The Three Rs
By Bambu
Summary: Viktor Krum is a famous Quidditch player. Witches throw themselves at him oftern. Why isn't he happy? (Written mere months before Deathly Hallows was released, this is set in some alternate post-book-seven universe.)
Disclaimer and Author's Notes: The wondrous world of J.K. Rowling's imagining does not belong to me, nor do I financially profit from it. The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to J.K. Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no other profit from my fanfiction.
I have borrowed the propitious use of a certain word from my dear SnarkyWench, who has not only graciously given me permission, but has then been my second set of eyes for this piece. I thank her for all of her patience and hand-holding. Please note there is a modified Bulgarian-English and Portuguese-English translation list at the end of Chapter Three.
For other sundry details, I named one of the French Quidditch Teams, the Buzzards, for Lillithj, and the last little quip is entirely for A_Bees_Buzz.
This story is for Rozarka, because no one writes Viktor/Hermione as well as she.
~o0o~
Chapter One: Reflect
He languidly folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling while listening to his companion snore. It came as something of a shock to realize that he was vaguely discontented with his life. It defied reason. Why would a handsomely paid, celebrated Quidditch star - one with comely witches vying for his attention in every city - be unhappy?
A snort pulled his attention from a spider spinning an intricate, gossamer web in the far corner of the ceiling to the blonde sleeping at his side.
A slight sneer crossed his lips and he plucked a long tendril of hair from his chest. Stealthily he slid from the bed.
As was his custom, Viktor had gone to the witch's hotel room; he never invited dalliances back to his. Padding silently across the thickly carpeted floor to the gauzy curtains at the window, he looked out onto the street below, his nakedness hidden by the hotel's Privacy Charms.
Black eyes idly tracked pedestrians in Britain's most famous wizarding alley. A young girl with wild, curly brown hair followed her parents into the seasonally decorated Flourish and Blotts, and Viktor almost spat a curse.
He hated England.
He hated the cold, the damp, the rigidly civil populace.
A rustling noise from the large bed reminded him of the lithe figure he'd spent the night with. Thank the stars she was still asleep. Abruptly, he felt unclean. Then, as swiftly as he would snatch a Snitch in flight, Viktor gathered his clothes, dressed, and slipped from the room.
He felt as if he couldn't breathe. It was like this every time he played in Britain.
It was too close to Hermione Granger.
After Albus Dumbledore's death, Viktor had sent Hermione a letter, asking her to come to Bulgaria for the summer - to recuperate from the trauma of her sixth year. But she had declined. She had written, telling him that she was going on a fact-finding mission with Ron and Harry.
Viktor had never read the rest of her letter, burning it with an Incendio so hot it had melted the rubbish can.
He hadn't known then that she and the boy heroes were planning to save the world; that they would indeed succeed.
After he destroyed her letter an endless stream of Quidditch groupies had graced his bed. He hadn't cared for any of them then and he cared even less now.
He would never forget reading Le Monde Magique the morning after Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort. It had been breakfast when Viktor joined his Vratsa Vultures teammates in the Hotel Sofistique's dining room. He had just cut into his first sausage when the coach burst into the room waving the newspaper.
In vivid color on the front page was a candid photograph of the three young people who had barely survived the last battle of the war. The trio clung to one another, battered and wounded, with blood and soot smeared across their faces. They were crying and laughing and hugging. But the one thing Viktor always remembered – as if the memory squeezed the air from his lungs - was the way Weasley cupped Hermione's face and kissed her cheek. It was a gesture so tender that at that very moment Viktor learned the meaning of hate.
Even years later, the mere thought of that image caused one of his hands to clench the leading edge of his dress robes, crushing the fine material in his fist.
That was then, this was now, he told himself grimly.
Viktor released the material, ran his hand through his shaggy hair, and strode to his room.
He stripped his soiled clothing as he crossed the opulent suite, neither noticing nor caring for its luxury or the colorful trail of fabric he left in his wake. He took a long, scalding shower ... scrubbing himself as if soap and water could somehow restore his self-esteem.
He had no doubt Weasley took every advantage of his situation after Voldemort's fall and married Hermione. The redhead had loved her for a very long time.
