Fairy Lights

Summary: AU, Oneshot. Harry is crap at welcoming the newest exchange student, and like most of his other responsibilities, it falls on Hermione to pick up the slack. Hermione/Krum

"If you don't help me out, I won't love you anymore," Harry was saying. Hermione rolled her eyes at her best friend's empty threat but nonetheless continued to walk along the pavement beside him. The warm spring night air was wet and was making her hair curl in tickling tendrils along her skin. The scent in the air was one of anticipation, though she couldn't place why she had this sense of excitement.

"Oh honestly, Harry. He can't be that bad," she replied as they approached the house in question. Multicolored twinkle lights were strung along the porch, giving it a romantic glow in the misty night that made her feel nostalgic for a romance she had never had. Oh well. She had her books and her hobbies, and she refused to let her relationship status invalidate her. Still, on nights like this... She swallowed her self-absorbed melancholy. Just being moody for no reason.

"I never said he was bad, per se. But he won't say more than two words —"

"He's not British, Harry! He's new in this country. How would you feel if you suddenly had to up and leave and go to Bulgaria? I reckon he's adjusting well — better than you would be at the very least," she interrupted loftily. The wooden floorboards of the porch creaked underneath their feet as they reached the front door. Through the shabby curtains, Hermione could see dancing bodies and more string lights — the ultimate university student choice of décor. Harry shot her a rather sulky look.

"Well, since you've decided to go and be Miss Holier Than Thou all of a sudden, then help me out. You know I haven't any idea of what to say to him," he finished desperately, mopping at his untidy black hair. Hermione let out a sigh before giving him a rather indulgent smile.

"Oh, fine," she conceded. Harry opened the door to his crush, Ginny Weasley, tottering slightly on her heels.

"Harryyyy!" she slurred happily. Harry looked a bit sheepish as he caught her before she could tumble onto the porch; mysteriously, Ginny's boyfriend Dean showed up at that very moment and practically ripped Ginny out of Harry's arms. "Dean! I told you to stop doing that. It's like you think I can't walk on my own," she barked at him. Hermione rolled her eyes. She loved Ginny, but she didn't love her enough to sit through yet another episode of Who Will Ginny Choose? Really, the suspense was just killing her.

"Where's Krum?" she asked Harry brightly, to distract him from the apparent anguish of watching Ginny and Dean angrily snog each other. Harry's knuckles were bleached because he was fisting his hands so hard.

"Over there. By the piano," he ground out, still glowering at Dean. Hermione snorted before grasping Harry's arm and dragging him from the entwined couple.

"You'll never win her by acting like a stalker, Harry," she told him under her breath as they weaved through the party. Harry bristled.

"I'm not — Ah, Krum," Harry greeted with rather feebly feigned happiness.

Hermione balked.

This guy was the infamous football player?

Viktor Krum, world-renowned footballer, was currently quite intrigued by the rickety, cheap, upright piano pushed carelessly against the back wall of the sitting room. Amid the thumping, club-like music, he was obliviously picking out a tune, in the single-minded manner of a two-year-old, that Hermione could not even hear. He was facing away from her, and appeared to be somewhat tall, though wiry, and similar to Harry's build. His hair was brutally short; it looked like he'd recently shorn it off. He was wearing a simple dark red tee shirt and denims. No flashy clothes, no cameras, no paparazzi. She had to admit that this was a bit of a letdown after all of the hullaballoo that Ron and Harry — and others — had made about him.

Viktor Krum slowly turned to look over his shoulder at Harry. He wasn't classically handsome, and there was something awkward about his posture, but when his lips curved into a slow smile, her tummy gave an odd and unexpected little flip. Oh, honestly. Get ahold of yourself, she chided. His nose was a little too strong, his chin jutted out a bit too much. But the overall effect was appealing; he looked sharply cut, all jagged angles. His dark brown eyes were warm.

"Harry Potter. And girlfriend?" he greeted pleasantly in a thick accent. Hermione flushed.

"No. I'm his — "

" — Hermione," Harry said at the same time. Viktor's brows drew together in confusion.

"What is a Hermy-oh-knee?" he queried. Harry sniggered as Hermione withered slightly.

"No, that's my name. Her-MY-oh-knee," she instructed a bit exasperatedly.

