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 Ten
Unsurprisingly, Viktor was not at all happy with Hermione's idea.
"After vhat just happened, you expect me to leaf and go practice."
"I'll be fine. We know where he is and I'll have George with me as an escort. We'll go straight to Grimmauld Place and I'll apparate straight back to the cottage when I'm done. I promise."
"That," he paused to pin her with an unconvinced glower, "is vhat you say last time."
"I know, and I'm sorry." Hermione rubbed at her wrist, worrying at the now tender joints. "I won't be that stupid again. I've learned my lesson."
"I'll give you a Wizards Oath, she'll be unharmed and I won't let her go anywhere in between here and there. And she goes straight home afterwards." George offered his hand, staring at Hermione to make sure she understood the gravity of his offer.
Viktor took a long moment before grasping his palm, gingerly pumping it with a firm grip as he felt the tingling magic of George's promise seep into his body. "I'll hold you to that, Veasley."
"Right then. Off we go." George steered Hermione through the Atrium and towards a floo connected hearth with one hand set into the small of her back, tossing a grin back at a fuming Viktor, who was already regretting his decision.
Viktor sighed, watching them disappear into the flames, hastily beginning to buckle himself back into his pads so he could arrive ready to fly. Suited up and ready to go, he emerged above-ground after pushing his way through the throng of ministry workers and apparated away, hoping that he wouldn't be incorrect to not follow his unsettled intuition. Yet again.
He walked briskly through the corridors after popping into being in front of the main gates of the pitch, waving off the familiar security guards. Eyes trained on the players soaring above as he reached the field, he felt the devil himself sitting on his chest as he noticed a dark figure on an equally dark bristled broom swoop in to descend upon him.
Milanov. Neither tall nor short, fat or thin, he was a wholly unremarkable looking man. His greying hair was neatly tied into a queue, covering a thick scar at the base of his skull from an accident that had ended his career pre-maturely. All in all he didn't look the part of an all-star beater and World Cup class coach, but his enveloping black coaches robes proudly proclaimed otherwise. The glinting stripes on his left arm revealed his mastery, silver for his playing years and and gold for his coaching tenure, all World Cup victories. It was an intimidating record.
His stern face concealed the seething inferno he knew blazed below.
"Where the hell have you been," barked out Milanov, in Bulgarian.
Viktor resisted the urge to give up and prostrate himself on the pitch. "I have a houseguest, Hermione Granger, and she was assaulted while under my care. I had little choice, sir."
That was a name Milanov was more than a little familiar with.
He'd known Viktor since he'd been a slip of a boy, barely prepared for the professional career that had been thrust before his wide eyes. He'd been a quiet, severe teenager who hardly said boo when downed by a bludger. He'd watched him win his first International League match, hell, he'd damn near pulled him out of short pants singlehandedly. So when Viktor had returned from Scotland and his older teammates managed to drag the name of his first date out of him, he'd doled out the requisite advice as one professional athlete to another.
That was before he learned that the girl he'd taken to wasn't a quidditch groupy but the Potter boy's best friend. His fatherly intuition told him then that it would be a long and bumpy flight. He had come to learn about the Yule Ball portrait of them both his star seeker kept in his travel bag. He'd been the one to pull Viktor, surly and drunk, from last calls after she'd gone back to Scotland after visiting the boy at home. He was the one who dragged Viktor off to see a healer after beating his fists bloody on a locker when his "friend" had turned to another. He'd watched the boy light up when she began to write to him again after the war. Without ever meeting her, he knew Hermione Granger.
"We're here!"
"Yes, yes I see that George."
They both stared up at the windows that seemed to stare back at them.
"Still a creepy pile of brick, innit." George shivered, moving to knock on the door.
"I'll second that," muttered Hermione back. She had always felt slightly uneasy upon entering Grimmauld, but she wasn't sure if that had to do with the house itself or that she was always waiting for aurors to be peaking out of the bushes up at her while she waltzed in through the front door. The door clanked, the sound they knew as someone peering outwards without breaching the barrier between inside and out.
Then came a muffled voice from inside."What color underwear did I wear! At the wedding I mean."
George and Hermione stared at each-other.
"Goddammit Ginevra, couldn't you have picked some other tidbit to quiz us on? I'm your brother. I don't want this rattling around my skull. I only have one ear to try and bash it out of now, thank you very much."
"Don't call me Ginevra, George Fabian Weasley!"
"Not the middle name, you know better than to tell people I have a middle name!"
"Pink. You wore lacey pink knickers with matching garters. They were spelled to detatch with a certain," she swallowed a giggle as George began to wretch, rubbing at where his ear used to be, "Phrase." He grabbed at his throat, seizing up as she lost control of her laughter.
George swooned into her arms, "Farewell dear heart, for I must needs be gone!"
"Who in the hell taught you Shakespeare and why."
"There's this odd bird, you see. Told me her name was from some dead blokes play, so I looked it up in the library and read through the only title they had in the stacks." George lightened his words by moaning dramatically, hand on his head as if faint, but his crooked grin gave away his sincerity.
