Hi again everyone! I know it's been a hot minute. I have no excuse other than I just really didn't want to write and didn't have the energy or motivation to continue. I was getting less feedback than before, and I just took that as a sign I needed to step back, take a break, and return with a refreshed mind and renewed love for what I was writing.

Hermione woke late the next morning with pins and needles in her feet. Three lumps were crushing the lower half of her body, and she jerked her numb extremities in a panicked effort to dislodge them. Viktor's two dogs blinked their bleary eyes at her and raised their large heads, only to settle back into position when they realised it wasn't an emergency. The third lump, however, spoke.

'Good mornings to you, miss! The young master tolds Ulrik to wait and watch for your waking!'

Memories of the previous day came flooding back. It had been one of the most special in their almost-year together and Hermione already knew she'd think back to it often when they were apart. Unable to prevent the wash of sadness that overtook her at that thought, she stared back into the house-elf's watery eyes and gave him a sad smile.

'Thank you, Ulrik. Where's Viktor?'

'The young master has gone to the mountains to train with the wizard Dimitrov. He waited for Hermione Granger in Mistress Sofija's drawing room, but when she did not wakes he gave Ulrik the very important job of passing on this message.'

Hermione considered the scrawny creature for a moment. One thing she'd learnt in her minimal interaction with house-elves was that they would move mountains to please those who they served; Ulrik had taken Viktor quite literally when he'd asked him to wait on her. Unsurprisingly, Viktor had rightly deduced that she'd rather get acquainted with his family's library than join him flying. Just the thought of mounting a broom in front of the two accomplished players made her heart thud erratically.

Thanking Ulrik with a much warmer smile this time, she wriggled free of the duvet and the heavy weight of the dogs. The house-elf had laid out a spread of buttered toast and fresh fruits on her bedside table, but Hermione's hands sought out the mug of milky tea before all else, and she sighed happily as the comforting scent enveloped her. She suspected she had a few hours at most before Viktor returned, so it was time to put the plan she'd been concocting since her arrival into action.

Ulrik had just finished restoring everything in her bedroom to pristine condition when she returned from her morning routine in the bathroom. She was thankful not to have woken up beside Viktor that morning when she stared back at her reflection in the mirror, colouring like a ripe tomato when it advised her to 'run a comb through that haystack' in thickly accented English.

Hermione addressed the house-elf in a nonchalant tone, only feeling a little guilty for exploiting his kindness, 'How long have you been with the Krums, Ulrik?'

'Oh! Ulrik has been with his family since the young master was just a babe, and his kin and their kin before him. It is a great honour to serve the house of Krum and Ulrik will do it until the day he dies.'

She blinked at him and continued, discomfited at the enthusiasm for his own circumstances, 'So… you knew Viktor's grandfather? The late Master Georgi Krum?'

The lopsided grin on Ulrik's face faltered for the briefest moments, and then he nodded, eyeing her in the same wary fashion the kitchen elves at Hogwarts had when she'd first confronted them. They might view their enslavement as an honour, but house-elves were not stupid, and Ulrik knew Hermione was prying.

'Yes, miss. Ulrik was the Master's special elf, entrusted with his private care.'

The pride in his high-pitched voice was palpable. This elf would've known every secret Viktor's grandfather ever kept, although he would never share them for as long as he lived. An idea blossomed in her mind.

'Then you must take good care of his portrait, don't you? I'm sure Mr Krum would trust no other elf to see to his upkeep even in death.'

'Oh yes, Miss! Ulrik cleans it three times a day and does not lets the other house-elves touch his private things in the Master's study. Ulrik takes his responsibilities very seriously, and he is always wanting to make the Master happy.'

Hermione beamed at him; she had her answer. With a generous thank-you that had the elf sputtering, Hermione set out to locate the elusive portrait of Viktor's formidable grandfather. Truthfully, she didn't know what she was going to ask the wizard, but this was the most hope she'd had since Harry had returned from the maze, shouting that the wizarding world's greatest fear had finally been realised. If Georgi Krum could take on Grindelwald in his most powerful hour, then maybe, just maybe, there was some pearl of wisdom in his brain that would tell Hermione how to prepare Harry for the dark times ahead. She refused to go into her fifth year without a plan.

It was only after almost twenty minutes of fruitless searching that Hermione puffed up her chest and marched towards the hallway of portraits Ana had previously advised her to avoid. Almost forty pairs of eyes followed her curiously: some hostile, some apathetic, some inquiring.

