TW: Panic attack, vomiting
Hermione woke abruptly and completely. Her body felt weighted and sluggish, but that didn't stop her from scrambling upright and looking around frantically. The walls were a pale, faded blue, and the floor a gleaming chestnut wood. This wasn't her room. These pyjamas weren't hers. Where was she? What happened? And where in Merlin's name was her wand?
It was hard to move enough to even get out of bed, but she managed, stumbling a bit as she did so. All her muscles felt as though they were jelly, limp and uncooperative just like her sluggish mind. But still she cast around for the sight of her vine wood wand, at last spying it on the bedside table. With a lunge, she wrapped her fingers around it, her heart rate slowing only marginally at the familiar weight of the wood in her hand.
"Ah. You're awake." Hermione's head snapped to face the doorway at the sound of a female voice. She relaxed at the sight of Krasmira. "How are you feeling?"
"Feeling?" she repeated blankly. "Fine, I suppose. Where am I? What happened? How did I get here?" The dim light of the fading sun coming through a large paned window sent a frisson of alarm skittering down her spine. How could it be dusk? It had only been half eight last she remembered. No, wait. It had been half nine. Hadn't she gone to the Healing Hall for work? It was all a haze.
Carefully, Krasmira asked, "What do you remember about last night?"
"What do you mean, 'what do I remember'?" Hermione frowned. "It's very clear. I came home last night, and I started packing my things up, and then I—"
Krasmira watched her as her words came to an abrupt halt. "And then you…?"
"And then I—and then I—" Her face twisted as she ran up against a great big blank space in her mind. It wasn't that the memories were fuzzy. It was that they weren't there at all.
Dimly, she realised her breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps as her heart thundered in her ears. "My memories," she whispered, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. "Why can't I remember?"
"Now Hermione—"
"I always remember," she said, her words coming faster and faster. "I have an incredible memory. Not photographic, but—but—and I can't remember. I can't remember anything." Her voice cracked. "It's gone. All last night. And this morning—I—what happened this morning? I...did I come to work? I did. And I—you—and then Viktor—"
She broke off, her throat tight with fear. The morning was coming back in pieces. Waking up, feeling ill. Checking to make sure it was nothing serious. Krasmira, her expression turning to alarm as Hermione swayed in front of it. Then...a haze, a cloud, a confusion. Viktor had been there? Yes, and she'd clung to him, begging him not to go, and he'd soothed her right to sleep with his warm, big hands and his comforting presence.
A gentle hand rested on her back. "Take a deep breath." Hermione inhaled shakily and let it out. Encouragingly, Krasmira said, "That's good. Another. Yes. Just like that. Come, sit down on the bed. Yes. Good girl. Can you breathe some more for me? In for five, out for five. Good. Good. Just like that."
Gradually, her breathing calmed down under the Healer's quiet instruction, and she was left feeling exhausted and scared as she stared down at her hands. When she searched for the events of last night, there was this yawning chasm of emptiness. She recalled the letter from Professor McGonagall. Then she packed a little. And then nothing. Not anything. It was like walking off a cliff: the ground was there one minute and the next it was gone.
"It's all gone," she croaked. "All of it. I remember getting a letter, then folding a shirt, and then nothing. It's like nothing happened last night. Like I was asleep and I missed it, except worse, somehow. It's empty. Just gone."
Krasmira inhaled sharply, clasping her hands behind her back. "Hermione. Mia. There is no easy way to say this, but I believe that you were Obliviated last night."
Obliviated? "You mean someone erased my memories?" Just the idea of it made her recoil.
She nodded. "It appears that whoever did this didn't want you to know who they were or what they did."
"What they did?" she repeated faintly. A faint imitation of Viktor's voice echoed in her mind. There's evidence that you've been Crucioed.
Crucioed. Tortured. She'd been tortured, then Obliviated. Someone had stolen into her mind, the very thing that she held most precious about herself, and ripped parts of her memory away from her.
Bile rose in her throat at the thought. Had they erased something else? Her memories and experiences made her who she was, and if they were different, or altered, or—or not there at all, was she no longer the Hermione she knew? Had she unknowingly become someone different than she was yesterday?
