The Three Rs

By Bambu

All disclaimers and author's notes may be found in Chapter One.

~o0o~

Chapter Two: Repent

Viktor kept a low profile when he entered the Ministry, ducking most of the press and the hot hands of his admirers. It was always an unpleasant surprise to realize the most aggressive fans were the middle-aged witches.

He made his way to the first floor, finding a spot near one of the columns which gave him an excellent view over the balcony and into the reception foyer below. A group of owl-eyed Quidditch fans followed him.

It was easy to accept congratulations on his selection for his National Team and to staunch the eruption of questions about his upcoming game against Falmouth; after all, he had held a thousand similar conversations over the past several years. Answering as if a Dicto-Quill had seized control of his tongue, Viktor took the opportunity to scan his surroundings.

Old fashioned lamps and chandeliers hung at discreet intervals, casting soft light over new arrivals. Since the war had ended, the wizarding world embraced peacetime with a gaiety reflected in festive robes and easy smiles.

Long-practiced at finding hidden treasure, it took Viktor exactly forty-five seconds to locate Hermione.

She was standing between the Minister of Magic and Harry Potter.

Unexpectedly, Viktor's mouth became dry as he stared – just as it had all those years before. A rainbow of light sparkled from the evening's honoree as if she had been marked by the hands of a god. He licked his lips reflexively and regrettably didn't get his fill of the sight of her as a particularly knowledgeable fan tugged on his sleeve.

When his eyes sought Hermione again she had begun to climb the stairs leading up to the ballroom. Viktor realized the rainbow-halo surrounding her was a result of candlelight reflecting off the gemstones decorating her dress.

He watched hungrily.

Hermione laughed at something Potter said, her head tilted back, revealing a smooth expanse of throat and collarbone.

Viktor swallowed with some difficulty and tried to dampen his body's entirely visceral reaction to her. Even in those first, innocent days sharing textbooks under the gimlet-eyed stare of Irma Pince, the Hogwarts' librarian, he had reacted strongly to Hermione's presence.

When the Minister escorted Hermione through the huge double doors, Viktor excused himself from his clutch of fans to find his table assignment. The ballroom was sumptuously decorated, multiple round tables dressed in golden linens and fine crystal. The ceiling above had been charmed to glow with the colors of sunset, mauve, peach, and hints of darker grays and indigo.

Viktor deftly wound around other attendees bent on similar quests, but it took twice as long to find his seat because he kept following Hermione's progress.

She was guided toward the broad side of the room where a long table had been set. Near it was a small podium. Hung on the wall at either end of the long table, obscuring mirrored panels beneath, were two tapestries; one representing Malfoy Ltd, the other the Ministry of Magic.

Only interested in watching Hermione, Viktor stared until his eyes burned and an elderly couple asked his pardon as he was standing in their way. Heat flooded his cheeks, embarrassment at having been caught gawking.

"Smeshnik," he muttered to himself under his breath. He wasn't some star-struck wizard meeting his childhood hero for the first time. And yet, he was.

The elderly couple recognized him and asked about Bulgaria's weather. They spoke briefly, but Viktor kept looking over their heads. For a fleeting moment his attention was rewarded with an unobstructed view of Hermione walking with Minister Marchbanks. It was only then he noticed her limp. It wasn't pronounced and it wasn't a figment of his imagination.

Questions dipped and rolled in his mind: was it a recent injury, was it a war wound, why hadn't he read about it, why hadn't he known? In all the years she'd been lost to him, never had he felt so bereft. Never had he been so angry with himself. The woman he had loved for years was practically a stranger.

Viktor seriously considered leaving, but he couldn't bring himself to miss the presentation of her award.

Dinner was an exercise in patience. He wasn't talkative and his eyes constantly strayed to the long table, settling on the witch seated between the Minister and Draco Malfoy. Viktor noticed that Hermione toyed with her food and still had the nervous habit of chewing on her lower lip.

Recognizing the mannerism brought a wistful smile to his lips; after that, he simply could no longer feign eating.

When Hermione accepted her award, Viktor pretended she was speaking directly to him. He memorized every word which crossed her lips. She was charming and sincere, introducing the Longbottom family as her inspiration, and Draco Malfoy as a benevolent taskmaster. The laughter which greeted her latter remark was scattered between two tables and three people sitting at the long table, one of them being Malfoy himself.

However, there was no mention of her infirmity and Viktor listened for one.

As soon as the speeches were concluded he excused himself from his innocuous table companions. When he met Oliver Wood amidst the throng of people at the bar, he was surprised to see him.