'Excuse me,' She said to the corridor at large, 'Can you please point me in the direction of Georgi's study?' Please don't let there be more than one Georgi in the family.

There was a cold silence.

'I'm here on invitation of your… relative, Viktor,' Hermione's voice wobbled momentarily. 'Please, I want to speak to his Grandfather. It's important… I need his help.'

'Does our heir know you are seeking out a private audience with Georgi?' The voice of one portrait echoed down the corridor, his words clipped and authoritative. The spokesperson for them all, Hermione deduced.

She approached a gilded, golden frame that was hung higher than the rest of those adorning the wall. Inside it was a silver-haired wizard watching her with his arms folded, his face expressionless.

'He doesn't,' Hermione admitted, 'But not because I want to go behind his back. Viktor would show me, if he were here, I'm sure of it. I need to speak to Georgi about… Lord Voldemort.'

To Hermione's surprise, only a third of the portraits reacted to her use of You-Know-Who's title, and the rest simply stared at her more intently. It was as she had expected — those of them who might've been around during Voldemort's first reign had likely seen his cause as 'just'. In their eyes Purebloods were superior, and therefore Voldemort's propaganda and ruthless methods were no less despicable than permitting 'interbreeding' of wizarding bloodlines. It made her sick to her stomach.

Hermione felt herself shrink, but the memory of Harry's suffering kept her feet firmly rooted to the spot. If she could face up to the foul Lucius Malfoy, then she was a match for Viktor's purist ancestors.

'It's a matter of urgency. Please.'

The aristocratic wizard within the frame observed her with calculating eyes, an unsettling sneer on his lips that reminded Hermione of Professor Snape about to pounce on some poor, unfortunate student.

'Georgi's study can be found next to his son's. If you do not know where that is, then you were never intended to find it.'

Hermione swallowed the urge to make a scathing reply and set off at a run, her bare-footed steps noiseless on the hardwood floor. She could only recall one mention of Illian Krum's study and that had been on Ana's tour — 'Father's usually in his study, in case of emergency, and we like to joke he chose the room next to the kitchen so he could have a constant supply of Turkish Delight.'

Thank Merlin for Ana. Some five minutes later, Hermione rounded on the house-elves' kitchen where she'd first tumbled into the Krum home. There was no adjacent corridor, no doors. With a deep breath that cleared her mind of extraneous thought, Hermione closed her eyes and reached out with her hands. She'd never tried this before, having only read about it, and had wondered if her magical core was developed enough to sense magic in the air. Now was the test.

When the fine hairs on her hand stood on end Hermione knew she'd struck gold. She let the magic guide her, the tingling in her fingertips spreading in oscillating waves over her palms and up her forearms as she closed in on the spot she'd been searching for. As the magic began to hum on the surface of her skin, Hermione opened her eyes and found a corridor in view that hadn't been there before. The family's wards had recognised her; Hermione's magic had been welcomed by theirs. For a second, she contemplated whether it knew her intentions.

On instinct, she squeezed her eyes shut as her body passed through the invisible magical wards, opening them only when the prickling sensation had receded. The magic had been testing her, scanning her, understanding her. Ahead of her now lay three doors. What must they contain to have been protected so? Something in her gut told her that the first mahogany door led to Illian's study — somewhere she definitely didn't want to be discovered, not by an elf, and certainly not by any witch or wizard. Pausing at the next door, Hermione steeled her nerves. What was she so afraid of, now that what she'd wished for was within touching distance? That he won't approve of you, the little voice in her head said flatly. Having reflected as she tore through the still corridors of Viktor's home, she'd come to the horrible realisation that she knew nothing real about Viktor's grandfather. A penchant for fishing, yes, and an infamous history. On the topic of values and views on muggle-borns? She couldn't remember if Viktor had ever mentioned that.

'That won't help Harry,' Hermione muttered aloud to herself, producing her wand and pointing it at the ornate brass door-handle, 'Alohomora' She said clearly.

It wasn't often that any doorway protected with such complex methods was foiled by a spell as simple as that, but on this occasion the door creaked open, the noise a protest at being disturbed after so long. The contents of the room had been untouched by time — from the stained teacup, to the stack of letters and quill resting in an ink well, nothing had been moved since the day of its owner's death. It was by far the most practical space Hermione had seen in the entire house, bar perhaps her own bedroom; the only extravagance was a burgundy rug that spanned the width and breadth of the study. At one end of the room a fire was burning in a stone fireplace as though someone or something had been expecting her.