Her stomach lurched and she bent over, retching helplessly. Cool hands pulled her hair back for her, and Krasmira smoothed a hand over her brow when she was at last done.
"I'm so sorry." The Healer's voice was taut with emotion. "It's such a violation, especially to someone like you and I who prize our minds so much." Her voice hardened and her expression grew fierce. "Whenever we find who did this to you...I am going to bring all my power to bear to punish them as they should be."
"I don't even know what they did," she said miserably, the sour taste of bile still in her mouth. "I don't even know, but I know it was bad because my body feels...wrong. My magic, too, feels...jagged, almost. Usually it's calm and a little warm, almost like a lake on a sunny day. Now it feels...choppy. Ragged. Like a thread with knots in it that I'm trying to thread a needle with."
Krasmira, who had been getting her a glass of water from a jug on the table across the room, handed it to her. "Drink this."
At first, Hermione didn't want to, worried that she would just throw it all up again, but the water tasted refreshing and the entire glass was gone before she knew it.
Nodding approvingly at her, Krasmira said, "Good. Now, you asked what happened to you and said you recalled a little of this morning. Let me tell you in brief, then, what happened. When you arrived this morning, something had clearly happened to you. You were largely incoherent and were exhibiting the classic symptomology of someone who had experienced a bout of the Cruciatus curse—tremors, sporadic nerve pain, headache, confusion, slurred speech and impaired cognition. I will admit," the older witch said with a frown, "that it took me longer than I would have liked to reach that conclusion, but I would not have expected you to show up for a normal day with any sort of injury, let alone one so grievous."
Hermione nodded slowly. "Yes." Her voice was a faint thread of sound. "I remember Viktor telling me that it was likely I'd been Crucioed."
Krasmira smoothed her hand down Hermione's hair again, the action calming Hermione as she continued her recitation. "The Cruciatus largely targets the nerves of the body as well as the magical core. Simply put, it pulls them apart. Your nerves are stretched, as is your core, until they break. It is the pain of those things happening that cause first memory loss—as the mind tries to protect itself—and then madness as it breaks under the pressure, not to mention the lasting physical effects."
None of this information was brand new to her. They had discussed this once in a lecture a few months ago. The diagrams and the conversation had been interesting, but it was one thing to understand it objectively and quite another to actually experience it herself.
However..."I don't feel pain currently," she reported, her brows furrowed.
Krasmira flicked her wand at a chair, which pulled itself across the floor before parking itself at Hermione's bedside. Taking a seat, her gaze never left Hermione's as she told her, "That's normal. Usually pain occurs at the time of exposure. Common side effects that often manifest afterwards are periodic bouts of nerve pain, tremors, and core damage."
Her mouth ran dry. "Permanent core damage?"
"Depending on the length of exposure, it can be." Krasmira reached out and took Hermione's hand. "However, based on your scans, I believe that you were not subjected to a particularly prolonged bout. You should recover with little to no long term effects."
At Krasmira's pronouncement, Hermione slumped like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
It wasn't permanent. She would be okay.
"Are you certain?" she asked, sniffling.
"As certain as I can be." Wordlessly, Krasmira handed her a handkerchief. "So long as you do not perform magic for the next several days—any magic—and rest, I believe you'll be just fine."
"Of course, anything you say." She nodded obediently then stopped short as she realized— "The World Cup! I have to go with you."
"Absolutely not."
"But it's what we've been working so hard toward—it's the final match—I want to, no, I need to be there to support them and help you! What if something goes wrong?"
"Then I will be able to address it," Krasmira said firmly, "without your help."
Her lips trembled. Objectively, she knew that Krasmira wasn't doing this to punish her for some imagined infraction, but subjectively it felt very much like that. She had been with the team for so long (or at least it felt that way), and to be unable to see it through to the end felt bitterly, horribly disappointing.
Krasmira sighed as she took in Hermione's expression, her own changing to one of sympathy. "I know this must be all terribly upsetting, and I wish I could do something to make it easier." She shifted in her chair, her lips pressing together for a moment, as she said, "There are a lot of things I wish I could do or had done. Hermione…"
When she didn't continue, Hermione searched her expression. "Yes?"
