; the bunny glowed until it was cherry red, then seemed to vanish in the darkness. The darkness shifted slightly, and something hard was pressed into Hermione's hands. It was the delicate animal of flame, now frozen into crystal clear glass. She gasped at its beauty, and thanked him with another light kiss on his soft, chapped lips. He responded with his own gratitude, pressing her warmth back onto her mouth and touching her cheek in the darkness.

Time was lost until Hermione's mind finally chose to assert itself after an absence considered substantial for a young woman of her intellect, and the kiss was broken with a startled, "Oh, Filch!"

"I half neevar heard zis curse. I like eet."

The porthole window was open, and she could hear the gentle lap of the waves against the great ship's side. She glanced at a photograph that was placed by the bedside from which a beautiful, raven-haired witch with black eyes smiled softly, blinking. Something made Hermione look more closely—the woman had Krum's eyes. A thin scar ran from her ear to her jaw, another thicker one was notched in her eyebrow. But she was beautiful, mesmerizingly so.

"Viktor, who is this woman? Is she your mother?"

"She es." Hermione saw the line between his eyebrows sharpen, and he squinted as if in pain.

"You miss her?"

"Verry, verry much. You," he glanced at her, deciding, "reminds meh off her."

A blush of heat crept over Hermione's face; she was a woman who exuded power, confidence and beauty radiating from that smile. To be compared to one he loved so dearly, it made Hermione's heart contract in pleasure and fear. How could he trust her so quickly?

"How? What do you mean?" He turned away from where she sat, facing the open window. She knew she should not pry, but something in the stiff way he held himself and his clenched fists made her want to know, to find out what caused this pain. Perhaps it was because she had become used to his speech, or because he spoke with such care, but the heavy accent that had weighted his syllables seemed to fall away.

"My mother was born of muggles. The death eaters, they saw how powerful, how intelligent, how beautiful she was. It is these people they cannot allow, they reveal their lies. They raped her, beat her, and left her to die. She lived, and hid. I was born. Her husband was the minister's assistant, very powerful. She could have said what he did, the man who had abandoned her to them, enough people would have condemned him, though many would applaud him. He needed the Death Eater's support, our government was full of them. When he found out she lived, about me, he came to her. He asked her to forgive him, offered to hide us himself. She refused, and he bound her, said he'd torture me and make her watch. After she agreed, he placed us in a cottage in the mountains. I remember him a little, his coat smelled like cigars. The death-eaters found out. He tried to hide with us but they came and tortured him. My mother begged them to spare us, but they needed to make an example. They killed the man and brought us to Karkaroff. He was head of the Death Eaters then. I guess he took pity on her, she was beautiful. It was possible he was my father, he had been the ond on her. They were in Romania then. I remember the day I first saw the Dark Lord's face, he was so beautiful, and so ugly because he knew it. He never traveled to where they were, just screamed orders by floo or howler. I was afraid, I begged my mother to let me sleep with her, but she wouldn't allow it. She locked me in my room, but I could still sometimes hear her scream. Karkaroff would sometimes take me outside, he gave me a real broom and made me promise not to tell my mother. I was too small; I think he thought it would have been funny to see me fall, and I would be less of a distraction if I died. I practiced in my room hour after hour until I could stay on, then I would fly out of my window at night, so I couldn't hear them. When he was captured my mother knew our only protection in that place was gone—in the confusion of Voldemort's wrath I flew us away. We hid until the Dark Lord fell, it couldn't have been more than a couple of months. The resistance took over the government and they paid her, quietly, for the names she gave. We returned to the mountains and I kept flying, she was always telling me to be ready. She told me that if they came again they would kill us. I was a better flyer than most men by the time I got my letter from Durmstrange. No one knew me or my family, I used a different name. I did not join the Quidditch team, I practiced in secret. I worried about my mother constantly. When the winter holiday began, I flew to her. I was too late, he got there first. He had his hand on her throat and his wand to her head. He told me she was a mudblood whore, a traitor. He said he had sent him to Azkaban, forgetting that it was his ineptitude that had got him there. If I wanted her to live, he said, she would be his slave. I, a half-blood, would be his ward. Otherwise, he would kill us both. The government restored all of his property, so we lived in luxury. He burned my broom once we arrived, said I'd have to prove my loyalty to earn one. If he hurt my mother, I was not allowed to protest. When I did, he just hit harder, and she told me to stop. I got my broom back before the start of term, and asked to join the Quidditch team. I destroyed them. Karkaroff allowed my mother to watch, it was the only time we had. She was proud of me. I returned for the summer and he got a trainer. I surpassed this man's skill, and Karkaroff took delight in the interest I got from professionals. I had more to learn, and I did. He became headmaster the next year, and pushed me endlessly. I never studied, only the game, always the game. He wanted me to take his name, but he knew that would bring bad press. I rose. My mother never missed a game. As the stands grew larger and more people watched, I would no longer be able to find her face before the match. I knew she was there, though. She wanted me to be smart like her, but I never had time. I wish…but I was so tired. My team saved me, they loved me. The people loved me. I did not feel so alone. Still, no one ever got very close. Most were put off by my success, those drawn by it were put off by Karkaroff. Anyone else, he chose. And he chose very, very few. All of my friends are the sons of death eaters. All of my teachers believe their words. Anyone less than a half-blood is not accepted into Durmstrang. The half-bloods live in shame. My mother is fortunate, she is protected. In my country, mudbloods are treated badly more and more, and I cannot stop it. It is people like you, with passion, intelligence, power, you can change them. You can stop them before it is too late."