Hermione's expression went from amused and perplexed to heated embarrassment, but Ginny was already opening the door to yank George away from her before she could fully be taken by the breadth of George's statement.
"You don't even know where the library is, you half-wit," Ginny cuffed him, shoving him inside before ushering in Hermione with a softer touch.
"Knickers," replied George, shuddering.
"Prat."
"George, what on earth are you going to do with yourself while we have our girl chat. Knickers may be part of the conversation. One never can tell," Hermione drew out his revulsion, giggling as he whirled away from Ginny, batting at his head while muttering about lace and garters.
"If we can stay on the subject of yours, love, I might stick around," George waggled his eyebrows as Ginny shoved him into the wall so Hermione could walk past.
"Did I hear someone say something about Granger's knickers?" Now there was a voice she hadn't heard in a long while.
Hermione started, stopping dead in her tracks before walking into the parlor to see Draco Malfoy sitting on the settee with a cup of tea, eyes full of laughter.
"Hello Hermione." His voice was warm, low and respectful. It would have been shocking if she hadn't been just on the verge of getting used to the role reversal. His white-blond hair was shaggy as ever, falling into his sharp grey eyes as he peered into his cup.
"How's your mother doing, Draco?"
It had been one of her first projects after moving out of 'trainee healer' and into her own, a restorative to combat the nerve damage caused by the cruciatus. While searching for test subjects deep into its development she'd run across Narcissa Malfoy, widowed and languishing in a St. Mungo's hospital bed with uncontrollable tremors from prolonged exposure. Working with Narcissa, and by extension dealing with a grieving and somewhat lost Draco, had been a brave new world of workplace experiences. By the end of her potions trial Narcissa was cured, Draco's remaining societal reservations were mostly behind him, and so were her own malingering misgivings over their culpability in the events during the war.
"She's much improved for strength. Weeding the inner gardens to her hearts content, the daft woman," he paused, setting down his tea cup down to the table in front of him. "Thank you," he added, softly.
Hermione sat down next to him, leaning in to the pour herself a cup of tea from the service before turning to refill his empty cup for him. When her sleeve slid back, revealing ruddy bruises that encircled her wrist like a debauched tattoo, his darkening eyes shot to her own unknowingly.
"What are you doing here." George eyed him with impatient suspicion, having been little acquainted with the other wizard after the war.
"I'm renegotiating my contract." Ginny rolled her eyes.
"You're what?"
"Renegotiating my contract," she flopped into the armchair she'd obviously been perched in before, holding out her cup for Hermione to refill. "You know, he owns the Harpies?" Ginny herself had made it into the International League, having signed on to the Holyhead Harpies earlier the year before.
"I knew that." George's poorly concealed confusion was contagious in humor, and he scowled as both women giggled incessantly and Draco slightly smirked with his head ducked down into his cup.
"Do you think you can come back later, Draco? I really need to speak to Hermione at the time being."
"I think I can do that." Draco's eyes were once again trained on Hermione, and she shifted uneasily under his scrutiny. He turned to Ginny, "Send me an owl?" he nodded at her affirmation, "good day to you then, ladies. Congratulations once again, Mrs. Potter."
Ginny rose to escort him to the door, pausing with him as he stooped in front of Hermione to salute her hand to his lips, catching her eyes with a searching stare as he hesitated to release her palm. He rose swiftly to follow Ginny, sweeping out of the room with a backwards glance as George glared maliciously after him. George clapped his hands abruptly, rubbing them together as Hermione's cup clattered against her saucer from the unexpected noise.
"I think I'm going to have a quick chat while I'm waiting till' you're done here... with Malfoil Jr."
"Oh George, do be nice. He's not who he used to be."
"Right." He was already headed towards the door, brushing past Ginny as she walked back in to sit next to Hermione for a cuddle.
"What's he up to now?"
"Testosterone, Ginny. Testosterone."
He wasn't sure whether to cheer that the lad was finally fighting for his prize or bemoan the fact that he would now be battling second string to the chit for his star players focus once again.
"Who assaulted her?" It was more curiosity than concern. The girl probably had as many enemies as Viktor himself.
"Ronald Weasley." Viktor's whole demeanor transformed; morphing from resigned supplication to tensely reined anger in milliseconds. Ah. The 'other wizard'.
"I thought he'd been arrested, according to the papers."
"He had." The boys anger was almost magically palpable, hanging heavily in the air around him. He nearly pitied the other wizard the wrath he'd brought down on his own head. Nearly.
Milanov sighed, tweaking his fingers against an eyebrow. "And just how did you get past the anti-apparition wards on the pitch?"
Viktor's eyes darted, looking for those nearby before leaning in with his wand to reveal a heavy goblin silver band on his left wrist.
"Oh." Well, that was unexpected. "Oh, my boy."
"Coach Milanov, I," Viktor was back to stumbling over his words, ever the adolescent in front of his surrogate parent. Milanov decided to spare him the embarrassment and instead gave in to his own burgeoning exasperation.