Krasmira looked into her eyes, and Hermione was shocked at the upset she saw there. "I feel as though it's my fault, somehow." At Hermione's dumbfounded expression, the Healer continued, "I feel as though I should have known that something was wrong, that all was not well with you. After all, I'm your Mistress. That's a responsibility that I take very seriously, only I failed to even realise that things were amiss in your home until Viktor brought it up. I wish you had told me. I could have helped you."
Hermione swallowed. "I...didn't think to."
It was true. She hadn't, not even for a moment, thought to confide in Krasmira.
"I should have made it clear that I'm here for you, however you need and whatever you need. Taking an apprentice is a very serious endeavor—the bond is a deep one, akin to a magical adoption. Even after our time is over, we will be connected. I thought I had explained this to you when I first proposed this, but I must not have been as thorough as I should have been."
Shaking her head, Hermione replied, "I'm not sure it would have made a difference. I...tend to keep things to myself and fix them on my own. It's how it's always been."
Krasmira looked at her with a shrewd eye. "You need to learn to rely on others that you trust, like myself and Viktor, for example. You'll find you can get much further, much faster if you do so."
Given her track record, she thought that doubtful. Although...that time with Viktor, when he offered that solution so easily...well. Perhaps there was some merit to the idea. But it would be difficult, very difficult, really, to change her ways.
"I'll try my best," she said doubtfully, "but I'm not sure how successful I'll be at it."
"If you can't learn to rely on those close to you, it will come to haunt you." Krasmira stood up and brushed off dress. "Trust me. I have experience with this very issue myself. Now," she said briskly, changing the subject, "due to the revelations from this morning, you'll be staying with me for the rest of your time here."
Her breath caught at that. What would Sirius think of that? "But Magellan—"
"Is clearly not suited to be a guardian." Krasmira levelled her with a look that made Hermione shrink. "Someone who brings people to their home that makes you uncomfortable, someone who abandons a child for long stretches of time, someone who kicks a child out of their own home with nowhere to go—"
She stopped, taking a few deep breaths. When she started again, her voice, which had risen, was noticeably calmer. "Someone like that has no business being in charge of a child. No matter how mature that child may be," she told Hermione sternly, "a child is still a child. So. You are staying with me, and that is that."
"Yes, Mistress," Hermione said meekly.
"Good." Krasmira let out a breath, looking a bit relieved before her expression turned determined. "That's settled, then. If you can promise me that you will not attempt to assist during the Cup, you may come and watch. I would almost prefer that, I think, in case you need anything."
"Should I be concerned about something happening that would make me need something? Like a relapse, or something?"
"No, of course not." Kramsira appeared taken aback, and to Hermione's surprise, a hint of a flush touched her cheeks. "I just...wanted to keep you close. In case anything should happen. Which it won't." Her mouth turned down at the edges, and she muttered, "Nobody warned me it would be like this."
Hermione chose not to ask what that meant, considering that the typical calm and collected Krasmira Lazarov seemed a bit, well, flustered.
Said Healer coughed, then told her, "Rest, and we will see how you feel in the morning. I'll have Jankae deliver you a tray."
Hermione could only nod and watch in bemused silence as the older witch quickly left the room, apparently done with the emotional conversation.
Jankae turned out to be a small, well-dressed house elf with a soft, high pitched voice who badgered Hermione into eating every single item on her plate and then efficiently bullied Hermione back underneath the covers. Hermione, who protested that she was not tired in the least, was met with an unimpressed look before being tucked in extra efficiently.
She awoke some time later without realising she had been asleep, a soft touch against her arm ripping her out of the sweet arms of sleep. Her skin crawled as her heart lurched, and she scuttled away back into the corner of the room the bed was flush against, her breathing hard and her eyes wild.
"Hermione, it's just me. It's Krasmira." The sound of a voice that she recognised caught her attention, and the person in front of her came into focus. Krasmira was standing before her in a set of silk amethyst pyjamas and a thin ivory robe, her black hair loose and flowing over her shoulders.