"Hermy-oh-knee," he tried again with a nod. Hermione opened her mouth to correct him again, but realized that the music was so loud that it wasn't worth trying anyway. This was probably the only time she'd ever speak to him, in spite of being Harry's best friend. Harry was the captain of Hogwarts University's soccer team, and as Krum had been drafted, it had been the tacit agreement that it was Harry's responsibility to make him feel more welcome. Unfortunately, Harry was a bit crap at such socializing — not out of ill intent; he just had always been a bit awkward — and so Hermione sensed Viktor'd not gotten a half-decent welcome.

"Well, you two seem to be hitting it off pretty well. I'll just be off to...er...talk to Luna," Harry lied uncomfortably before making a beeline for Ginny, who had finally been left alone by Dean. Hermione watched him go in well-meaning exasperation before turning to Viktor again. He was grinning at her, and rose from the bench.

"Potter haff problem finding girlfriend?" he teased, nodding slightly to Harry, who was now wrapped up in another absurd argument with a very inebriated Ginny.

"Harry is horrible with girls," Hermione sighed. She jumped when Viktor's lightly muscled arm brushed hers; his skin was warm. He had leaned closer to hear her better, and she could smell some sort of strong men's bodywash which combined with the scent of beer. Her tummy fluttered again. Are you seriously going to act like Lavender Brown and get your knickers in a twist over a famous footballer? "He only likes Ginny, anyway, and Ginny only likes him. It's all very stupid and ought to have been finished with by sixth form."

"Hermy-oh-knee sounds like she needs a drink. Come; you like beer?"

He didn't give her much chance to answer, and grasped her clammy hand to lead her to the table with the drinks. His forwardness irked her, and she yanked her hand out of his grasp.

"I can manage on my own, thanks," she said tartly before pushing ahead of him to get her own drink. She heard Viktor scoff behind her.

"You do not like a man who is polite, is that it?"

He regarded her carefully as they leaned against the table, sipping their beers. His gaze was too intense and made her feel too warm. Happy, Harry? she thought sourly, casting about the room for him. Apparently he had finished pointlessly arguing with Ginny and was now sulking with Ron, who was mysteriously wearing a paper crown and covered in confetti. Across the room, she met Ron's blue eyes and looked away sharply.

"I do like my men polite," she conceded carefully, thinking of Ron and scowling a bit absently, "but I don't need to be coddled. Chivalry is dead, you know. No point in trying to hide it."

Viktor looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Maybe in British men," he said slowly, nodding slightly as though agreeing with her. His gaze flicked to Harry and Ron pointedly and he flashed a smirk at her. Hermione felt herself flush again.

"You certainly do pick up on quite a bit," she said bitterly. Viktor laughed.

"I am alvays vatching people," he replied before frowning. "That does not sound right."

Hermione choked on her drink as she laughed, and then Viktor was laughing again too.

"No, no, it does not."

The warmth of attraction in the pit of her belly was heating her. The night continued and she soon forgot the usual urge to leave that always accompanied her to parties. She drank beer after beer, even though she knew she ought to have been reading for her philosophy seminar. She listened to Viktor tell her about his home in Bulgaria, and he listened to her tell him about...well, everything. Hermione lost her inhibitions around the time the room started spinning, and late into the night they sat out on the front porch, enjoying the wet spring night, as she blathered on about whatever came to mind.

In a way, it was rather thrilling to have someone actually want to listen to her — for once. Given the chance, she was a fairly talkative person, but that was the problem: no one gave her the chance. She was boring, bookish Hermione Granger, with the frizzy hair and the annoying speeches about immigrants and feminism and saving trees. In the glow of the white string lights and the warmth of Viktor's intense gaze on her, she suddenly became something different and more beautiful. She suddenly became someone worth listening to. At least, she thought so. His dark eyes were fixed on her so heavily as she spoke animatedly, as though he could not possibly tear his gaze from her.

Around the seventh beer, she was thinking goodness, have I always been this bloody interesting, when it occurred to her that she was drunker than she had ever been in her life.

"I am blossoming," she slurred, leaning her head dazedly against the post next to the stairs, where they were positioned. A light rain was falling and misting her face; she turned her head up to meet it. Viktor snorted.

"If that is vord for drunk, then yes," he said sardonically. "You are very blossoming, Hermy-oh-knee."