Unable to prevent her own curiosity, Hermione shuffled further into the room and to the coffee table that had been dusted recently. Each letter, the majority of which remained unopened, were addressed to a "господар Georgi Krum"*. A number of small trophies and medals were displayed above the fireplace and as Hermione drew nearer she saw, not Viktor's name, but that of his father.

Someone cleared their throat.

Hermione spun around guilty, only to find herself staring up at a portrait almost as tall as the wall itself, hung over a sophisticated wooden writing desk. There were no doubts about who the wizard inside the frame was.

'Well?' Georgi Krum licked his lips thoughtfully, as though it had been a very long time since he'd spoken. 'I was informed this is a matter of urgency?'

Hermione had only been rendered speechless by a few people in her life. The first had been Professor McGonagall when she'd arrived in London to inform the Grangers that their daughter was a witch, and the second had been when she'd seen Professor Dumbledore for the first time. The wizard that was watching her now was just as impressive. He stood impossibly straight, his features angular and intimidating — though the effect was belied slightly by his wispy grey moustache and the twitching of his lips. There was an aura about him that commanded her attention and made her painfully aware of her every movement and expression.

'Sir —'

'Georgi, if you please.'

'Oh I don't know —'

'I insist. Now, Miss Granger, let us speak of Lord Voldemort. You best start at the beginning.'

Hermione nodded and, seating herself in the wizard's plush armchair at his request, recounted the events of the Triwizard Tournament at length, interspersing her tale with paraphrased snippets of her adventures with Harry and Ron over the years. There was something about Viktor's grandfather that inspired trust, and while she held back all of Harry's dearest secrets, it felt cathartic to open up and share everything else that she'd never dared to tell another soul: her fears, her deductions and her plans. Georgi Krum listened intently as she steam-rolled through her story, never once interrupting her.

As her speech came to an end, Hermione was left with the same feeling she'd had when she'd gone to Professor McGonagall with a hunch about Harry's new Firebolt — guilt, for going behind his back, and relief for sharing her burden with an adult. You were right then, her inner voice reminded her pointedly.

'So, he is back,' Georgi said evenly. 'There is one thing hearing the whispers, but to hear it from the horse's mouth… we cannot be idle.'

'What do you suggest?' Hermione leant forward eagerly in her seat.

'Miss Granger, you have told me your story, now it is time I told you mine.'

…

Viktor found Hermione in the library when he returned from training with Vasily. After shrugging out of his sweaty kit he'd made a beeline for the eastern wing, knowing she would've relished the chance to explore its contents by herself. He'd been away far longer than he'd initially intended; in the end, Vasily had worked him so hard that he'd lost track of time, and he'd been all too eager for his friend and former teammate to put him through his paces. As much as he'd loved the last week or so, he missed training more than anything. September couldn't come soon enough.

Viktor was overcome by nostalgia when he saw Hermione surrounded by books. While he'd fallen for her in the build-up to the world cup final, it had been in the depths of the Hogwarts library that he'd truly gotten to know the real Hermione Granger. Said witch was now stooped over a mountainous pile of his family's oldest tomes, her eyes darting across the pages, never once breaking concentration as she wrote at a ferocious speed in a small muggle journal at her side. Every few seconds she bit down on her lip, a sure sign that she was working through a problem in her mind.

'Hermione?' He called out tentatively as he approached. It was never wise to interrupt her when she was in a studious trance, and he never liked to do so unless for good reason. Inevitably, the only acknowledgement he received to prove that she'd heard him was her quill pausing on the paper. Lunch would have to wait.

'You haff had a good morning?' He murmured after a few minutes. Reaching her chair, Viktor stood behind her chair, shaking his head at her hunched frame. His hands skimmed the sides of her waist, lightly enough as not to disrupt the flow of her writing. If he missed her this much after a few hours then he was in for rough time next year.

She didn't answer at first, but he'd learnt long ago not to take offence at her quirks. Eventually she closed her notebook and stoppered her ink well, before tilting her head back to look up at him, inviting him to greet her with a gentle kiss on the lips. It was only on breaking contact that he saw a flash of emotion in her eyes that didn't marry with her pleasure at seeing him.

'What is wrong?' He said instantly.

'I… I went to speak to your Grandfather. In his study.'

Viktor went completely still. That had been the last thing he'd expected. If anything, he'd anticipated that Hermione might be tempted by the portrait that hung in his mother's drawing room, but seeking out Georgi? It hadn't crossed his mind.

'Okay,' He said slowly, giving her a wary, but equally reassuring, smile. 'And… did you like him?'