Viktor had played Quidditch amongst cut-throat professionals long enough to recognize a challenge when he met one. He had known Weasley was his most dangerous competition, but he hadn't counted on his own petulance to further his adversary's cause.
Shampoo stung his eyes and he pretended it was that which caused them to burn. He leaned his brow against the slick tiles while hot water streamed over his head, sluicing down the smooth expanse of his back, carrying suds and heartache with it.
After the shower he wrapped a towel around his narrow hips and left the en suite, steam billowing into the bedroom behind him.
A small red glow pulsed from a sheet of complimentary stationary atop the bedside table. He had a message. It was probably his coach reminding him of an event where his presence was required.
It was.
It was merely one of dozens of events he attended each year as a representative of his team and country, yet Viktor's hand trembled and the parchment shook when he read the name of the honoree printed in bold black ink: Hermione Granger.
Granger.
Not Weasley.
Viktor's heart lurched. Perhaps there was a way to make up for five years of heartache after all. Perhaps ….
He needed a plan.
Summoning the hotel-elf, Viktor asked for a meal to be brought to his rooms, then he handed an affirmative reply for the small elf to deliver to his coach. Next, he requested every newspaper or periodical which included an article covering the Ministry's event or its honoree. After the hotel-elf departed, he paced the large room like a caged Golden Snidget, detouring around chairs and the piano with a fluid grace he had finally gained after years of practice.
The meal and reading material arrived at the same time.
The hotel-elf had gathered every periodical from the past five years in which Hermione Granger appeared. After that first article declaring Voldemort's defeat, Viktor had refused to read another story about her. It was simply too painful.
Later, he would have no idea what he had eaten in the way of food as his soul feasted upon the minutia of Hermione's post-war life. By teatime, newsprint, parchment, and foolscap littered the seating area of his suite. The table was covered with several articles which he had Spelled out of their original publications. The gray velvet sofa held the tattered remains of Witch Weekly's most recent issue, the cover still in pristine shape. It held a headshot of Hermione which elicited a smile when he noticed her hair couldn't be contained within the frame.
Viktor allowed himself a moment of indulgence, counting the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, his long fingers tracing the outline of her generous mouth.
Her image reacted to his touch. She smiled and he was suddenly unable to draw a breath.
Air.
He needed some air.
Rather than descending into Diagon Alley, which would be an exercise in public relations, Viktor took the gloriously empty elevator to the hotel's rooftop gardens. There were three to choose from: an herb garden with low-lying box-wood hedges between the herb beds, a floral garden with a riot of color and fragrance, and a small wood.
Viktor chose the trees.
Following a rustic footpath through the woods, he came to a tiny glade. It was utterly tranquil. To complete the fantastical image, a ray of sunshine broke through thick cloud cover, casting its warmth upon the single hand-hewn sandstone bench next to a carefully planted, single tree.
The sun-dappled seat was irresistible.
The world-famous Quidditch star sat on the bench for a long time.
Thoughts long repressed swirled through his mind, consolidating with information gleaned from the articles he had so eagerly read.
Hermione Granger First Muggle-born Hired by Malfoy, Ltd
She had been beguiling when she descended the steps from Gryffindor tower, her long blue dress swirling about her nascent womanly figure. Viktor's mouth had gone dry the moment he saw her.
Malfoy Ltd's Youngest Head of Research and Development, Hermione Granger, Says Diversity is Key
The way she captured her lower lip between her teeth when writing an essay or reading a class assignment, the lip plumping on either side of perfect white teeth. His palms had grown sweaty, itching to touch her.
Granger-Weasley Nuptials Called Off!
Hours spent by the Black Lake at Hogwarts, studying, talking, laughing; the sun shining off her hair, her warm brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
Viktor had been captivated.
Hermione Granger, Recipient of the Mungo Bonham Medal for Cruciatus Cure
His eagerness whenever he received one of her letters, hiding from his teammates to read what she had to say. Fingers shaking, heart beating frantically, he had savored each neatly quilled word.
Hermione Granger, Wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Witch
He had fallen in love with her at eighteen and trying to forget her since he was twenty.
She was single.
Viktor had stared at the Witch Weekly magazine cover for a long time - heart clenching every time Hermione's image smiled at him. Then he carefully cut every photograph of her he could find.