"Krum!" Oliver practically shouted over the crowd.

Viktor nodded. "Vood."

"Good of you to come. I'm surprised Bogomil let you off your leash."

"My leash?"

"You know, like the lead you use to walk a Crup." Oliver gestured with his hands.

Viktor laughed before ordering cognac. "My coach is the reason I haff come tonight. It is good to see old friends."

Oliver turned a shrewd eye on his professional adversary. "Old friends? I wasn't aware you'd stayed in touch with Hermione."

To cover his embarrassment Viktor took a hasty drink of his cognac, the pungent aroma flared his nostrils. "No, ve haven't stayed in touch, but she vas my friend and I am happy for her to receive this recognition."

"She's done well for herself, but we always knew she would. She's Harry's friend, after all."

Affronted, Viktor said stiffly, "Hermione does not need recognition for her friendship vith Potter. She is formidable vitch in her own right."

Oliver buffeted Viktor's shoulder, his good nature unruffled. "She's a right peach, that bird."

The bartender handed an old-fashioned tumbler filled with a generous portion of Firewhisky to the Scottish Quidditch star before he and Viktor moved out of the press of thirsty event-goers.

Once in the lee of the crowd, Viktor seized the moment. "I never knew Hermione vas hurt. Vat happened to her?"

"Oh, that. I'd almost forgotten." Oliver sipped his drink and grimaced. "Terrible stuff, but it almost makes the groping bearable."

They shared a moment of solidarity – two public figures commiserating over the effusiveness of their fans – but Viktor wasn't to be dissuaded from the main topic. He was a Seeker; he knew how to keep his eye on the Snitch. "Vat did you almost forget? Vat happened to Hermione?"

"She almost lost her leg in the last battle." Oliver nodded his head at Viktor's startled reaction. "It was iffy there for awhile, but you know her, she wasn't about to let an injury stop her. When Ginny started training seriously for the Harpies, Hermione joined her. She's not fond of flying, but you know how much we use our legs in the air. She said it was great physical therapy."

"Physical Therapy?"

Oliver chuckled. "It's a Muggle term, or so Hermione says. It's a form of athletic rehabilitation."

"Clever." Viktor swirled his cognac in the snifter and avoided looking at the other man.

"She is at that. She's a very clever girl."

The crowd jostled them then and their moment was over. They congratulated one another for having been tapped for their country's World Cup teams before being swept away by the inevitable tide of enthusiastic fans.

Shortly after Viktor left Oliver, he made his escape to the relative solitude of the men's lavatory. For a long time he stared at himself in the mirror. Impatient fingers brushed shaggy hair from his brow before splashing water on his face.

He made a decision.

Withdrawing his wand from the narrow pocket in his dress robes, he made certain he was alone for the moment then flicked his wrist. With a swish and a hard rap atop the crown of his head, he cast a Disillusionment Spell upon himself before returning to the ballroom.

Regrettably an Auror guarding the entrance stopped him – the Ministry's security was designed to detect such an infiltration. However, once the man recognized Viktor, he laughed good-naturedly, asked for an autograph, and allowed the famous Seeker to pass.

Upon re-entering the enormous room, Viktor deftly skirted the wall as easily as he maneuvered his broom through opposing teams in the air. His slightly pigeon-toed walk easily corrected by the weights in the heels of his shoes and years of practice. He worked his way to a corner where he concealed himself in the shadows of the heavy drapery by a large window.

He was more than a bit embarrassed by his unorthodox behavior. Never before had he done such a thing at a public function, but his hiding place gave him the ability to watch Hermione without interruption or notice.

She was magnificent.

He had always thought her pretty. Tonight, however, it was as if the early promise of the girl had come to fruition, blossoming into the self-assured woman who carried herself like a queen … except for the limp.

His stomach churned with bitter recrimination. How had he not known she almost lost her leg? How could he not have sent her an acknowledgement of all she had done for their world?

Across the room, Hermione greeted Ginny Wood with all the affection of sisters, and they made their way toward his private niche.

Viktor almost panicked, but he couldn't take his eyes off Hermione. The black gown she wore rippled as she walked with her noticeable-but-not-handicapping limp, and the gems affixed to the bodice glittered in the flattering candlelight. Her hair was piled atop her head in a riot of curls, held in place, he was certain, by a Stasis Charm of some sort.

Painful as it was to be so near her - it felt as if his heart was being shredded - Viktor refused to walk away or to reveal himself. He was the one who had initially chosen to spurn her; now he hadn't the right to claim friendship or intrude upon her private conversation.