'Of course! You aren't mad with me, are you? I swear it wasn't nosiness and my intention wasn't to overstep any boundaries, I just wanted to talk to him about Harry and the situation we're in. Considering his history, I thought maybe he'd have some good advice for keeping Harry safe next year.'

'No, I am not mad,' Viktor released her abruptly and pulled out a seat, stretching out his stiff limbs and crossing his legs at the ankle. 'You are the most resourceful witch I haff met, and I know that you would do anything for your friends, even take big risks. It is true, my Grandfather knows a great deal about the logic of dark wizards, but he was sometimes unpredictable. I would never try to tell you what to do or how to be, but it does worry me what could haff happened.'

'What harm can a portrait do?' Hermione asked quietly, her brow creased in confusion.

'It is not the portrait, or the man, but the words he could haff said,' Viktor reached out to brush an errant curl from her face. 'He always was brutally honest —

'Viktor, but don't you see what happens when people aren't honest with Harry? I swear half of the bad things that have happened to Harry, Ron and I over the last few years came about because people tried to protect us from the truth, but I can't — I won't — sit still anymore and let that happen. I'm… I'm not sure I can just leave it to adults this time, especially not the ones who'd rather bury their heads in the sand.'

'And you knew my Grandfather was not one of those wizards?' Viktor concluded with a soft, rueful laugh.

'Just a hunch. A little birdie portrayed him as a force to be reckoned with,' Hermione said, a small smile crossing her lips, 'Was I wrong?'

Viktor shook his head. She was right, as she almost always was.

'Part of the reason we work, Viktor, is because you've always encouraged the parts of me that others tease me for.'

Viktor met her gaze then and held it firmly, 'You are right. I haff let my feelings for you cloud my normal judgement. You know your mind, and if you were thinking that speaking to my Grandfather was the right thing to do, then I trust that,' And, when Hermione nodded encouragingly, asked, 'So, did he tell you what you needed to hear?'

Hermione placed a hand on his knee. Something big was coming, something that made his mouth dry up. 'Perspective. He gave me perspective. I think we've been clinging onto a naive view of what comes next, but everything is going to change now, and somehow we've got to be ready. I've got to be ready. V-Voldemort isn't going to act like he did before, he's got far more to lose this time, so he's going to be cautious, make less mistakes…'

She trailed off and Viktor saw the turmoil in her eyes, before she continued in barely a whisper. 'They were so alike, weren't they? Voldemort and Grindelwald. They sewed the seeds of discord and capitalised on old prejudices, with the same ultimate goal… and the same ultimate weakness — underestimating those they saw as inferior.' At that moment she cast him the same perceptive look she always did when she had the bit between her teeth. 'I think there's a lot to be learnt from how the wizarding world dealt with Grindelwald.'

There was a pregnant pause.

'It should never haff been that we allowed another like him to rise up,' Viktor muttered darkly.

'Yes,' Hermione's expression was one of acute sadness and Viktor knew what was coming next. 'He told me about… your mother's father. I'm sorry, Viktor.'

'He died by Grindelwald's own wand in 1945. It is not usual that these dark wizards do the dirty work themselves, so I suppose I should be proud he was special enough.'

The bitterness of his own words made him hang his head in shame. His Grandfather would've rolled in his grave if he'd heard him speaking so poorly about one of his relatives. Never had he thought Hermione nosy, yet the topic put him on edge in a way that made him want to Apparate on the spot.

'Your mother never mentioned it. You… never mentioned it.'

'She has never told Ana or I much about him, or how he died,' Viktor shrugged, staring at the floor. 'Sometimes I am thinking it must be so terrible that she is protecting us, and other times I believe she is disappointed in him and cannot face the truth, whatever that is. There are no records of his death, no witnesses. No one to know why Grindelwald despatched my Grandfather himself.'

'But Georgi spoke so highly of him!'

Yes, I suppose he would. My Grandfather had more honour than I could ever dream of, Viktor thought gloomily.

He covered Hermione's hand with his own then and gave it a squeeze. To meet her eyes was an impossibility, not yet at least. The circumstances of his other Grandfather's death had always been a matter of nasty rumour and, after the business of Georgi's public murder, it had been overshadowed by the Krum name. Besides, Viktor had always had the feeling his mother was ashamed of her father — of whatever choice he'd made in his last moments — and it had occurred at a time when many in Pureblood society sided with Grindelwald, making the Kostova family the black-sheep of high society in Bulgaria. Sometimes Viktor wondered if Hermione had the easier of their two lives, excepting, of course, the struggles associated with her blood status.