"Save it. We'll talk after practice. You've already eaten up a third of it by playing Lancelot to your Guinevere, and we've got an important match at the end of the week. Triple your aerial runs. I want sweat, Krum."
Ginny had spent barely five minutes glorying in how wonderful her honeymoon had been before diving into Hermione's situation with an intensity only known by a friend digging deep for sisterly details. She came to one inevitable conclusion.
"I'm confused."
Hermione had given up, head firmly planted in the arm of the settee as Ginny rubbed at her back. She moaned.
"That's exactly what Harry said. Exactly."
"Well, I am. I'm sorry."
Hermione whimpered. "Why doesn't this kind of thing come with a manual. Why don't boys come with a manual. I'm so pathetic."
"You're not pathetic. You're bloody Hermione Granger, Boudica of the Second Wizarding War. God help Ron's mortal soul, now he is pathetic."
"I can't believe this is happening to me. I thought I was smarter than this."
"Well, do you love him or is it just convenience?" Ginny asked the question Hermione had been turning over in her head for days, the one she'd been dreading even in the relative comfort of her own thoughts.
Hermione sagged even more. "Which one," she eked out, pitifully.
"Viktor effing Krum, of course! It doesn't matter how much you love my idiot brother, I'm not letting you a pikes distance near him."
"I'd like to stick him with a pike right about now. I don't really think that counts, though."
"Answer the question, dammit."
Silence. She struggled for self honesty, shoving aside her self perceived obligations and any outside perceptions.
"I think I do. God help me, but I think I really do."
"I have to see your band. What does it look like?" Ginny pounced, wand in hand.
A broom boy ran up, gasping for air, before handing Milanov an immaculate looking custom 'Black Kite', Viktor's preferred racing broom.
"Sorry, sir, I had to get it out of the storage shed."
Milanov took it from the boy, eventually shoving it into Viktor's hands after the seeker fumbled to catch the falling broom that had been tossed at him.
"This isn't my broom." It was too new, no nicks or groves. The polished surface of the handle was unmarked by wear, and the sweep of its bristles were spiky and even as the day it had been crafted. It bore his name wood burned into the shaft from the manufacturer, showing that it was indeed one of his models, but this was definitely not his regular broom.
"Your backup. The other one shattered on impact after you dropped it from the top of the damn pitch. Now you'll have to break in a new one before the game. Congratulations."
Viktor groaned, fisting a hand into his hair to tug at his scalp. Breaking in a new broom was like breaking in a new pair of boots, slightly painful and mostly hobbling. It helped that theirs were customized and tweaked to their own specifications by the manufacturers, a perk of being International League, but that just meant it was only slightly less of an annoyance.
"Oh glory," muttered Viktor, darkly.
"It's your own damn fault, boy," roared Milanov, "now mount up and get in the air before I snap it and make you use one of Kristich's!"
He dutifully mounted the broom and shot into the air to start the aerial sequences his body by now could perform without thought. A barrel roll here, a twist there, scraping the outside of the pitch while darting around the other players at breakneck speeds that no longer phased him in the least. Something was off with the brooms handling, he could already feel it. It wasn't sluggish, just.. off. After completing his first run, he paused to break out his wand and do some tinkering. Moving himself out of the way of his teammates doing their own drills, he shifted to reach for his buttoned wand pocket. Adjustments had to be done while flying so one could fine tune to how the broom reacted in the air, an art well honed by every professional player. The moment he pulled his wand, the broom began to shudder.
Riding high on an updraft mid-pitch, Viktor plummeted.
Ginny had set upon finding out anything and everything Hermione had done with Viktor in the last few days, drinking in the information with rapt attention. All it did was increase Hermione's already guilty conscience, something that Ginny wholeheartedly refused to accept. To her mind, Ron had erased himself from the Weasley roles much as Percy had during the war; he was getting what he deserved for his actions.
Then Hermione's wrist slowly began to ache, the band on her left hand heating to an uncomfortably warm and then barely tolerable temperature.
"Ginny," gasped Hermione, startling her friend as she bolted upright on the sofa, "Ginny, something's wrong."
Ginny's startled look turned into confusion as Hermione stumbled from the couch, grabbing her cloak and satchel together before hastily dressing herself against the cold.
"I need to get home. Or," Hermione gasped as the crawling pain up her arm intensified, "my arm's on fire. My bracelet's on fire. Something's wrong."
"Viktor. Somethings happened to Viktor," Ginny shot up to take Hermione's arm, pointing to her betrothal band, "I've heard about these things. All you need to do is concentrate on Viktor and then apparate. It'll take you right to him."
"Apparate? Apparate where? I bloody well don't know where he is! I've never been to the practice pitch," Hermione's voice held a tinge of hysteria, "I'll splich myself!"
"No you won't! That's not how," Ginny sighed, abandoning the thought, "in that case you needn't bother, I've been there before for a pre-season exhibition match with the Harpies. Let's go."
Author's Note: Well. That didn't take too long, thankfully. Hopefully I'm not moving things along too quickly. Thanks for all of your support, everyone!