Something in her relaxed, and she heaved a shuddering breath. "Sorry," she apologised, inching back toward the edge of the bed. "I…" was frightened.
"No need to apologise. It is I who should be apologising for waking you." Krasmira pulled a piece of parchment out of the pocket of her robe and held it out. Crossly, she said, "There's been a change in plans for tomorrow."
Hermione took the letter and scanned it, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. It was a missive from the office of the Minister for Magic of Bulgaria, who instructed that Hermione was to attend the match in the Minister's box—both Ministers, it seemed—since she was so perfectly suited to act as a bridge between the two countries.
"'Who else would be so perfectly situated to smooth the way between England and Bulgaria as we enjoy the Cup other than someone intimately involved and intimately acquainted with both cultures?'" she read with growing horror. Placing the letter down on the coverlet, she stared at Krasmira. "I can't do it."
"You don't have a choice." Krasmira ran a hand over her hair, agitated. "This is exactly what I would not want for you. You're ill and only just now recovering from one of the most traumatic injuries you can get. But Oblansk won't care, I think. If he's commanded it, you'll need to go."
Shaking her head, the Healer continued, "I don't like this. I don't like this at all. He must have read about you in the papers. He does like to surround himself with people of note, and he must have seized upon you as a perfect way to get something from the English Minister. But what? Well. No matter. It doesn't matter for you. Just try to keep quiet and not draw any attention to yourself. The easier he can forget you're there, the better."
Hermione's mouth was drier than the Saharan desert, her pulse pounding and her head growing fuzzy. "I'll do my best."
o-O-o
Her hands wouldn't stop trembling. It wasn't noticeable, really, except when she looked down at them, but their normal steadiness was absent.
"It doesn't matter," she murmured to herself as she took a deep breath and straightened her robes, ready to step out of the designated portkey area that she landed in moments earlier. "It's not like I'll need to be precise for any spellwork, so it's not really a big issue, is it?"
Her attempt at placating herself fell flat. She wouldn't be doing any spellwork because she couldn't do magic. Any magic. And that was because she had been tortured, but she couldn't recall it because she'd been Obliviated.
But she couldn't think on that now. No, all of that had to be pushed to the wayside, or she'd find herself hiding in the loo, the entire concept and reality of things too much for her to handle on top of the day barrelling toward her.
No. She couldn't focus on that, so instead she stepped out of the portkey area and looked around, her breath catching at the sight and sounds that greeted her.
After all that she had seen this summer, Hermione had thought she had a grip on Quidditch stadiums. They were all different, of course, due to the country it was in, but they all consisted of a pitch, hoops, and seating that was stacked on top of each other, none of the gradation seen in football stadiums present.
The stadium built for the World Cup Final, however, was something on a completely different scale. The pitch was greener, the fans were noisier, and the seating was greater in number and higher than anything she had seen before.
Not to mention the box she was in, now. It was large, with an area at the back that held some drinks and food to snack on. At the opposite end, there were about five or ten cushioned seats that faced the pitch, nothing obstructing their view. Not a window. Not any bars. Nothing. There had to be some kind of ward that prevented spectators from falling to their deaths, she thought as she eyed it from a distance, leery of getting too close until she needed to.
The sound of fireworks from behind her caught her attention, and she left the box to see where they had come from, entering some kind of walkway that other spectators were using to get to their seats.
As she looked outwards over the edge, she was stunned by the sight of what seemed to be a sprawling tent city that spanned in every direction as far as the eye could see. Even from her vantage point, which was dizzyingly high, she could hear various strains of music as people swarmed like ants through the grounds.
"Incredible," she breathed, truly taken aback. Nobody had told her that this would be on such a large scale, but it shouldn't have surprised her. After all, muggle football had events on this scale. She just hadn't expected to see something comparable in the magical world.
As she returned to the box, a voice called her name from the left. "Miss Granger?"
She turned in surprise and met the piercing gaze of Lord Malfoy, who she seemed to be running into with alarming regularity.
"Lord Malfoy," she greeted, taken aback. Upon seeing Draco next to him, she added, "Malfoy."