Over the years he'd struggled to process his feelings towards a wizard he'd never known, a ghost in a family filled with secrets, and when Georgi had eventually succumbed to the same fate, Viktor had been left resentful that he knew nothing about his mother's father. In some respects, Sofija Krum harboured more demons than even his own father.

Viktor realised he'd been silent as he ruminated over his family's woes. However, Hermione had made no move to press him.

'So, what advice did my Grandfather haff to give to you then?' Viktor said finally, his tone quietly curious.

Hermione fixed him with a thoughtful stare and then got to her feet. Once wrapped in his arms, she whispered, 'Does he always speak in riddles?'

'What?' That didn't line up with the Grandfather he knew. Georgi was a plain speaker.

'Well, I'm still making sense of everything he said. I think he was trying to tell me more than he could say…'

'The portraits,' Viktor said suddenly. 'They can listen in on each other. Not all my relatives were good.'

'Yes, to that point I think I met your Great-Great-Great-Great-something-Grandfather.'

'Oh.'

They both dissolved into a fit of giggles. Viktor could only imagine her standing up to his haughty relations and the thought made him wonder why he'd ever worried about her facing up to his Grandfather. Hermione Granger was the real force to be reckoned with.

When their laughter had fizzled out into fond looks, Hermione pecked him on the cheek.

'I promise, Viktor, that I'll never keep secrets from you, so when it clicks… you'll be the first to know.'

Over the course of the next hour they worked their way through the rest of the books Hermione had picked out. As Viktor expected, all of the texts that covered wizarding sociology drew heated debate, and on more than one occasion he felt the temperature rising in the room as Hermione argued herself into a state of wildness that made his heart quicken. From her choice of reading, Viktor drew one conclusion — Georgi knew exactly how dangerous a well-prepared, well-informed Hermione Granger was, and there was nothing Viktor knew to be truer.

…

When Hermione climbed under the covers that evening her mouth ached from smiling. It had been another wonderful day, even including the thought-provoking, and sometimes harrowing, conversation she'd had with Viktor's grandfather.

Only the persistently loud grumbling of Viktor's stomach had made her grudgingly leave the library behind that afternoon. Shortly after, they'd Apparated to the outskirts of a small village in the North-West of the country, where Viktor had urged her into a cramped, family-owned restaurant deep in the Balkan Mountains. The mischievous smirk on his face couldn't have prepared her for what was to come.

As a child away for training camp, he'd regularly visited the restaurant with the other boys, and viewed its owner — a petite, wizened old witch — as a stand-in Grandmother when he was away. Much to Hermione's amusement and Viktor's violent embarrassment, the witch had spent almost the entirety of their informal date tousling his hair and chastising him in indecipherable Bulgarian for staying away so long. Afterwards, as they wondered hand-in-hand around his old training grounds, Viktor had apologised profusely for the intrusion, but Hermione had been only too pleased to have an opportunity to tease him for his sentimentality. Privately, she thought he was every Grandmother's dream — he was exactly the charming, handsome young man her own Nana would've teased her about, if only she'd still been alive to continue her tradition of asking Hermione about her romantic attachments every Christmas.

Due to the remote nature of their location Viktor was able to remain glamourless for the trip and had even donned one of his old jerseys for the occasion, even though it was a little on the shabby side (the first time Hermione had seen him look less than effortlessly put together). When she probed him about it, he coloured considerably and admitted he'd never learnt the basic spells for repairing clothes (that Mrs Weasley had impressed on Hermione the first time she'd visited the Burrow), kicking off yet another debate on the pitfalls of relying on house-elves for his upkeep.

Viktor had been lost in thought when he showed her the stadium in which he'd first competed as a boy and where he'd trained every summer before he was signed by his first amateur team.

'Did you think you'd achieve so much, when you were little?' Hermione had asked him as they stood at the steel-barred gates, staring up at the three tired-looking goalposts. She'd expected the best facilities that money could buy, but the pitch and clubhouse in front of her seemed more like something owned by a small, local club: well-loved and well-used.

'I hoped it,' Viktor replied wistfully, 'And sometimes I think I am still dreaming. Back then I thought of nothing but Quidditch, nothing else much mattered. Now I am realising there is more to the world than being the best seeker and that I haff been lucky in more ways than just the one.'

'Oh?' Hermione looked up at him through her lashes, feeling her heart begin to beat a heady tattoo against her chest.