"Hermione," she corrected softly, closing her eyes. She opened one so she could shoot him a one-eyed-glare. "And you're not too sober yourself, Mister Krum."

Viktor laughed again and held up his beer to the soft lighting.

"I like drinking. In Bulgaria, I do not do it often. My coach, Karkaroff, is alvays bothering me about my health. But… I alvays feel so...uncomfortable... around people. It is easier to be friendly when I drink."

Hermione turned to look at him, studying him, and he was looking at her with that intense gaze, and her heart was pounding, and the world was spinning, and the mist was making his eyelashes stick together, and he was sort of pretty in a very unexpected way, and were they really leaning closer to each other, like they were about to kiss, because this was much too soon —

The screen door creaked open.

"Hermione! What are you doing?"

Viktor and Hermione pulled back as though electrocuted. Ron and Harry were coming out the front door; Ron's crown was askew on his shaggy red hair, and there was a smudge of lipstick on Harry's face and he looked highly cross. Upon closer inspection, she could see a bruise forming on his cheek and a split lip.

"Oh, Harry. Don't tell me you made a move on Ginny—"

"I was innocently snogging Cho, and then she started crying, and then Cedric came in to stop us, and Cho tried to punch him but she was so drunk that she missed and hit me," he interrupted in a flat voice. "I just want to go home."

Hermione had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing at the absurd image forming in her mind.

"R-right. Well, we've got to get your lip cleaned," she stammered, rising to her feet and swaying. With catlike agility, Viktor rose and caught her before she fell over. A look of horror and disgust dawned on Ron's face.

"Are you trying to get my best friend drunk?!" he demanded, rounding on Viktor, his voice cracking. Hermione winced at the sound. "You're trying to get her pissed so you can take her home and —"

"Ronald, you're embarrassing yourself," she said sharply. "Take Harry home and clean his lip, alright? Can you handle that?"

"What? That's your job, not mine!"

Harry was looking decidedly pissed off; he pushed past the trio and stormed out onto the pavement.

"I'm not two, you know," he said loudly as he walked, "I can take care of my own damn lip." The effect was a bit lost when he stumbled over a crack in the pavement and swore like a Weasley.

"Fine. I'll take care of him. Just don't come crying to me when you wake up in Bulgarian red and you don't remember tonight," Ron snarked darkly before stalking off after Harry. Hermione and Viktor blinked at each other.

"What is Bulgarian red?" she asked, a little embarrassed. Viktor shrugged before Ron called back to them an answer.

"The color of douchebaggery," he yelled before turning and vomiting into the street. Hermione and Viktor both cringed at the splattering sound.

"I should go after them," she said guiltily. "They're not very good at being drunk together, you know." Sobriety was coming back to her in waves, but she still felt unsteady. It was beginning to rain harder now, and her shirt was beginning to get soaked through, as was Viktor's. She looked away when she saw how it was clinging wetly to his flat, lean stomach. "They're not usually this idiotic, I promise. They're both good guys," she added with a sigh. Viktor was grinning at her again, as though she were a delightful secret that only he knew.

"I know," he said gently. "You are nice girl, and vouldn't be friends vith them if they veren't."

Hermione resisted the urge to demand that he call her nice again, just to hear it, because really, she was already embarrassing herself enough. "You are getting soaked. Let's stand up there," he added. He reached out to guide her but thought better of it and instead gestured for her to go up into the shelter of the porch. The wind was blowing the rain onto the porch, and they huddled instinctively in the corner, where the string lights trailed down in glowing, glittering strands to reach the outlet.

"I really should go. But — it was nice meeting you," she said uncomfortably. She wasn't good at this type of thing — was she supposed to allude to her attraction to him, or had this entire evening been acted on the assumed premise of friendship? Her palms were beginning to sweat again as he looked down at her.

"I should not be saying this, but you are very sexy when you are all vet like that," he admitted in a low voice. Heat sprang to Hermione's cheeks.

"You are very drunk," she dismissed hastily. "Trust me, you won't think so in the morning— well, not that I mean we're going to sleep together; that's not what I meant —"

He cut her off with a kiss to the corner of her mouth; Hermione grappled for balance and ended up clutching the string lights hanging down. When his lips slid against hers, she pulled too hard and the glowing fairy lights fell down around them.

End