"Granger." Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise before his expression cleared into something Hermione could call polite. "Fancy seeing you here."
"What a pleasant surprise indeed," Lord Malfoy said smoothly. "May I inquire as to how we've been graced with your presence?"
Idly, Hermione wondered at how a wizard who spewed vitriol about 'witches of her kind' could also drip honey toward the same. Both of them had been strangely, eerily polite to her at the Ball as well, and she didn't know quite what to make of it.
Defiantly, she straightened her back. She was, after all, here at the command of the Bulgarian minister. "Minister Oblansk specifically requested I attend the match here." Almost against her will, she looked down, down down to the far end of the pitch where she knew Krasmira waited, her Healing Hall at the ready should any of the team need it. "Otherwise I would be with my Mistress helping to prepare."
"Ah, yes," the Malfoy patriarch murmured. "You're working with Krasmira Lazarov, are you not? Quite a prestigious honour, would you not agree, Draco?"
Draco shifted, his expression scrupulously neutral. "Yes."
"I'm just not working with her," Hermione felt compelled to point out. "I'm apprenticing under her."
"Apprenticing?" Draco blurted out, his eyebrows shooting up. "At our age? That's impossible."
"I assure you, young Mister Malfoy, it most certainly is not." A tall man, somewhat rotund around the middle, joined the conversation with a jovial demeanour. Hermione recognised him from last year, even though they had never officially met.
It was Minister Fudge, who she hated due to his persecution of an animal only behaving as his nature dictated.
"Why, Miss Granger," he said, turning his politician's smile on her, "it is a true pleasure indeed to officially make your acquaintance in better circumstances, especially with that little bit of business from earlier in the year behind us."
That little bit of business, Hermione assumed, was the incident of Buckbeak and the rather thorough assistance she gave Hagrid to defend the hippogriff. Ah, yes, and his total disbelief of her and Harry's claims in the Hospital Wing that Sirius was innocent.
She gave herself credit for not saying anything in response even as he continued, "Your exploits this summer have been quite gripping." At his accompanying wink, Hermione's stomach plummeted. What exactly did he mean by that?
"You have?" She asked, and then, scrambling for cover as she tried to figure out how to respond, said, "How wonderful, Mister…"
"Fudge," Lord Malfoy supplied, his eyes gleaming. Whether in amusement at her stalling tactics or in pleasure at her uncertainty, she was unsure. "Minister Fudge."
Hermione hoped that her expression didn't show anything too compromising as the British Minister for Magic fairly preened in front of her. "An honour to formally make your acquaintance, Minister Fudge."
A sudden thought occurred to her. Did one curtsey to such a figure? Or was curtseying a strictly muggle construct? If she curtseyed in front of the Malfoys and it was, she'd have to bear their derision the entire time she was stuck in the box with them, but at least she would show appropriate respect to a man of his station.
Then again—she searched her memory—Mother hadn't curtseyed to the PM when she met him, though Hermione rather thought she disliked Mr Major, just as Hermione disliked Minister Fudge.
Hm. But...well. Best err on the side of caution. She compromised with herself and gave a slight curtsey.
"My, my!" Fudge seemed even more pleased, if that were possible. "Such formality at an event like this. My dear child, please don't stand on politeness—we are all here to enjoy ourselves, after all."
The superficiality of it all grated on her, making her wish that she was where she belonged: down there in the Healing Hall with Krasmira, supporting her friends as best as she could. But she had been rendered magicless, powerless, and was now some kind of strange pawn for Minister Oblansk, who had yet to make an appearance.
As if on cue, the designated portkey area chimed, and moments later a tall, imposing figure garbed in black and burgundy arrived, shrewd eyes housed in a chiseled face with a neatly trimmed goatee. "Akh, glupaviyat chovek!" he called, his pronunciation crisp but warm as he moved toward Minister Fudge.
At his words, Hermione choked. The Minister—for who else would it be—cast a look in her direction, one eye dropping in an unmistakable wink before he shook Minister Fudge's hand.
Moments later, Fudge motioned Hermione over with a commanding, and yet slightly panicked air.