She had matured into a slender woman with round hips and full breasts. Her hair had a tendency to escape the loose chignon she seemed to prefer during the day. To his eyes, she was lovely wearing either form-fitting dress robes or utilitarian everyday robes. Her face had changed though. It was the same mouth, same nose, same freckles, but her eyes were different, very different from what Viktor remembered.
Hermione looked as if she had an intimate knowledge of hell. Considering the trials she had endured, Viktor thought perhaps it was an apt description.
Clouds thickened over the small glade, oppressive and gloomy, but the darkness suited his melancholy mood. Once he had been the well-known personality and she merely a schoolgirl he fancied. She was no longer that girl, and he was just another jaded Quidditch player, weighed down by too many sexual encounters with women who only wanted the distinction of having bedded a celebrity.
Overcome by an unusual feeling of worthlessness, Viktor contemplated not attending the gala. He would be fined by his coach, but it might be worth it not to have to see her.
"Typak!" he called himself before rising from the bench in sudden determination.
His stomach was in a free-fall Wronski Feint by the time he reached his room.
Within moments, Viktor sought an age-old remedy for nerves and a healthy three-finger measure of vintage Armagnac swirled in the bottom of a glass. Holding the snifter in his palm, the warmth of his hand released the heady aroma of the liquor after several minutes.
Black eyes studied the muted champagne and red shades of the room. The suite had been tidied in his absence, the papers and cut-out articles organized in a neat pile, the Witch Weekly cover sat atop the small stack.
Viktor's attention moved to the bedroom. Through the open door he could see his evening's dress robes suspended mid-air, hanging as if from a three-dimensional mannequin.
The liquor sloshed against his mouth as he recognized the cloak waiting for him to don. It was Durmstrang red; a replica of the one he had worn to the Yule Ball so many years before. He gulped the cognac, feeling it burn a path to his stomach and spread a welcoming lassitude through his tense muscles.
Resolutely, he set the glass on a small table, squared his shoulders, and stripped as he strode toward his past.
~o0o~
"Come on, Hermione. Why won't you give him another chance?" Ginny Wood whined. "He's terribly unhappy."
The object of her petulance glanced around the Ministry's gaily decorated ballroom, noting the size and number of cliques, the lavish dress robes representing a rainbow of color, the empty platform where the band would be performing in a few minutes. Light from the wall sconces and chandeliers gave the cavernous room a warmth and charm it would have otherwise lacked.
Hermione and Ginny seemed to be isolated in a corner near one set of windows. Slipping her wand from a slender pocket in the skirt of her gown, Hermione flicked it in a long-practiced manner, murmuring, "Muffliato."
For the past six months, the evening's honoree had been avoiding this conversation. While it might not be the best location for such a private disclosure, the public venue would act as a restraint against Ginny's volatile nature. Neither witch liked negative publicity as each had been the focus of vitriol-dipped quills in the past.
Affectionately Hermione looked at her friend.
The younger woman's burnished copper-colored hair was swept up in an elaborate twist, and her champagne-colored dress robes showcased her Quidditch-toned body to perfection. Ginny Wood nee Weasley had inherited the best of each of her parents' features and had grown into a beautiful woman.
As the newest Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, Ginny had almost as large a fan base as her husband. However, following the nightmare of her first year at school, she didn't particularly enjoy being in the spotlight. It was something she and Hermione had in common.
"Well?" Ginny asked, displaying the impatience for which Molly Weasley was well-known, and a trait she had passed on to her daughter.
Hermione ignored the hard ball of tension forming in her stomach and took the plunge. "Would you take Oliver back if he cheated on you?"
"That's different," the red-head replied immediately. "We're married."
"Ginny!"
The younger witch pouted. "Oh, all right. But Ron didn't mean it. He was drunk."
Brushing a stray curl from her face, Hermione said, "That was his excuse the first time I caught him."
Ginny practically choked on her drink in a classic moment of real-life slapstick comedy. "S-sorry – first time?"
Hermione's eyes were large and dark and held her friend's gaze. "I moved out of the flat after the second time, when I found him entertaining someone else … in our bed."
