Title: This Once
Pairing: Viktor/Hermione
Rating: M (adult content, abuse)
Summary: Could he make her whole again? "His heart was shattering in his chest, hemorrhaging his soul and bleeding his conscience dry."

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the innumerable characters and content therein. I am making no profit from this jumble of words.

This Once: Chapter Four

Viktor hesitated, drawing his hand back from the door frame to lean an ear against the shut wood. Silence. He knocked once, pushing his way into the room with a hip at her call to enter.

Hermione sat at the vanity, dark wet hair tumbling around her towel covered shoulders. She turned despite the mirror to eye the hair comb he was waving with resignation, then ducked her head to stare at her folded hands and faded purple robe, barely acknowledging him as he set down the comb and pomade. Nimble fingers drew her hair over the chair she sat in, nudging her forward when she hissed at the curls trapped between her body and the wooden chair. He stared at her tensed shoulders, rubbing the hair treatment to warm on his fingers. It felt like her entire body curled in on itself as he started to drag his fingers down the curls springing from her nape.

Working the mess slowly into her hair, he gentled his movements to a slow drag of fingertips against scalp, watching her lips as they pinched despite her shoulders slow unwinding. Pulling his fingers through her hair from the bottom upwards, he moved to drag a wide toothed comb through her soft, now silky, hair.

The mirror, uncharmed, reflected her burning gaze as her eyes drilled into his own. Hands clenched, she turned her head into his palm.

"I'm just so angry." Her voice shook, and Viktor dropped the comb on the vanity to wind his arms around her, leaning into the chair back.

"I'm angry at myself, angry at him. I'm even angry at you."

"Vhy angry at me, sartse moe?"

Viktor buried his nose in her curls, eyes shuttered.

"Because you saw me like that." Her voice was barely audible despite his nearness.

"It doesn't matter. Neffer haf mattered as long as you vere safe. Vere you go if I vas not at hospital? I'm glad for it."

Hermione's chin dipped. "I know, it's just... I hate that anyone saw me like that." Especially you, was unspoken in her mind. She felt tarnished, weak. She'd never wanted to feel like that again. It had been too painful to think about, to admit to herself that things had gone so very wrong, let alone admit to this man of all people the truth of the matter.

"If I vas not there, vould you go back to him?" Dark thoughts that lurked deep in his heart began to tumble out of his emotional strongbox.

Hermione faltered. "I don't know."

Viktor's embrace tightened, crushing her back against the chair slats.

"Vhy." His voice was hard, though his hands gentled their grip on her robed shoulders at her gasp.

Hermione shook her head helplessly.

"Tell me vhy." Knuckles white, he bit back the vitriol, hurt and anguish that leached into his dry mouth.

"I don't know Viktor." Her voice was raised, body straining against his arms to clutch at the vanity hard top. "Because I wanted it to work! I wanted him to look at me for once, to just see me and he couldn't! Because I chose him and-" Hermione choked at the damning words that she knew would hurt him. She'd never wanted to hurt him.

"I'm just so angry at him, Viktor."

He closed his eyes at the sight of her grinding her fists into her eyes sockets locking his own anger into the ever deepening chest at the back of his mind. Opening them again to yank her hands away from her face, he pulled her back to him.

"Vant scream it out? I help."

Hermione laughed wetly, batting at the arms that reached to flutter at her sides. She was exhausted of crying, tired of feeling like she was slowly unraveling his good nature. There was no need of screaming her anger out; too many nights of muffling her rage into a pillow, Ron missing at a Pub, had proven that avenue of little help.

"Do you think.. I think less of you?" His fingers moved to pull her hair back from her brow in the beginning of a French braid. "Neffer think that."

Hermione's eyes shut for a moment. "I don't deserve you," she murmured.

He paused. "You keep saying this," he tugged on a curl that was trying to escape, "Not true."

He stared at his hands, fingers twisted into the thick partitions of hair and wondered if he'd ever feel clean again. His hope tasted like ash against his teeth.

"Better. Desereff only better."

He twisted and wove the last of her curls quickly, and kissed his fingers before unpocketing a length of white silk to knot at the end of her braid.