"Ah, Minister!" Fudge exclaimed. "How pleasant it is to see you once more. Here, here — Miss Granger, allow me to introduce you to Mr Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr — well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic."*
"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger," Minister Oblansk inclined his head toward her as he greeted her in Bulgarian.
"A pleasure to meet you as well, sir," she replied in the same language.
Fudge bounced a bit on the balls of his feet as he cleared his throat just the slightest. "I asked Minister Obalon — the Minister here to invite you, as I thought you were a spectacular example of the warm relationship our two countries have with each other. Imagine, a prodigal witch making her mark so young in a foreign country!"
So she wasn't here at Oblansk's pleasure. She was here at Fudge's. Somehow, that was even worse, but it wasn't surprising. It was clear to her that the British Minister did as he pleased to maintain a certain appearance with little thought for the consequences.
Oblansk, who had completely ignored Fudge's explanation, instead focussed on her, his expression evaluating. "You have been apprenticing with Mistress Lazarov?"
She nodded. "Yes. I've been immensely grateful for the opportunity. She's...well, she's wonderful."
The Minister's brow arched. "I've heard her described many ways, but that is not one of them."
Hermione winced. "She grows on you."
Oblansk smirked. "Does she. Regardless, I must thank you for your treatment of my Alexei."
"Alexei?"
"You healed him a few months ago, did you not? It was during the match with the Moroccans, and you helped healed him. My sister is very grateful to you, as am I, considering that he is my nephew."
Well. She had not seen that coming. "It was simply my duty," she replied, bowing her head. "Alexei is a wonderful man. I am glad to have been able to help him recover quickly."
"A modest witch." His gaze turned assessing. "Are you betrothed?"
Betrothed?
"Minister Oblansk." Lucius Malfoy stepped smoothly into the conversation, Bulgarian slipping off his tongue courtesy of a translation charm. "Welcome to England. I have had the privilege of visiting Bulgaria before, in Sofia. It was beautiful. Have you had the chance to visit England prior to this? No? May I extend an offer to visit us whenever you please? Malfoy Manor is quite comfortable, and my wife Narcissa always is an exceptional hostess…"
She had never considered the possibility that she would be grateful for Lucius Malfoy and his political machinations, but here she was, wilting in relief as he deftly guided the Bulgarian Minister away from her.
Fudge looked quite deflated as Malfoy Senior took his prize away, but recovered nonetheless. "I do hope you were representing us well in that conversation, Miss Granger."
"Do you not have a translation charm, Minister?" she asked, unable to understand why the English Minister for Magic, of all people, wouldn't.
Fudge cleared his throat and sniffed. "Ah, well," he said a bit awkwardly, "I must have misplaced the thing." He patted his pocket. "I'd had it right here, I thought, but when I went to find it, it had simply disappeared. Right along with Mr Crouch, damn the man," he muttered, the statement clearly not meant for her ears.
"Would you like mine?" she offered. "I've been using a long-term charm that teaches me Bulgarian over time, so I should be able to get by without it given how long I've been using it." Carefully, she pulled off the bracelet that she'd worn since the beginning of the summer and held it out.
Startled, Fudge's mouth worked a little as he blinked. "That is very kind of you," he said at last, accepting the charm. "I won't forget your kindness."
"Really, it's no problem at all," she responded cheerfully, hoping that if Fudge was able to speak with Oblansk directly, the Bulgarian Minister would be too busy to ask her any further, uncomfortable questions that she didn't understand the motivation behind. A betrothal. For Merlin's sake.
As Fudge busied himself putting on the bracelet while he joined the other two wizards, Hermione walked to the edge of the box, surveying the pitch. She wondered, idly, and not for the first time, what it must be like to play in front of such a voracious audience, two competing groups of fans so certain that their team would emerge victorious. The pressure must be immense to score goals with the Quaffle, hit the Bludger, protect the hoops, and catch the snitch.
She did not envy any of them in the slightest.
"Everyone ready?"* A man with a presence more forceful than a Bludger bounded into the box, his face alight with anticipation.