He shifted closer to the heavy draperies, nose twitching at the fusty smell of decades' old dust worked into the fabric. As a result of his position, he was enclosed within the range of Hermione's anti-eavesdropping spell and the unwitting recipient of her conversation with Ginny Wood.

Viktor had never liked Ron Weasley, and when Hermione said the red-head had broken her trust in such an ill-bred manner, he clenched his hands. After she said she had caught Weasley cheating a second time, he dug moon-shaped divots into the flesh of his palms. But he remained quiet and soaked up every word, every gesture, and wished with every beat of his heart that he hadn't thrown her regard into the rubbish.

When the Woods chose to dance, Viktor knew he needed to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to move. His eyes greedily memorized Hermione's every feature, fuel for his future fantasies.

When she challenged his presence, his palms grew slick with nervous embarrassment. He should have remembered how astute she was. Squaring his shoulders, he dropped the Disillusionment Charm and stepped forward.

She gasped his name.

"Hello, Hermione." He cringed when her name came out almost as mangled as the first time he had ever said it. He knew how to pronounce it properly, but when he got nervous his accent was heavier.

They stared at one another for a long moment before Viktor noticed how pale she had grown. He frowned. "Are you ill?"

"No! No, I'm fine, thanks." Belying her answer, Hermione captured her lower lip between her even, white teeth. "I didn't know you were here until just now."

"My team is playing in Britain this veek." He flushed. Oliver Wood had just given her that information.

But it seemed his faux pas relieved her uneasiness, and a small smile curved her lips. "I know. Good luck. Ginny – that's Ginny Wood – hates playing against the Falcons. She says they're brutes in the air."

"Out of the air, too," Viktor agreed and dared a step closer. The fresh scent of her citrus-based fragrance was invigorating and he inhaled deeply. "Congratulations on vinning the avard."

Her fingers flew to the medallion at the base of her throat and her cheeks tinted pink. "Thank you. My team deserves it as much, if not more, than I do."

He smiled then. She had always been generous in sharing credit. "Maybe, but it vas your idea, vas it not?"

Hermione glanced out toward the dancers twirling about the room. The music was loud but not penetrating. "Perhaps, but I couldn't have done it without their help."

The song came to an end, blending into the next tune. A harpsichord and flute began the introduction of a baroque air and Viktor recognized it. It had been the second dance they had shared at that long ago Yule Ball.

He caught and held the look she flicked in his direction. The mask of polite indifference had disappeared from her serious brown eyes, and he thought his assessment that she had more than a passing acquaintance with hell was accurate. His heart hammered in his chest, leaving him feeling unusually naked and vulnerable.

She said nothing, closing her eyes slowly before she faced the dancers once again.

Viktor wiped his sweaty palm on his dress robes and swallowed hard. "Vould you like to dance vith me, Hermione?"

She stiffened. "No, thank you."

"I beg your pardon," he stammered, mortified. He took a step away from her.

"No! I'm sorry, Viktor." She placed a slender hand on his forearm and he froze. Softly she said, "I didn't mean that I wouldn't dance with you. It's just … well … I don't dance very often any more, and when I'm tired …."

As if he'd been hexed, he suddenly understood. "It's all right. Ve don't haff to dance. May I offer you coffee?"

Her smile robbed him of breath.

"I'd like that," she replied simply.

He could see the effort behind the smile and he wondered whether she meant it. "I understand if you are too tired, Hermione." He managed to say her name without mangling it. "Is not an obligation."

She turned to face him fully and light shone off a scar on her left arm. He hadn't seen it before. It was approximately ten centimeters in length and wrapped diagonally around her bicep. It was shiny in the way that old burns sometimes heal, and it completely unsettled him.

Without forethought, he raised his hand to trace the ridge of scar tissue.

Hermione jerked away from him.

Before he could explain, they were besieged by three couples offering their congratulations to Hermione. Feeling extremely awkward and completely out of his depth for some reason, Viktor edged to the side of the group, wishing fervently that he hadn't come and cursing his oafish approach to her. He had a sudden, fierce desire to soak his head in a vat of Old Ogden's.

He turned to leave.

"Viktor?" Hermione's voice stopped him mid-step. He whipped around and was taken aback by the hurt and disappointment etched upon her face. "Do you … do you not want to have that coffee then?"

He felt as if a giant had throttled him, choking off his ability to speak. Instead, he nodded.

"I understand," she whispered, turning back to her small audience to answer a question, but he'd seen the sheen of tears in her eyes.

What had he done?

Oh.

What a twice-damned fool he was.