'There is still much more I want to achieve, of course, like finally winning the world cup, but I am no longer the little boy who was immune to everything else. That wizard would not haff cared about a witch, let alone regard her dreams and their happiness as equally important.'

Hermione only had a second to contemplate how far Viktor had come in opening up to her, and how honest and mature he'd become about their relationship, when he gathered her up in his arms and kissed her soundly until neither could entertain much coherent thought.

It could've been merely ten minutes or as long an hour later when Viktor and Hermione Apparated back to the Krum estate, and as Hermione curled up on the chaise lounge after dinner with her head on his shoulder, she couldn't help but feel she'd peeled back another layer of Viktor's secrecy by getting a glimpse into his past.

…

'Ready for a tortuous morning?' Ana said cheerfully to Hermione two days later at breakfast.

Sofija Krum chided her daughter under her breath and cast Hermione a long-suffering look, before beckoning her over to where she was sat flicking through what appeared to be a navy, leather-bound photo album.

'Ignore my daughter. I have no intentions of torturing you this morning, I know my audience.'

Viktor's mother patted the space at her side, inviting Hermione to perch beside her on the sofa. 'I meant to be show you this last night, Hermione dear, but I didn't expect that round of Gobstones to get so out of hand.'

Out of the corner of her eye Hermione noticed a deliberate air of innocence come over Viktor's sister. It really hadn't been wise to provoke Viktor's competitive side. He wasn't the world's best seeker for no reason.

It was at that moment that Hermione caught sight of the contents of the photo album. The page currently on display contained an animated photo of Viktor, not much older than a year, chasing after a mail owl in the entrance hall, stark naked and without a care in the world. A sound halfway between a snort and a dismayed laugh spilled from her lips.

'It is a mother's obligation to embarrass her child.' Sofija said by way of explanation, a twinkle in her eye.

Some minutes later, after Hermione had worked her way through Viktor's childhood in photos, Viktor's mother put a finger to her lips and discreetly tucked the album behind the layers of her pearlescent-white robes, just in time for its much-grown star to slope through the doorway.

'Good morning, sweetheart,' Mrs Krum said with a conspiratorial look at Hermione, 'What plans do you have while we witches take to Sofia for a morning of fun?'

Ana snorted derisively and received another stern look.

'Valentin is coming over to help me pack for England.'

These words had the effect of any effective silencing charm. At Hermione's side Mrs Krum's body stiffened and she glanced away, her expression carefully blank, but that was all it took for Hermione to know that she'd hoped Viktor would stay at home and play for a national team. And, he would've done, if not for her.

No one spoke again until they'd left the house, the tension ebbing away as Ana chatted excitedly about the supplies she wanted to pick up in Bulgaria's largest wizarding shopping quarter, though 'not until we sort Hermione's dress' Mrs Krum said firmly.

Between the two witches Hermione felt plain enough as it was without the reminder that she was heading into unfamiliar territory. Her own mother had only ever dressed up on two occasions in her life — her graduation and wedding — and her practical attitude to clothing had rubbed off on Hermione. Therefore, the result was that she felt woefully unprepared for the day ahead, and she needed no further opportunity to highlight how different she was from Viktor and his family. Just remember how he looked at you at the Yule Ball. That's worth every minute of discomfort, she told herself determinedly.

The first thing that Hermione remarked as the centre of wizarding Bulgaria came into view was that the journey had been no more smooth attached to Mrs Krum's arm than when she was Apparating with Viktor. Her stomach clenched as if to agree. It remained unsettled as they strode down a deserted alleyway, Ana hovering protectively at Hermione's side, but was soon the last thing on her mind when Sofia's equivalent of Diagon Alley came into view.

The main avenue of the wizarding high-street stretched for far greater a distance than the cobblestoned alley back in London and had a sense of order and structure that appealed to Hermione. In the absence of jumbled shops, peeling signs and precariously balanced goods (the chaos that gave Diagon Alley its character) there were street sellers waving phials of potions ingredients and modern shopfronts displaying imports from all around wizarding Europe. It was as though half of the country had ventured out for the day, and, amongst the hustle and bustle of shoppers, no one appeared to notice the regal mien of Mrs Krum, nor the two younger witches following in her shadow as she headed purposefully for a collection of robe shops with brightly coloured exteriors.

Hesitating only to check the two girls were still behind her, Mrs Krum stepped inside the very last shop, the door of which was painted in a vibrant teal, and disappeared from view. Ana waited patiently as Hermione dithered for a moment, watching the thoroughfare of the main street and keenly eyeing a shop that had a number of ancient looking books in its window.

