The crisp winter wind wrapped itself around him as he walked, burying itself deep within his chest. He ignored it, even as it roared its protest, even as it bit viciously at his cheeks. He barely felt its cruel fury even as it hurled snow in his exposed face, despite the fact that his furs stopped at his neck. He had a warmth in his chest that no artificial insulation could imitate. It had taken residence around a week ago, during which time it had steadily grown, until he wondered how no one else seemed to detect its presence within him when it was all he could do at times not to burst out laughing; how no one else seemed to feel what he felt, though he was sure it could pass to someone else through osmosis, simply by touching him, being around him.

He walked alone in the frozen grounds now, savouring the memory carefully. It was one he forced himself not to replay too often for fear of blurring the outline of it; no, he wanted to remember it exactly, and so he hugged the golden memory to his chest like a secret, a treasure.

It had been a day later. The day after he had retrieved her parchment; the day after he had been gifted with her name.

He had seized his chance at lunchtime. Choosing his seat at the Slytherin table carefully so as to have an unobstructed view of her, he had watched her as surreptitiously as he was able, as she ate. She ate quickly, with relish, and he knew she would rise in mere minutes and retreat to the library, as she often did.

He had been proven correct approximately seven minutes later; seeing her, he collected his bad and made his way quietly to the Library. He had caught her on the stairs, mercifully alone, as she checked the contents of her bag. Nerves had threatened to freeze his tongue once more, and hurriedly, before stupefaction rendered him dumb once again, he pulled from his pocket the little square of parchment he had folded so lovingly the night before and tapped her shoulder.

She had turned around almost immediately, as though she had been expecting him; her dark curls shone as they swung about her face, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"I think this is yours," he began, and held out the parchment. She didn't take it, but looked at him oddly, as if expecting him to say more. When he didn't, couldn't, she reached for it, still wearing that odd, questioning expression.

"What is it?" she said softly. Viktor made to shrug and got halfway there before realising it would appear rude; therefore he ended up looking as though he had temporarily lost control of his shoulders. Unfortunately for him, she had noticed.

"Are you alright?" she said, and though her voice was concerned he could faintly detect the slight amusement that was threaded through it. He had smiled awkwardly at her, suddenly conscious of the pause that was now developing; it was gorging itself on his hesitation and he knew that if he said nothing now, he never would.

He opened his mouth to speak. Too late. Cursing himself silently, he watched helplessly as she thanked him, smiled and turned to leave. Desperation flooded his senses; he must stop her; he must explain. And so he said the first word that came to his mind.

"Hermione."

Except that it didn't come out quite like that. He had studied that little scrap of paper for so long that he was astonished that the force of his gaze had not burned the letters of her name away. He had pored over it for much of the night before, trying every conceivable combination of sounds and syllables that might make up the atoms of her name, and still had come no closer to the correct pronunciation. And so it came to pass that the very first time Hermione Granger's name was uttered aloud by Viktor Krum, it sounded more like this.

"Herm-yeny"

He had cringed even as the mangled word was still leaving his mouth, knowing he'd got it wrong. It didn't roll off the tongue the way it should have; it didn't conjure up the image of her; it wasn't right at all. He had closed his eyes in embarrassment, knowing with the certainty that night will follow day that when he opened them again, she would be gone. And rightfully so, too – he was unable to talk normally to her anyway, and it was foolish of him to believe that she would keep being polite to him every time his mouth refused to work properly around her. Eventually there had to come a point when polite apologies would no longer suffice and she would ask him to leave her alone. All he would have left would be the memory of her smile. After long moments had crept by, and he'd finally deemed it safe once more, he had opened his eyes.

And been given the shock of his life.

Hermione Granger stood inches from his face, a hesitant smile fixed on her face.

"I'm sorry - what did you say?" she asked, and her voice was kind, still tinged with mild amusement. Viktor could only blink stupidly at her in response. Receiving no verbal answer she unfolded the parchment, still held in her hand, and laughed softly to herself as realisation set in.