"Hermione," he interrupted, "that is not vat I meant. I vould loff to haff coffee vith you." Authoritatively - something he hadn't been all night - Viktor addressed Hermione's audience. "Vill you excuse us, please? I haff not seen my friend in a long time and ve are going for coffee."

As he smoothed his calloused hand down the back of her gown it caught on the radiant stones scattered on the bodice before his palm nestled perfectly in the small of her back as if it was his place. Using his fingers he guided Hermione away from the small group of fans toward the massive double doors.

Viktor felt the hitch in her gait through their contact and noticed her limp was more pronounced than earlier in the evening. "Are you sure you are all right?"

"Yes, thanks. Just tired."

He dropped his hand from her back, offering his arm instead. There was a brief hesitation before Hermione wrapped her hand around the crook of his elbow and leaned on him. Protectiveness surged in his chest. He had no idea what his face looked like, but people made way for them without asking for autographs or impeding their progress. In moments Viktor retrieved her outer wrap from an attendant at Ministry's cloakroom.

"I thought we were going to have coffee at one of the tables," Hermione said.

Wrong-footed once more, Viktor was abruptly exasperated. "I cannot … I beg your pardon … but vat is it about you, Hermione Granger, that leaves me fumbling like an adolescent vizard?"

She smiled, and for the first time since he had seen her that evening, he knew it was real.

"I've never thought of you as fumbling, Viktor." Taking a quick look at their surroundings her eyes landed upon the nearby painting of a group of influential Aurors from decades past. Every single brush-stroked Auror pretended an interest in something other than Hermione and Viktor's conversation, but it was obvious they were listening. With a defiant toss of her head, Hermione said, "I'm perfectly happy to go somewhere else for coffee. It would be nice."

They walked past the renovated statuary of magical brethren, and although it was molded gold, the house-elf appeared to eye Hermione's every movement suspiciously.

They paused for Viktor to drape the velveteen cape around her shoulders, but he stepped in front of her to fasten it beneath her chin as well. It was a gesture so reminiscent of their early relationship that his hands paused mid-air. Their eyes met and he was shocked by her vulnerable expression. Forcing his shaking fingers to complete their action, he spoke softly. "I haff missed you, Hermione. Please forgive me."

An inarticulate little cry escaped her lips and she wrapped her arms around him, her face buried in his neck.

Viktor's stomach swooped like a rogue Bludger but he gathered her close, drowning in the scent of her perfume and the feel of her in his arms. He was so entranced by the feeling of her lips moving against his neck that he almost didn't hear her voice. "… you so much."

A cough echoed around the Ministry's atrium and Viktor gently disengaged her arms. Several people were overtly watching them. "This is too open," he said.

"Public," Hermione automatically corrected and then flushed.

He clenched his fist to keep from touching her face. She had often corrected his English when they first met, she had told him once that it meant he mattered to her. "Right," he said, quietly. "It is too public."

"Where should we go?"

"Vould you like to come to my hotel? I haff a sveet."

Her head shot up, her eyes wide.

"I do not mean … that is … I haff never asked a vitch to my rooms." At her frankly disbelieving look, he nodded earnestly. "It is true. Never. I pledge this to you, Hermione."

She tucked her hand around his arm as she had earlier in the ballroom. "All right."

Relief flooded him. "I vas only thinking of a quiet place to talk. There is much to say."

"Will you tell me why you stopped writing to me?"

The question was soft, hesitant, and Viktor was taken aback. He had forgotten just how sensitive she had been as a young woman. The publicity and newspaper articles he had read earlier coupled with her manners during the evening had shown a confident, assertive witch. Yet he knew –- as few others did - just how superficial and inaccurate the media's assessments could be.

He pointedly looked over Hermione's shoulder at a witch blatantly staring at them. The woman blushed and turned toward the bank of enormous fireplaces along one wall.

Hermione noticed his shift of attention, but said nothing as they crossed the large room, their shoes clicking on the wood-paneled floor. Viktor chose the fireplace in the center, several beyond the one chosen by the nosy witch. Two bright flares of green later and they had Floo'd to the hotel.

Regardless of the late hour there were a number of guests in the lobby. A few were seated among small groupings of club chairs reading the evening edition of the Daily Prophet or other periodical. Some guests were crossing the highly polished marble floor to enter the pub or the all-night restaurant.

A number of hotel guests and employees eyed Viktor and Hermione, but no one spoke to the couple, and they were in silent agreement to hold off on their conversation while in such public surroundings.

Stopping briefly at the front desk, Viktor requested coffee and dessert sent to his suite. Once alone in the elevator, however, he turned to his companion. He brushed a bit of ash from her hair and said, "The answer to your question is simple. I can tell you now."