'Let's get this over and done with,' Ana said playfully and Hermione followed her over the threshold, her apprehension stealing some of her usual courage.

Inside Mrs Krum was speaking in a hushed tone to an elegant, fair-haired witch who's eyes snapped to Hermione's face the instance a little bell announced her and Ana's arrival. The sensation of the witch's eyes roaming over her form felt rather like passing inspection; her eyes narrowed of their own accord and she stood a little taller.

'They are both needing dresses?' The witch asked in chilly voice.

'Just our esteemed guest,' Sofija beckoned Hermione over with an outstretched hand. The proprietor watched on eagle-eyed. 'A ball gown of her choosing for a very special occasion. My daughter, however, needs a new set of formal robes for work. Apparently her current set was chewed by a ravenous pack of Murtlaps.' She added dubiously.

Fun. That had been the word Mrs Krum used earlier. At the time Hermione had been as disbelieving as Ana, but after half an hour in the shop she couldn't deny that the whole experience had been almost as pleasurable as her first time in Flourish and Blotts. And, although Hermione was absolutely certain that some of the proprietor's questions were more probing than necessary (most in a less than subtle effort to uncover what relation Hermione was to the Krums), there was no faulting the seamstress' efficiency. Once her measurements had been taken, Sofija walked her around the shop and together they examined reams of fabric unlike anything Hermione had ever seen before — material that reflected light as though it were a diamond, silk that was charmed to give the impression of waves gently oscillating on its surface, and, Hermione's favourite, a burgundy velvet that rippled with a layer of magical flame that disappeared on touch. Her irrational heart had fallen for it. Her moneybag, on the other hand, wasn't so convinced.

'Mrs Krum, Sofija — ' She whispered as she stroked the fabric in awe, but Viktor's mother anticipated her words before she could deliver them.

'Consider it an early birthday present, darling, and as a token of my husband and I's gratitude for making Viktor so happy this last year. We'd never thought it possible that he'd meet his match.'

Only the sound of Jean Granger's voice in her head, chastising her for her lack of manners, forced Hermione to meet Mrs Krum's eyes and politely thank her for the generous gift.

'Come,' Sofija said softly, 'Ana is finished and if we don't escape before she starts complaining we'll never be allowed back. How about we find a shop more to your taste?'

…

Subsequently, Hermione lost most of her morning to books. Neither Ana nor her mother had any word of complaint to offer, and Sofija was more than happy to translate titles and signs for Hermione, showing her to an area deep within the store that housed international works.

When lunchtime arrived Mrs Krum transfigured her robes into a tailored trouser-suit that Hermione marvelled at for the duration of their walk back into muggle Sofia, more so for her skill than the sophistication of the final effect. They ate in a quaint boutique cafe on the outskirts of the wizarding quarter where all three indulged in a selection of home-baked pastries (at Ana's insistence).

It was long past two before they rejoined the throngs of wizards and witches crowding into the high street. Mrs Krum left them to shop at their leisure as she returned to collect their made-to-order clothing, an offer she'd not extended to Ana in case of an outburst. As they passed a Quidditch supplies store Hermione came face to face with the very person she was longing to get back to; a full-length poster of Viktor was stuck to the glass, showcasing the magnificence of their national kit, as well as varying items of high-quality equipment for seekers. It had to have been an old photo, for Hermione hadn't seen him with such short hair before. It made his striking features stand out even more. However, he had the same sullen, distant look that he always displayed to the world; she smiled in spite herself at his obvious irritation with the photographer.

Hermione's appraisal was cut short by Ana angrily growling something in Bulgaria at two teenage wizards who had their noses pressed against the glass. Their cheeks turned a vivid red before they scuttled away, looking over their shoulders and whispering.

'What was that about?'

Ana was already striding away, her hands clenched at her side, and Hermione had to jog to keep up with her. 'Did they do something?' She tried again.

'They were talking about Viktor.' Ana muttered darkly.

'Don't they usually?' Hermione stopped so abruptly that an unsuspecting elderly witch ploughed straight into her. 'Oh! I'm so sorry!'

Ana refused to elaborate any further until they'd found a secluded spot down a deserted alleyway. Once hidden she folded and unfolded her arms uncomfortably, before fixing Hermione with an intense stare.

'They don't like that he's moved to an English team.' She said at long last.

Hermione's heart sank.

'They think he's abandoned his home-country?' She concluded. Her throat constricted when Ana nodded in response.