Hermione noticed she was shaking, the frame still gripped in her hands. She glanced at the woman smiling up at her serenely, and read all of the strength that smile must have taken. She was smiling despite her world, all so that her son could find goodness in it, somewhere. And he saw that same goodness in her. When she glanced up, she saw him watching her through her tears. It was he who had the passion, the strength. She used her intelligence for nothing more than her own glory, never realizing what she could do to help those around her that had felt the sting of prejudice. For her, it had only ever been that. A sting, but something she could overcome by ignoring. For others, it was hell. He sat on the bed next to her, and he brushed away her tears. They were her tears, but they were also his mother's. The pressure to say something was building in her chest, but her tears kept coming to choke them off. He kissed her wet cheek, and she kissed his lips. She didn't have to say. The thick thud of boots in the narrow hall broke their moment, and Krum looked toward the door. His hand gripped her forearm, and tightened. She understood, and remained silent. The skill he had with moving soundlessly was impressive, he lifted her off the bed. He carried her across the room and laid her in his trunk, all the while watching the door. If he hadn't just revealed to her the world in which he lived, she would have protested loudly. Now, she sank wordlessly into the darkness, her stomach slithering into knots.

The knock was rapid and short, and Krum swiftly slid the bolt.

"Privet, Krum."

"Headmaster Karkaroff."

"It seems dat you have been practicing yoor English? Good, it's terrible. Zees pampered idiots think they are so clevar. I would like to show dem, and I tink, so vould you."

"Da, off coorse."

Karkaroff was silent, and Hermione heard him cross the floor, his boots scuffing as he walked toward the bed. He spoke again, quietly.

"You must focus. No deestractions."

"Da."

"Remember someding. For me."

"Chto?"

There was a splash, and an animal like growl tore the room, a cry that could only have come from Viktor. She heard the contact of their bodies, hoping it was Krum doing the beating.

"A mudblood whore has her place, and she mah be usevul. You are tense, use her. But do not distract yourselve." More scuffling. Krum howled again, the sound of splintering wood. Karkaroff spoke quieter still.