"Wait," Hermione said, then explained further, "I'd like this to be a truly private conversation."

He nodded.

A comfortable silence settled over them until the chime announced their floor. It occurred to Viktor that he was no longer as anxious as before. Somehow being near her, knowing she was single and available and had accepted his invitation, had settled his nerves.

As they stepped into his suite Viktor looked critically at the pale gray couch and the rich dark upholstery of the chairs. The room was immaculate, and there was nothing for which he should feel uneasy. He swept off his Durmstrang red cloak, and watched Hermione's eyes follow the hem as it flared in an arc of fabric.

When the weight of her gaze settled upon him, Viktor didn't recognize her expression.

Hermione pulled her wand from the hidden pocket of her dress, her arm parting the open seam of her cloak, and with a fluid efficiency he had rarely seen, she cast a series of diagnostic and privacy spells around the room. At last she came to the stack of newspaper and magazine clippings, her eyes settling on the image of her own face for several beats of Viktor's heart.

When the silence pulled taut between them, she raised those curiously intelligent brown eyes to him.

He answered her earlier question easily enough. "I vas jealous and afraid."

"Oh, Viktor," she whispered. Circling the low table, Hermione sank into the sofa's comfortable pillows as if seeking a good hug. "There was no reason for you to have been either."

"You chose Ron Veasley." He had never known a smile could be bitter and self-mocking, but she had taught him many things, and it hurt to see such an expression on her face.

"There was no choice to make," she replied. "You stopped writing to me. I'll admit I was confused about my feelings for Ron during my sixth year at school, but my heart practically leapt from my chest every time you sent me a letter. Then you stopped writing, and Ron was there. He wanted me when you didn't."

Viktor crossed the room as if he were flying on his Firebolt. "No! I alvays vanted you. Alvays. Ven you left vith Potter and Veasley, I thought that vas your decision. That I vas never going to be vat you vanted or needed."

Her fingers flew to her mouth, her words indistinct. "Didn't you read my last letter?"

Viktor couldn't meet her eyes and sat on the edge of the sofa, ignoring the upholstery's enchanted invitation to make himself comfortable. "Vell … uh … not all of it."

"Not all of it?"

"I never read beyond the sentence I haff to go avay vith Harry and Ron. I can't tell you vat ve haff to do, but it's very important …."

"You remember the words I used?"

"Of course!"

"I don't even remember exactly what I wrote. Do you remember anything else from the letter?"

He still wouldn't meet her eyes, but he watched her finger the velvet of her wrap. "You see I vas so angry that Veasley vas vith you … I didn't read the rest."

"Not even after you calmed down."

"Er … no. You see … I burnt it." He heard her breath whistle past her teeth and rushed through the rest of his explanation. "I vas so angry … so sure you had chosen him over me … I tried to forget you." He stared at his Quidditch roughened hands as if he had never seen the scars marring his knuckles before. "I tried very hard."

"I'm so sorry."

"Vy vould you be sorry? It is I who am a fool."

One of her hands covered his. It was pale and delicate next to his weathered skin. "You're not a fool. Well, you did a foolish thing, but Viktor, you're not a fool."

He finally met her eyes. "I didn't know vat you were doing until the day you defeated Voldemort. I read it in Le Monde Magique."

Her discomfiture was obvious and she shifted on the sofa. "Yeah, I think it was in every newspaper. I don't remember much about that day."

"After that picture … the vay Veasley touched you … I vas sure you vere his."

"I wasn't."

He snorted in disbelief. "Don't tell me … I know vat I saw."

"What we were doing was too dangerous." Her grip on his hand tightened and she looked across the room, staring into the fire flickering in the small fireplace. It was too small to add any real warmth to the room, but the crackling of the logs was a cheery sound. Hermione shivered. "We couldn't afford a single distraction. It was terrifying searching for all those pieces Voldemort had secreted away … never knowing who our allies or our enemies were. All those stories you hear about people getting together the night before a battle are bollocks. We had a number of those nights before the end, and I spent each and every one of them writing letters to—"

"Your parents?" he asked gently. He'd read, just that afternoon, about her father having been killed by Death Eaters near the end of the war.

"And you," she replied.

"Oh." He clenched his teeth.

"I never sent any of them. I couldn't after you … when you didn't answer my last letter." She angled her head to look at him and her eyes were glossy. "I missed you then. So much, Viktor. I've never had many friends. Even now, I can count on one hand the number of people I trust with my life. Losing your friendship was very painful." Abruptly she looked back at the fire, as if she had revealed too much.