'But why?' Hermione demanded, 'The article you sent me predicted this before it had even crossed Viktor's mind… or before he told me at least. The reporter seemed to think it was a great opportunity for him!'

Ana sighed, 'Whether Viktor likes it or not, he does a lot for Quidditch in our country. He's had an experience almost every young wizard dreams of; he became a star before he was even out of his teens, never mind how Viktor feels about that. It's been in the papers here, so it's just as well he doesn't bother to read them anymore. People can't understand why he'd joined the wasps when their homegrown team, the Vultures, are pipped to win the league next. Those boys were saying… Hermione, the rumours — the ones we know to be true — that are circulating in England right now, they've made it over here. With my family's complex history some believe he's leaving… for another reason.'

'You-who-know?' Hermione shrieked in disbelief. Ana thrust a hand over her mouth just in time to muffle the words, although they continued to ring in Hermione's ears as the reality of what Viktor's sister was saying sunk in.

'But that's preposterous!' She cried when her breathing had slowed. 'Surely people aren't stupid enough to believe rumours like that? Viktor's never done anything to suggest he had those heinous views!'

'This is what happens when you keep secrets. They will always speculate, jump to conclusions.' Ana hesitated for a moment, her tone one of resignation.

'There's something else, isn't there.'

'My father… he was approached by him during the first war. My parents don't know that I'm aware of it, and I suspect Viktor was never told —'

'Then how?'

'My grandfather,' Ana flashed a sly smile and leaned in to whisper in Hermione's ear, 'While my father has always been very open with his dislike,' She made quotation marks with her fingers, 'There are some that float in my parents' circles that simply couldn't accept that he would hunt their own. Purebloods are supposedly superior, after all. Your Dark Lord wanted his skills, his power, even if he would need a little gentle encouragement to stomach some of the Death Eaters ideologies.'

'But your father refused?'

To her surprise, Ana shrugged. 'No matter how much the papers have slandered him, I know my father. He wouldn't have said yes, but my Grandfather couldn't confirm that he'd said no.'

Hermione's mind was operating at a mile a minute. Every possibility whirled through her head; could Illian Krum have been a spy? Had he been a Death Eater? There was simply no way he could've turned down Voldemort and escaped unscathed — not when he'd been in the height of his power, with the support and fear of thousands. It was just another piece of information that had opened up more questions.

'Why are you telling me this, Ana?' She said in a low whisper, some minutes later.

'Because everything comes out of the woodwork eventually. You need to know that you and your friends have an ally this year. There are ghosts in my family's closet that it would be nicer not to know about, and Viktor will need you.'

'But why does your father keep these things from him?' Hermione said exasperatedly. 'It's not like he's about to go shouting them off the rooftops.'

'He's vulnerable, Hermione. The fame, his family, his influence. The moment things turn he'll become a target for both sides. Didn't you wonder why Viktor was taught Occlumency as a child? Aside from my father's extracurricular activities, he's still the Head of Law Enforcement. He knows a lot of bad things about bad people, and unlike some of the other imbeciles in our Ministry, he's not afraid to use that as an advantage. In the past there have been wizards who've tried to use Viktor to get to our father, take Karkaroff, for example. That idiot was a pretty poor manipulator, but throughout Viktor's education he definitely tried his luck. My mother only stood for it because taking Viktor away from Durmstrang would remove the only stability he had when he was training and competing away from home.'

Hermione was beginning to feel very sick, and it had nothing to do with the excess of sugar she'd consumed at lunch.

'Hermione,' Ana murmured when she failed to reply. And then, taking Hermione completely by surprise, she pulled her into a tight hug. 'I'm not telling you any of this so you'll worry. You told me in one of your letters once that you valued my honesty, so I'm giving you it. Please, keep your ears open… and keep that brilliant mind of yours one step ahead. I think we're all going to need it before the year is out and I'm afraid. For my family. For you.'

'I promise, Ana.'

They caught up with Mrs Krum outside the dress shop, and were whisked back home so Hermione could try on her new dress as a matter of urgency. The only thing on Hermione's mind, however, was that if someone like Ana was scared, then she had to be absolutely terrified.

I was going to include the full conversation between Georgi and Hermione, but I just couldn't get it to read right. We are therefore left with a little mystery! Up next will be Hermione's final night in Bulgaria and the reunion with her boys. Summer has come to an end, and it's time for a threat far worse than Voldemort… Umbridge!

* господар (hospodar, master of the house... I am led to believe!)