Ginny's grip around her glass tightened, showing bloodless peaks where her knuckles were. Surprisingly the glass didn't shatter.
Hermione looked away, across the sea of brown, blonde, and red hair twisted and coiffed in the height of wizarding fashion. She had been certain Ron lied to his sister about their break-up. Now she had confirmation, although it brought her very little satisfaction.
The two women were silent for a time, intermittently sipping their drinks. Hermione chewed her bottom lip, entirely unaware that she was doing so. After several moments, it was the younger witch who finally broke the silence.
"I always wanted you for a sister, you know."
Hermione glanced at her friend. "Me, too."
"Couldn't you give him another chance anyway?" Ginny's expression made it clear she already knew the answer, but it wasn't easy to relinquish her long-time fantasy.
"No," Hermione answered softly. "After that first time, I was pretty broken-hearted. I couldn't understand why I wasn't enough for him."
"Hermione, don't say that!" Ginny Evanesco'd her glass in order to wrap her arms around her friend. It was tighter than a public embrace should be, but suddenly neither cared if others realized a fairly serious conversation was taking place.
Onlookers wouldn't be able to hear what was said. Snape might have been a triple agent during the war, but he'd been brilliant and his spells were impervious to interference.
Once again silence fell between the two friends as the awkwardness of the situation wound tight.
A small group of witches drew near, but then collectively lumbered toward a bar farther along one wall as if they had been Confunded.
Swallowing the last of her Blackthorn, Hermione's eyes rested upon an elderly wizard as he escorted his wife from the ballroom, a gnarled hand on the small of her back, her attention riveted to her husband's conversation. A wistful smile curved Hermione's mouth as she watched the couple.
"That's how I felt at the time," she murmured, "but then … you know how I am. I started examining our relationship for what worked - and what didn't." With a non-verbal Vanishing Spell, she disposed of her glass before turning her head toward the redhead. Intense hazel eyes stared back at her and it was easy to see beyond the surface fire to the depth of Ginny's distress. "Do you know what I realized, Gin?"
The younger witch shook her head.
"We were held together by a series of adventures we had experienced as children and young adults, but after we destroyed Voldemort we had absolutely nothing in common."
"Don't tell me that was all you had."
"Well, there was sex. But until Ron realizes he's more than just Harry's sidekick, he won't be able to turn down the offer of an easy shag. And I won't be his consolation prize."
"You were never—" Ginny's chin quivered before she gritted her teeth and plastered a neutral expression on her face.
Hermione touched her friend's arm, feeling the taut muscles. "But I was, Gin. It took me a long time to realize that. After I did, I started to notice other things. Ron and I never talked about anything that interested me. It bored him, likely still does. He never wanted to hear about my work aside from how many galleons I brought home, and he certainly didn't mind spending them. But that wasn't the worst thing."
"Godric's ghost! What else?"
Sadness lurked in the depths of Hermione's brown eyes. "He may have loved me, but he was never in love with me. If he had been, he would have made the time to listen to my dreams and hopes. Before you get angrier with him, Ginny, let me say that I'm not sure I was ever in love with him either. He was safe and he wanted me when—" she broke off abruptly.
The younger witch had always been quick on the uptake. "When what?"
Hermione shifted uncomfortably and re-settled the shoulder of her sleeveless dress robes.
"When what, Hermione?" Ginny asked insistently.
After a long, silent moment, Hermione whispered, "When someone else didn't."
Hazel eyes widened. "Who? Who didn't want you? You've never said anything. How could he not want you? What was wrong with him?"
Hermione smiled, her heart warmed by her friend's staunch defense, even if the wound was years old. "It doesn't matter any more. It was a long time ago, and now I'm a free woman and able to do as I choose."
"Free woman," Ginny muttered. "You spend all your time at Malfoy's."
"And look where it's gotten me." Hermione rolled her hand at the crowded room.
"Up on a dais," Ginny retorted, "with a gold medal hanging from your neck!"
Hermione's hand automatically flew to the deeply scooped neckline of her gown. "No! That's not what I meant and you know it." She gestured across the room to where Neville Longbottom was seated with his slowly recovering parents. Frank and Alice Longbottom were seated at a table with four other recently revived patients from St. Mungo's Long-term Spell Damage ward.