"My name," she said, and she was only half speaking to him. She looked up at him now, a real, honest smile on her face. "I'm sorry; I know it's difficult to say."

Viktor felt himself relaxing, despite himself, as she spoke, and he nodded fervently at her words.

"Did you want something?" she asked finally, when still he said nothing.

Viktor hesitated. Then – "Yes. I am taking a valk in the grounds. Vill you come vit me?" He held his breath, waiting for her polite refusal. To his enormous surprise, she nodded, and said, "Let me just put my bag away first – I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall in ten minutes."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Ten minutes later, true to her word, she had met him, her hair now pulled back from her face, and side by side they had walked into the icy wind outside. Due in part to the fact that it was bitterly cold outside and in part to the fact that it was a Sunday afternoon, during which most students were either lazily finished homework or else sleeping, the grounds were almost deserted.

Long moments passed, during which neither said a word, and Viktor tried hard not to look at her for longer than was polite. It was difficult; the cold suited her, somehow. It had flushed her cheeks pink, and the mist of her breath tangled in the air like lace; her eyes seemed brighter somehow.

"I am sorry," Viktor said, eventually. Hermione gazed at him in surprise.

"For what?"

Viktor groped around for the right words, wishing his English were more fluid. "The girls in the library – I am sorry if they disturbed your vork – I could not get avay from them."

Hermione smiled gently. "That's okay," she had said, an obvious lie. "I barely noticed them."

"That is vhy I am going to the library every day – I am vanting to be left alone. But also, " - he hesitated, looking at his feet and then pushing forward – " I am vanting to talk to you."

She looked faintly shocked. Blinking in surprise, she said slowly, "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes."

"But why didn't you?"

"I am not having the courage – I am thinking you vood not vant to talk to me," he said, trying not to notice the way the wind swept her hair up so that it pulsed in the cool air and shone like a beacon in the midday sun. "I am sorry if I haff insulted you."

"You haven't at all," Hermione said. "But you could have spoken to me, you know, I wouldn't have ignored you."

Viktor smiled weakly. "I vas afraid."

Hermione returned the smile. "But you fought a dragon for your first task – am I scarier than a dragon?"

"Vell, I vas afraid then, too."

"Are you nervous about the second task?" Hermione began conversationally, when the pause presented itself again.

"Yes." Viktor said honestly. "I do not know vat it vill be. But I am sure that it vill be okay." He smiled bracingly, as if to convince her. She laughed gently. Viktor hesitated, his breath hitching in the frigid air. Then he said, "I am vanting to ask you something also."

"What is it?"

"Vill you come to the Ball vit me?"

He waited, staring at the slight dimple in the right corner of her mouth and trying to pretend he wasn't. When she hadn't said anything after several seconds, he began to say nervously, "I am sorry, forgive me, I should not – "

"I'd love to," she had interjected quickly, before he could say anything more. "Thank you."

With that, she had kissed his cheek gently, almost hesitantly, and her lips were as soft as her eyes. His hands firmly in his pockets, he had dug his nails viciously into the flesh of his palm in a desperate bid not to kiss her smiling mouth for fear of frightening her away.

Now, one week later, he walked the same grounds, the memory warming him, and the egg and its hidden clue were as far from his mind as the stars that would pepper the sky above him in a few short hours. The only thing in his head right now was the feeling of her lips on his cold skin; it felt as though the imprint of her kiss had been burned there.

And that, Viktor reasoned, was perfectly fine by him.

A/N There's the next chapter – sorry it took a while, I've had a lot on. Also, in my defence, when you're an English girl and don't have any real person to copy from, it is very difficult trying to replicate the speaking mannerisms of a fictional Bulgarian!! From this chapter on I will be weaving the actual events of GoF into my storyline, as so far I've largely ignored it (hence the removal of the first task, as it's not strictly relevant). So, anyway, I hope this was satisfactory – you know the drill by now :D. Ta.