Except Viktor was an astute observer of people, and he had known this woman very well at one time.

There was something she wasn't saying. Something important.

The room grew quiet save the popping of the wood as it burned, and Viktor tried to figure out what he had missed. It was as if a Snitch had ducked into cloud cover; he knew it was there, but he couldn't see it.

Wood shifted in the grate and a tongue of yellow flame leapt chimney-ward. Moments passed in silence and Viktor stared at the flames.

The answer came then and he stood abruptly.

Hermione's fingers twitched as if she were controlling an urge to draw her wand.

It was her instinctive reaction which decided him. He had left his outer cloak at the door, but now he unbuttoned his dinner jacket so hastily he fumbled some of the buttons.

Hermione's eyes were huge in her pale face and she watched his movements carefully. He recognized the expression as that of a seasoned duelist.

"I vill not lie to you, Hermione." He dropped his jacket across the table and unbuttoned the cuffs of his starched dress shirt. "I am glad you wrote me those letters. I am glad you still cared for me. I vas not good. I am not a saint." First the left sleeve then the right. "I haff spent the past … since the night I burned your letter … I haff tried to forget my feelings for you. But I haff never—" he rolled the sleeves up to his elbow, first the left then the right, "—never been a Death Eater."

Tears glistened in her eyes but didn't fall, and Viktor wondered how many times she had cried over the years.

She stared at his pale, unmarked forearms. "I know that. But back then … when you didn't write to me any more I wondered. You don't know how much that hurt." She flicked her eyes to meet his and her hands settled once more in her lap, her fingers clutching each other, knuckles white. "I cared for you very much, Viktor."

He sank to the sofa once more, thinking it was an appropriate metaphor that he was practically bare while she was still wrapped in her cloak like an enigma. "Those feelings are still there. They haff never vent avay. I just buried them."

Her cheeks were red, but she said dryly, "I'll just bet you buried them. Eight inches deep."

"Hermione!"

"I'm not a little girl any more. I know what you've been up to these past few years. A new witch at every game, isn't it?"

"Not every game." He ran his hand through his hair, nervously. "But there haff been many. I didn't care for them. They distracted me."

"You used them," she said, her voice a little frosty, her posture stiffening.

"They used me as vell. Do you think I vas so … so cruel? I haff never pretended to loff them … any of them." She gave him a frankly skeptical look and it incensed him. He spoke vehemently, bitterly. "How could I? I never lied. I couldn't tell them I loffed them … I vas already in loff vith you!"

Hermione jumped to her feet.

He stood once more, thinking absently that his knees were going to hurt in the morning.

She whispered, "How is this possible?"

"How could I not? You are very loffable vitch, Hermione."

"There is so much … so many things have happened since we last knew one another."

He put his hands on her shoulders, the fabric was the finest velvet, but all he noticed was the heat emanating from her body beneath the cape. "I vould like to listen if you vill tell me."

"Would you?"

He gestured at the stack of magazines and newspaper cuttings. "I haff tried to catch up, as you see. But there is still much to know. Vill you give me a chance, mila?"

She fingered the edge of her cloak and bit her lip. Her eyes darted beyond his shoulders and she turned slightly.

He allowed his arms to drop while she absently scanned the elegant appointments of the room, the comfortable seating, the large picture window overlooking Diagon Alley, the baby grand piano, the large mirror over the hearth. Viktor tracked her line of sight, and their eyes met in the mirror, black to brown. The color might have been different, but the intensity behind their expressions was identical.

Holding his attention in the mirror, Hermione unfastened her cloak.

Viktor pulled his eyes from hers in the reflection, and his hands shook as he slipped her wrap from her shoulders.

"Viktor, I cared for you deeply and you hurt me."

"I haff asked your forgiveness once. I vill ask again and again."

Her eyes searched his face, pausing as she noticed the lines around his mouth, the small scar on his jaw which hadn't been there when they'd known each other before. "You should know … I mean … I have a condition."

"Vat is wrong vith you? Are you ill?"

Despite the seriousness of their conversation she was amused, but there was affection in her look as well. "That's not what I meant. In this case, a condition means that I have a requirement more or less."

"Ah. All right. Vat is your condition?"

Her eyes were fixed on his mouth. "I won't be one of many."

"I vould never—"

"Please, hear me out." She placed her fingers over his lips.

His stomach lurched, and he nodded. All his attention – mental, visceral, emotional - focused on her.

Her voice was unsteady, and she dropped her hand from his mouth. "Ron … cheated on me ... more than …."