"Ef et es a fuck you want, haf her. Through her, we may geht Potterr. Maybe den you will control dese…tempers." The door slammed, and another loud thud followed. Hermione sat in the darkness, breathing. The lid snapped open, she saw his face was full of tears. They were hot and quiet, this rage more vengeful and deadly than what had pushed him to destroy the desk and crack the door. He did not tremble, that's what made him such a good player. His anger brought him strength, and he could control it, when he wished. She felt the need to leave him, and to save him. When she touched his face, she feared he would break. He gripped her wrist and opened his eyes, focusing on hers. Such pools of darkness had never seemed so bright, the fire in them burning into hers. His throat convulsed painfully, and he forgot his clutch on her wrist, so fragile in his hands. She refused to feel the pain, and brushed at his tears with the hand he held, comforting him the way he had done for her.

"I vill deestroy heem." The current of darkness in him, though it was for her, threatened to destroy her with his rage.

"We will. Destroy all of them." After she spoke, he remembered her. He wanted to kiss her, hold her, he wished she had not heard what Karkaroff had said. He had the horrible feeling of being discovered in something he did not do, and anything he might do to convince her otherwise would only accomplish the opposite. Perhaps this was Karkaroff's plan, after all. In seeking love, he would profane that which he found most desirable and pure. He released her wrist, loathing himself and Karkaroff and the world, and wanting to tell her, somehow, what he felt. She had seen so much of him, she would destroy him if she rejected this. But how could she be his and not believe what that snake had said? Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. Her face settled against his chest and she embraced him tightly. His broad hands settled on her soft, curly hair, and his tears stopped. Women had apparated into the muggle car Karkaroff used to conceal him so they could fuck him, risking almost certain splinching only to be tossed out onto the highway by Karkaroff's thugs. One woman hid in the locker room for four days until the end of a quidditch match, naked, intent on giving herself to him. But he had never been hugged. The frantic press of a victory huddle was nothing compared to an embrace like this. He felt her heart. He could not tell how long they had stood, but the play of the water against the hull seemed quieter, softer. A faint, grey light flooded the room from the porthole, and the water birds started to share their prophesy about the day ahead. Had they been asleep? They blinked at one another as though they were emerging from the black lake, and Hermione sighed. He was suddenly shy of her. With this simple touch, she had given him so much. Did she know her power? He brought a small boat with a spell mumbled in Russian, then enlarged the porthole so she could climb out. She transfigured his bed sheets into a rope, and he lowered her down. He watched her progress to the shore, and wished desperately he too could float away from the creaking, groaning bulk. He strained his eyes in the morning light, yearning to see the photograph that Karkaroff had so cruelly tossed away, but his eyes stung from his tears, and he closed them before he fell on his bed. He was asleep before the sun rose.

When she awoke, she remembered him from the taste. Her mouth did not taste just like her, there was some of him in it. She could not say that the taste was pleasant, but it tasted the way he did, in the woods, and always, and she liked that. She moved her head from the shadow of the bedcurtain, and saw the sunlight that streamed through the high dormitory windows. The glass bunny sat on her bedside table, and the sunlight made it glow. The image reminded her of the warmth of his kiss and the heat of his cheek, and she arched, stretched, and groaned in sleepy pleasure at the thought. She wanted to fill her mouth and arms with him, and it was a desire that was as present as the sunshine. It was sometimes obscured by circumstance, but constant and brilliant when she was relieved of distraction. There was no respite from classes and schoolwork for three days, three dreadful days of longing hitherto unknown and unprecedented in her heart. To deny the subtle feeling of pride, an awakened sense of self and confidence in her own worth would be to deny her own existence. She wondered lazily in the shower at the feeling of desire that had shot painfully through her at unexpected moments during their brief meeting. A glimpse at the thick, straining tendons in his neck as he blushed into the firelight had brought her higher than she'd ever been, and the solid feel of his mattress beneath her hands still made her blush at the memory. Karkaroff had used the word "fuck," and she found herself mouthing it from time to time. Could she fuck? Did he want her to? Was she opposed? Delighted? Offended? She was walking to Hagrid's hut with Harry and Ron on Friday evening, (whom she had not forgiven, but whose friendship she merely resumed like a comfortable pair of socks) when she made the decision that she was somewhere in-between. The season's chill was driving through her heavy wool cloak, and she was pulling her red and gold scarf tighter around her neck when she spotted something that distracted her from the asinine conversation of her compatriots. On the path ahead, the sweeping boughs of the fur-trees were tossing in the wind, but one limb stayed perfectly still. Located close to the ground as it was, Hermione readied her wand. The boy-who-lived didn't seem to notice the potential threat to that title, and the ginger git tripped along beside completely unawares. Surprise being her only ally, she decided that a silent stun was her best option. She heard the soft thud of the body, and claimed a need to tie her shoe. She would scream like a girl if the attacker proved any more harmful than Dobby with a Harry hard-on, and her gallant friends would come running. In the darkness of the trees, she found Krum's slack form. He had not yet been roused by his body, and his face was peaceful in the dreamless state of unconscious. The lines of the perpetual scowl he wore were smoothed away, and his lips were released from the normally tight line in which they were pressed. Without thinking, she brushed her fingers over them. That seemed to happen around Viktor with alarming frequency, the not thinking. The alacrity of his reflexes belied his temperate demeanor, having Hermione flat on her back below him before she could draw her hand from his lips, which were now drawn in a snarl. Her heart thudded a beat, he blinked, and said, "You stun me?" breathlessly, still aghast at her ability and his own ineptitude. The shock of the moment widened her coffee colored eyes and parted her lips, red from the cold. The weight of his body and his anger pressing her into the earth brought color to her cheeks. Nothing stirred in her mind, except her sudden miraculous ability to gasp a wavering, "Da."