Before she could gather her thoughts enough to even broach the gap, he strode from the room leaving her to scramble after him as he darted down the hallway.


Viktor brought them to a corner room furnished with horrifying rococo gilded trim, and set upon ransacking an armoire to unearth an ancient looking wool cloak and an equally antique looking tall boy yielded several shawls. He'd tut-tutted about her wet hair, framing her face with a rich white kerchief trimmed with red paisley and fringe that was probably older than the pair of them put together. He began to drape her borrowed cloak with another shawl.

"It's not Siberian winter, right? You don't need to turn me into a mummy."

"You know you get cold." He grinned, pulling a black pattered shawl over her shoulders with a practiced twirl. "Look like village girl."

"I feel like a babushka."

"Is vindy, don't vant you to catch cold." He knew she wouldn't use a drying charm, it made her curls frizz. Besides, she was adorable all bundled up. Catching the folds of her wraps together with a thick silver pin, he reached for her hand to crook into his arm, drawing her back into the long corridor.

A quick word in Bulgarian had a tapestry drawing itself back with a cord, revealing a narrow corridor leading to an wrought iron spiral staircase. Hermione's pulse quickened. Despite her many years in the wizarding world, she'd never quite gotten used to the thrill of hidden passageways.

"Shortcut," muttered Viktor, ushering her down the darkened stairwell lit only by his wandtip. Hermione could taste fresh air, deducing that they were headed outdoors. Her inquisitiveness got the better of her.

"Where are we going? "

"A garden, in south of my grounds."

The staircase ended, and Viktor's wand skittered in an unfamiliar pattern against the air. He chanted, voice strong and clear, then drew their conjoined hands to rest against something mid air that was tangible but patently not visibly there. It suddenly gave way as he stopped speaking, and Viktor drew her forward into sunlight. She felt a plume of her own magic well within her, then dissipate.

She blinked, turning to run her hands against the solid fieldstone wall behind her. Quirking an eyebrow up at Viktor as his impassive expression melted with embarrassing speed, her hands met her hips.

He stuttered, "Var- Wards," carefully sounded out as he ground his teeth in frustration, "I've changed the wards." Among the numerous protective enchantments woven around the property, the ones barring his threshold were the most complex, and consequently hazily legal, in spellwork. His house protections, passed down through many generations of landowners, were arcane by even Durmstrang standards.

"That was no ordinary ward."

Viktor shrugged, revealing little. Digging into a pocket on his black outer robes, he produced a half corroded key the size of his palm. Swinging it on its tasseled cord in front of her, he pointed to a pathway worn into the wild grass.

"Magic is magic, Miss Mary."


The path had been winding, giving her glimpses of stone archways only to block her view with clutches of oak and pine trees. Then suddenly their destination loomed into view. The walls were high enough to brush the tops of the surrounding and enclosed trees, and patches of its stony breadth were browned with yellow and red ivy marked by falls kiss. Stepping past a tile roofed inlet into a covered corridor, Viktor led her to a stunning life-size mosaic.

Nestled into the wall where there should have been an entryway was a knight. Visor down, he knelt on the bank of a pool of blood, offering his sword with both hands to the viewer. He'd startled surreptitiously at their approach, pottery pieces glinting as he'd shifted to full attention, fumbling with his weapon. A three headed dragon, dead, lay behind him as well as a horse that pawed at the bloody ground in improperly scaled medieval glory.

Viktor handed her the key, and the knight's helm tilted a little. Hermione could no longer help herself. She reached out and stroked his bracers, marveling as the pieces of wall shifted under her fingers as the warrior dropped his sword. Viktor huffed as the mosaic scrambled to reclaim his weapon, adjusting his tabard on the way.

"Place the key to his hilt."

Hemione's eyes were alight as she turned to him. "Who is he?"

"Dobrynya Nikitich. Vone of the bogatyr."

"A boggart?

"No, how you say, knight who vanders? Like Gawain or Lancelot. He fight Zmey Gorynych," he pointed to the dragon, "and rescues Czarina Zabaza."

"Then he marries her, I'd guess."