"I already know," he reminded her gently.

A blush stained her cheeks, her throat, and the skin over her collarbones. "I forgot you heard all that." Her fingers twined together nervously. "This is difficult for me. Two men whom I loved broke my faith."

"Oh, God, Hermione." Viktor felt actively ill. Earning her trust now would be impossible. "Vat haff I done?"

Wrenching himself from her side, he stalked to the window and leaned his brow against the cold pane of glass. He saw nothing of the late night couples wandering the torch lit alley below. In all the years Hermione had been lost to him Viktor had never cried, but the tears came now: hot, choking, like acid etching his cheeks.

He startled when he felt her hand on his back, only then realizing she was saying his name. "… Viktor …"

He closed his eyes, ashamed, but then her hand was touching his face, turning him toward her, fingers brushing away the evidence of his weakness. "I would be willing to try," she whispered, "but I'm afraid and I couldn't bear it if … if you found someone else, someone better …"

That was the proverbial last straw.

Viktor straightened as if she'd cast a Stunning Spell. He cupped her face between his hands and stared deeply into her eyes. "There is no one better than you, Hermione Granger. No one."

Her chin wobbled, and he succumbed to temptation.

He kissed her.

It had been years since he had touched her lips. They were still soft and plump, and she responded fully, one hand snaking around his neck to pull him closer. Viktor slid his fingers into the riot of curls perched atop her head and they came tumbling down like a stack of Exploding Snap cards.

He groaned and pulled away, but Hermione followed his body with hers, pressing against him. He couldn't refuse her. He'd never been able to refuse her, except once.

Her tongue flicked out to taste him, and heat seared a path from his lips to his groin. This was not the schoolgirl he remembered. This was a woman. This was Hermione. He opened his mouth to meet her halfway.

Tongue met tongue and she whimpered.

Like the letter he had incinerated years before, Viktor felt as if his body had erupted in flames. Tightening his fingers at the back of her head, he took charge of the kiss. This kiss … her taste … was what he'd been Seeking all these years. There was no comparison to any of the women he had used to fill his bed and block his real desire.

She whimpered again, and it vibrated against his tongue.

A telltale burn in his testicles warned him to stop, and almost abruptly, Viktor broke from the kiss. He angled his lower body away from her, breathing hard, as if he had just played a twenty-hour match.

Recognizing how disastrous it would be to allow this moment to progress to sex, he needed to exert some control over his body's fierce yearning. He would not tarnish what they were going to build with the taint of his previous night's encounter clinging to him. "I vould like to try, Hermione, very much. I haff already said that I loff you."

She smiled, her lips glistening from their kiss. "And I would be lying if I said I didn't still have strong feelings for you, but …" she hesitated.

"You are afraid. You vouldn't be you if you veren't cautious. And I haff given you reason to doubt me. For that I beg your forgiveness once again."

Her fingers caressed his cheek, rasping over the late night growth of his beard. "That you have. I think we must get to know each other again. There's so much about you I no longer know."

"But you do." He rested his brow against hers, his large nose nudging the dainty bridge of hers. "I am the same man."

"Perhaps. But, Viktor, I'm not the same girl. I'm very different. What if you don't like who I've become?"

"Stop! Hermione, I admire you." He slid one arm around her waist, pulling her close, pretending his body hadn't reacted to hers. "It is I who haff to vorry. I am the Seeker … I don't haff any avards from the Ministry of Magic. Vat could you possibly see in me?"

She moved more fully into his embrace, and he saw the moment she felt the length of his erection, a tiny tug at the corner of her mouth gave her away. But she didn't pull back, instead she nestled closer.

He had forgotten how persuasive her voice could be when she wasn't concentrating on her studies or trying to save her friends' lives.

"Maybe I see the same things I did when I was younger. A lonely man who needs a friend, who has ideas no one seems willing to listen to. A man who wants to learn, but has parents to support so he puts them first. An honorable man, Viktor. An honorable wizard."

Sharp exultation bubbled in his chest at hearing her assessment of him, but he wouldn't allow her to forget reality. "Not so honorable that I haffen't slept around."

"Well maybe you're a bit of a slag …"

"Hermione!" he gasped.

"What?" She giggled and batted her eyes suggestively. "I think we have a lot to learn about each other."

"I agree. You haff a vicked sense of humor, Hermione. Ven did that happen?"

She arched an eyebrow at him.

It was a mannerism he had never seen her make, and it underlined what she had said before. Things had changed.

She was no longer a little girl.

Hermione said softly, "When you fight for your life every day and aren't sure you'll ever walk again it tends to add a bit of perspective to your life."