The wide, unblinking eyes examined the lines above his pale ones, etched into his forehead from boyhood. The spell that the serenity of his features had cast upon her held her, and lifted her fingers to tenderly stroke the worries away. Krum hated nothing more than the feeling of being unconscious. It took him several minutes to regain his bearing after every stun, which is why he avoided wandplay as much as he could help it. He never liked to feel helpless. In this state, his instincts would inevitably take over. As his performance on the Quidditch pitch would prove, he had killer instincts. The moment Hermione chose to raise her hand, he pressed her wrists into the foliage on either side of her head. This sudden shift in position caught them both off guard, but Hermione's reaction was one Krum thought he might treasure for the rest of his life. Her eyes grew, if possible, wider, lips fell away from one another, eyebrows arched, blood poured into her cheeks, but her body betrayed her more than her countenance. The instinct that would normally be consumed by his better judgment at this point fought with ferocity at its binds, and he could not resist another of the slight hip movements that had produced such a pleasing result. The response was the same, but all the more appealing because he knew it had been real. Something behind the darkness of those eyes told her to struggle, and he felt her feeble attempts against his grip. His reason triumphantly returned, and, with it, a feeling of shame at having been so exposed. Still, the base voice that had controlled him whispered through the clamor of his reason that she had wanted it, that something in her had been set loose too. And she had liked it. He opened his mouth to speak as he pushed himself hurriedly off and helped her shakily to her feet, but could not find a string of English words to express his feelings. All, they all failed to contain his thoughts.

"Viktor, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have." She had regained her breath, and found blame in his silence. "I should have known, but I'm always so careful, you must understand." He wasn't sure if she was talking about the spell or their sudden display of lust, but his mind simply refused to provide him with the phrases he needed to convey his sympathy. She seemed to have put her hurt in one eye and her longing in the other, and gazing at the black depths of them both was making him dizzy. He had never felt a girl so close to him like that. She was trembling, and so was he. He clenched his fist to steady himself, and he felt the soft resistance and the crinkle. Without a word, he shoved it into her palm and bolted into the woods. He would let magic speak for him. The birdsong sounded loud after the pounding in her ears had faded, and she finally lifted the object he had pressed into her hand up to the sunlight that slanted through the trees. On thick red paper which had been slightly crinkled where he had clutched it nervously, embossed gold lettering swam before her eyes. Scrolled first in a delicate Cyrillic script, the letters melted into the familiar English shapes.

The Honor Extended by the Guests of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning

An Invitation to the Festivities

The Yule Ball

Hosted by the Host, Admittance by Invitation