Viktor looked at her for a long second before replying. "Ne, he's not a Czar, so he giff her to a friend who is Czar to marry. He marries Nastasia, a polyanitsa. Varrior voman who suits him better."

Nikitich thumped his mail covered chest, grasping his sword by the blade as he tilted it's hilt entreatingly. Hermione hesitated, then reached out towards him and as the key neared the wall the entire scene shuddered and then fell away piece by piece with her quick tap against his sword. She hastily stepped through the opening it revealed, gaping at the neatly manicured garden within. Roses bloomed out of season in ornate stone urns, squared boxwood hedges lined gravel walkways and a magnificent old willow bloomed and whispered against the stiff breeze. Hermione shivered, casting a quick warming spell against the chill.

"Come."

Viktor tucked her hand back to his elbow, leading her towards a tiny Victorian looking glass and brick chalet. Inside, among a clutter of potted ferns and herbalogic diagrams lay an immense spread of food on a plush looking oriental rug. Several comfortable looking cushions and a mound of pillows were laid out to complete the indoor picnic. Drinking in the packed bookshelves that lined several walls and various gardening bric-brac, she relented to her growling stomach as she plopped down next to Viktor to begin crowding a plate with Buglarian favorites meshana and sirenka as well as her favorite English dishes. Viktor must have filled Padushka in on her comfort foods.

Hermione groaned. "This is amazing."

"Food or garden?" he teased, helping himself to another plate after having demolished his first in minutes.

"Both. Thank you. Actually, thank Padushka instead. I needed this."

Hermione set down the plate on an empty food tray, leaning back to recline against an enormous red pillow. Light filtered in through the glass skylights and she let the sun warm her face, shawl pooled around her neck. Viktor's eyes were hooded as he leaned back against his own perch, sleepily full from lack of rest.

"Do you have practice this week at all?"

"Da, day after tomorrow."

"No rest for the wicked, I suppose."

Viktor gently kicked her outstretched foot with his own, rubbing his eyes tiredly as they settled into a companionable silence. He hadn't been to the South Gardens in months. It felt nostalgic.

He'd written many letters here, hidden away from his sisters prying hands and his parents watchful gaze. He'd spent hours battering away at his Bulgarian-English dictionary, occasionally strolling out to smell the flowers and gather his thoughts to put to page. And when later days grew long and dark, he'd vented and raged in charmed silence here. His eyes were growing heavy, drowsier by the second.

The rustle of clothing had him blinking out of a pleasant haze, peering up at her with a cracked eyelid as she brushed his bangs back from his forehead. He let a ghost of a smile cross his lips, eyes fluttering shut with a heavy breath.

"Do you want to take a nap? I'll wake you up in a little bit if you'd like. You look like death warmed over."

"Ne, I von't sleep tonight if I do."

He captured one of her hands before she could draw back, saluting her open palm. Hermione settled back down into her spot after picking up a raspberry tart to nibble on, watching his robes pull taut against his spine as he stood to stretch, stamping his booted feet awake while yawning.

Wiping her hands clean with a cloth napkin, she surveyed the jumbled rows of nearby titles, finding them mostly in Cyrillic. Fingering her fringed shawl, sneaking a look back at his form as he twisted his sore muscles, she could only begin to admit to herself that looking at him turned her into a wooly-headed teenager. And she wasn't exactly certain she was ready to be quite that stupid again. For now.


Translations: Sartse moe - my heart. Once again, this Bulgarian translation was provided by the extremely kind Ziminar.

Authors Note: Firstly, I want to thank everyone for the wonderful reviews! I really appreciate your kind words. I'm currently operating without a beta, so, I do appreciate any and all help as well. I had several reviews that mentioned wanting to see longer chapters, so I've tried to double the length of this particular chapter compared to the last. I'm also not Russian or Bulgarian, so if any insightful readers could please let me know if I'm making any glaring cultural gaffs it would be much appreciated. My resources are limited to my own research and having spent several summers working with girls from Russia and Kazakhstan.

Also, the legend of Dobrynya Nikitich is a real Russian folktale! He's one of the three most popular Russian bogatyrs of old; they're pretty interesting guys.