"I know, I know. You did it for a good cause." Suddenly Ginny shifted away from the wall, smiling widely at someone across the room.
Hermione extrapolated the line between Ginny and the recipient of her smile and saw Oliver Wood disentangle himself from a small group of people congratulating him for his team's most recent victory.
Obligingly, Hermione ended the anti-eavesdropping spell as he wound his way through the crowd.
Before he was near enough to hear them Ginny said softly, "I just want to see you happy in something more than a career."
Hermione replied equally softly, "Someday. Maybe." Then she greeted her friend's husband with real affection. "Oliver, thank you for coming to this thing. I know how busy you are."
"Hey, Hermione. Wouldn't have missed it." His accent was as lilting as when he had been at school – and he brushed her cheek with a kiss. Then he greeted his wife properly and asked, "How is it you birds get to hide in the corner when you're the witch of the hour? It's brutal out there."
The number of wizards and witches gathered in clutches around various political and sports figures had dwindled as the evening's festivities wound toward a close, but there was still something of a crush. There would be dancing for the next hour while people discreetly took their leave.
A Ministry house-elf brought another round of drinks, and Oliver took a long pull of his ale before making an observation. "I don't think Harry's come up for air since they put that pretty little bauble around your neck."
Hermione lightly touched the heavy golden medallion nestling between her collar bones once more. She had chosen her robes with the medallion in mind. The black dress dipped to her cleavage, was scooped in the back, hanging below her shoulder blades, and fell to a swirl of silk around her feet. It gave her the appearance of a figure while disguising her flaws, and Hermione was vain enough to enjoy how feminine the elegant dress made her feel.
She dropped her hand, eyes searching the ballroom for the sight of a familiar tousled head of hair. She couldn't see Harry for the crowds, but it was safe to assume he was at the center of the largest crush of bodies. She had been so happy to know he was attending. Ron wasn't present as she still wasn't on speaking terms with him, but Hermione's success wouldn't have felt real without Harry there.
To her right, Ginny brushed imaginary lint from the sleeve of Oliver's forest green dress robes. The robes suited his coloring, and the two Quidditch players made a handsome couple. Ginny said, "Give them another five minutes and Gabrielle will swoop down to retrieve him."
"I know," Hermione agreed.
Two years after the war ended, Harry Potter had surprised most of the wizarding world by marrying eighteen-year old Gabrielle Delacour, the winsome younger sister of Fleur Weasley. While Hermione was occasionally envious, she never begrudged Harry a single moment of his happiness.
Shaking off her momentary melancholy, she smoothed one hand down over the soft fabric of her dress, her fingers catching on an occasional crystal placed for maximum effect.
Smiling indulgently, she described a scenario they had all witnessed on more than one occasion. "Gabrielle will toss her silver hair and say in that charmingly accented English of hers, 'Pardonnez-moi, Mesdames et Messieurs, may I 'ave my 'usband back.' The men will stumble all over themselves in awe, the women will suck in their tummies, and Harry will have just enough time to escape."
Oliver snorted and draped an arm around his wife's shoulders.
Ginny laughed. "Where is 'Elle now?"
"Talking to Pansy Malfoy," Oliver replied. "Malfoy left her to talk to the Minister, or maybe it was the Minister who dragged Malfoy away. I'm not sure."
Hermione glanced across the thinning yet still moderate-sized crowd and found the platinum head of her employer. He was deep in conversation with the new Minister of Magic, Peter Marchbanks. Marchbanks was the son of Griselda Marchbanks, the redoubtable witch who, at one-hundred-seventy years of age, still sat on the Wizengamot and oversaw the annual O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. testing at Hogwarts.
Not far from the two men, Pansy Malfoy could be seen chatting with Gabrielle Potter, Daphne Greengrass and her fiancé, Roger Davies. Sensitive as always to her surroundings, Pansy's head turned sharply, but she relaxed when she noted it was Hermione watching her. They shared a brief smile before Pansy picked up the thread of her conversation with her former housemate.
Hermione reflected that her own successful employment with Malfoy Ltd had grown from her unexpected friendship with Pansy Parkinson. After Pansy's parents had been killed by Voldemort, the young, seriously wounded witch had sought shelter with her mother's cousins, the Weasleys. They, in turn, had brought her to the Order of the Phoenix headquarters to recuperate.