"Perspective?"

The doorbell rang. Coffee had arrived.

Viktor answered the door while Hermione crossed to the sofa to pick up her discarded cloak.

The hotel-elf entered behind a large serving tray. Protuberant eyes grew rounder when the small elf recognized Viktor's guest. Instantly, it looked at the stack of cut-outs before returning to the task of placing the coffee service on the small table in front of the sofa.

Viktor noticed Hermione's limp was more pronounced, and he stepped to her side, coaxing her onto the sofa before removing the cloak from her hands.

While he draped the heavy black velvet across a nearby chair, the hotel-elf served Hermione a small slice of orange blossom cake and a cup of coffee, flavored exactly as she liked it.

Hermione blinked and really looked at the elf. "Winky?"

"Miss Hermione!" the hotel-elf gushed. "You is remembering Winky? You is too, too kind."

Viktor was completely bemused by the turn of events and asked the hotel-elf, "You know Miss Granger?"

A face bearing a nose like a squashed tomato turned toward him. "Yes, sir. Miss Hermione is helping Winky when she had no family. Miss Hermione is finding me a place here … at the hotel. Here I have many families to take care of. I has never been so happy."

"I'm glad you're doing well, Winky," Hermione said delightedly. "Thank you for bringing us dessert."

Winky added a dollop of whipped cream to Hermione's plate before departing with a small pop.

"It seems you haff friends everywhere."

Hermione flushed. "I just want to help. There was so much … we paid a very high price to end the war, you know."

"You didn't cause the var, Hermione."

Her eyes settled on his bare forearms. "I know, but we … I had to do some terrible things, Viktor. Make some awful choices."

She seemed to retreat within herself.

Viktor's stomach clenched. He knew nothing of this woman, the one with haunted eyes and shiny scars. For a moment he floundered, not knowing the right thing to do or say. Then his eyes lit upon the scar on her bicep and he dragged a calloused finger across it gently.

Instantly, Hermione was back with him, her coffee slopping over the rim of her cup and into the saucer.

"Maybe if you tell me it von't hurt so much."

Her eyes widened.

"Vy don't you start vith this scar. How did you get it? Who gave it to you?"

She swallowed hard. "You may not like me very much if I tell you."

He scooted closer to her. "I vill alvays honor the sacrifices you haff made. Vat you – you and Potter and Veasley and the others – did vas to make my life safe to live. How can I not like you for that? Not respect you? I vill listen to anything you have to say."

Hermione's breath caught on a sob. Carefully, she placed her coffee cup on the table alongside her uneaten cake. "Are you sure?"

Viktor placed his cup and saucer next to hers; it was a sight he hoped to have many times in the future, but it was too soon to count victory. He hadn't yet captured the Snitch, even though it was within arm's reach. "Vill you tell me about your hopes and dreams, Hermione? I vill tell you mine."

She launched herself into his arms, and he was flung backward against the far arm of the sofa. Fortunately it was as padded as the rest of the furniture or he would bear a mark on his back. "I've missed you so much, Viktor. You always listened to me."

Suddenly, she seemed to notice the suggestiveness of their position, draped across his chest as she was.

His eyes strayed to the golden medallion hanging from her neck, swinging as if to draw his attention to her exposed cleavage, but Viktor knew better. He dragged his eyes back to her face in time for her to brush her lips across his before she sat up.

"I have a lot to tell you and it's quite late. I don't want to keep you up."

Inexplicably, Viktor knew they would be all right. He raised an eyebrow and teased her. "You don't vant to keep me up?"

Laughing, Hermione said, "Not that way. With your record I should have known you'd think it was a sexual innuendo."

"You are the one who made comments about my virtue."

"For all your noble qualities, I don't think chastity is one we should discuss." Her smile was genuine, with no hint of jealousy. "I meant something entirely mundane. I know you have a game coming up, and I don't want to interfere with your schedule."

"The game is in two days. All I have to do, mila, is to sleep and listen to you tell me about your hopes and dreams and anything else you vant to talk about."

Hermione uttered a small, glad cry, similar to the one earlier at the Ministry.

Viktor's blood raced through his veins, metaphorical fingers had grabbed the elusive golden orb. He tucked her against his side.

Hermione pulled his arm around her shoulders, linking their fingers together. "I have so much to tell you, Viktor."

As she revealed the reasons for her dangerous quest with Ron and Harry, Viktor listened with all the intensity of his nature. Fleetingly he mused that while there would be no sexual release for him this night … somehow what he had gained was eminently more satisfying.

~o0o~