After the first week, Pansy had joined Hermione in the Black family library.
Pansy was known to have said of their friendship, "I stepped into that Nimue-cursed library to look up a counter-jinx, stayed there for two years, and came out with a friend and a new life."
Initially distrustful of one another, Hermione's opinion of the cunning and highly intelligent witch had changed as a result of Pansy's steadfast loyalty to Draco Malfoy. He, in turn, adored her, placing himself in Order custody shortly after Pansy's family had been killed.
Thereafter, an uneasy truce had settled upon the former adversaries, but that had been followed by respect and finally friendship.
Across the room, Daphne and Roger took their leave of Pansy. Hermione nodded in their direction. "Should I keep her company?"
"If she wanted company, we'd all know it," Oliver commented dryly. "Considering how close she is to her confinement I'm surprised Malfoy has left her side for a second."
Good-naturedly Ginny remarked, "Now there's a strategy for you. Get pregnant to keep your husband within arm's reach at all times."
Hermione shifted to make room for a group of merrymakers. "I can understand it tonight, though. These things are a bit of a crush."
The merrymakers hadn't been interested in moving past the three well-known friends and the following five minutes was spent glad-handing. Hermione had difficulty keeping a straight face as a middle-aged wizard tried to look down Ginny's dress robes while his wife pinched Oliver's admittedly delectable bum.
When the group finally left, Hermione broke out in giggles while Oliver rubbed the offended portion of his anatomy. He grumbled, "The one I really feel sorry for is Krum."
Suddenly Hermione's heart pounded in her ears. It was a name she didn't hear often, but it never failed to trigger a reaction.
"Viktor Krum?" Her voice cracked a bit on the second syllable.
Ginny gave her a questioning look, and for a wildly improbable moment Hermione thought the redhead looked very much like Fawkes with her bright eyes and head titled at that angle.
"Yeah," Oliver replied. "He was named Seeker for Bulgaria's World Cup team yesterday, and when last I saw him he was surrounded by a wall, five deep, of middle-aged Quidditch groupies with no one to come to his rescue. Poor bugger!"
"Oliver!" Ginny admonished.
"What?" he said innocently, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
On occasion, his teasing was strongly reminiscent of the Weasley twins. Fred and George had both been killed during the last year of the war, and Hermione often wondered if it hadn't been Oliver's sense of humor which pulled Ginny's affections from Harry's more brooding nature.
"I didn't know he was supposed to be here tonight." Ginny tried to see over the remaining crowds, attempting to locate the dark-haired Bulgarian.
"The Vultures are playing Falmouth day after tomorrow. Those Falcons are brutes in the air, and Aleksander Bogomil wanted to acclimatize his team before the match. He's a brilliant coach, y'know. If Puddlemere was to trade me, I wouldn't mind going to Vratsa. In any event, the team's been here for a couple of days already."
Across the room, musicians stepped onto the dais. The crowds began to shift, making space on the dance floor as the opening strains of a song blanketed the cacophony of gossip and chatter.
Hermione waved her hands at Ginny and Oliver. "You two should dance."
"What about you?" Ginny asked.
"I'll be fine."
Ginny crossed her arms. "You can still dance."
"Of course I can, but I like a cozy corner. You know that."
"Don't be a wallflower, Hermione. You're too gorgeous tonight to hide over here."
"Never mind about me." The brunette pursed her lips. "Go on. I'm sure to find something to keep me occupied."
With a smile and a laugh the Woods smoothly navigated the nearby tables and crowd. They moved sinuously together, and Hermione felt a pang for something she had never had, even in those few months she and Ron had lived with one another.
She uncrossed her arms, absently noting the faint indentation marks on her forearms where she'd pressed against the crystals on her gown.
Waiting until Ginny and Oliver were lost in the swirl of other couples on the dance floor, she finally spoke. Her voice was low and clipped, and she seemed to be talking to the empty space in front of her. "Whoever you are, you can come out now. I do hope you're not a reporter because—" Hermione gasped when a man stepped from behind the draperies where he'd been hiding. "Viktor!"
~o0o~