"Come," Oblansk motioned for Hermione to take a seat next to him, which left her placed, somehow, between Draco and the dark-haired wizard. "Can you see?"
She nodded, and, satisfied, Oblansk sat back. Fudge, seeing that his guest of honour was prepared, motioned for the other wizard to commence. "Ready when you are, Ludo."*
It was fascinating to be at the centre of the announcing, she thought as the frenetic energy of the crowd whipped over her and Ludo's voice thundered through the stadium. The feeling, of being part of the crowd instead of apart, was completely different, and she found herself swept up in the excitement as Ludo roared, "Allow me to introduce...the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
Next to her, Oblansk's mouth curled a bit, and he leaned over to her as he pulled something out of his pocket. "Put these in," he instructed as he handed over two earplugs. "It will help prevent you from making a spectacle of yourself."
On her other side, Draco's mouth had dropped open and he appeared ready to clamber over the edge of the box as a wave of beautiful women and men with hair that shined like moonbeams swept onto the field.
"Who are they?" she asked, her mind spinning. She had never seen anyone quite as striking as they were. It was hypnotic just watching them, let alone hearing their song.
"Veela," Oblansk replied with satisfaction. "Damned expensive to hire, but worth it if they manage to distract the Irish."
Hermione stifled her grin as Lucius Malfoy banded an arm around his son's middle to prevent him from doing anything else untoward, the older wizard somehow completely unaffected.
But really, what should she have expected? she thought uncharitably. He was Pureblood perfection incarnate. He had probably come out of the womb with a heart of iron and an inability to be swayed by anything but money and power.
The Veela's hypnotic spell broke as a swarm of leprechauns came in, throwing gold, and the crowd roared their approval.
"Don't bother," she heard Malfoy instruct Draco. "The Irish Ministry wouldn't be willing to part with their galleons so easily, and leprechauns are notorious for illusions. It is likely it will all disappear."
Hermione didn't care one way or the other if the money disappeared or not, her attention directed elsewhere. The Bulgarian mascots had come first, followed by the Irish; following that logic, the Bulgaria team would come in first.
And come in they did, arching up and over the edge of the stadium before they rocketed down across the pitch, little more than streaks of burgundy.
There they were, she thought fondly. There they were. Her coworkers, her teammates, her friends. Zograf, with his tendency to drink and his fear of portkeys. Ivan, who was the quietest of the bunch but who worked as tirelessly as the rest. Vasily, with his quick wit and loyal heart. Alexei, who always had a kind word and a quick smile for her. Ah, and there was Pyotr on the right, whose smile masked his pain but whose pain did not define him. Clara, who was as fierce as the rest of them but who also took the time to take a young girl under her wing, was by his side.
And last, but not least, Viktor.
Viktor, who had somehow, in some way, quietly managed to become an integral part of her world. Viktor, who had initially dismissed her as a fan, had taken her into his home, had shown her kindness after kindness, had shared his mother, his people, his culture, his life with her in a million ways both small and large this summer. Viktor, who made her heart race and her mouth dry, who made her laugh and held her when she cried, who gave her advice and asked for hers.
Viktor, who she would brave her fears and defy the world for.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered as he hugged one side of the stadium and shot straight up in front of her, doing some kind of flashy trick that made him look weightless. His eyes snagged hers, the connection between them flaring for a brief, breathless moment before he was off again, completing his circuit and rejoining the others as the crowd ate up his antics with screams of approval.
"Krum, Krum, Krum, Krum!"
Next to her, Oblansk shifted. His tone speculative, he asked, "You never did answer my question, did you?"
"Oh look," she pointed somewhat desperately at the pitch, "the Irish have come out!"
As Ludo energetically yelled their names and Lynch spiralled down into the stadium in some death defying move, she wondered if Krasmira and Aidan had kept seeing each other. She never had gotten the courage to ask her Mistress, but even she wasn't blind enough not to see the way they had been together at the Ball.
In short order, the players lined up and the match commenced. It was just as fast and furious, if not moreso, than the ones she had seen before. She struggled to follow it, her eyes darting as she struggled to keep track of who was who, especially as Ludo could only get out their names due to the ferocity of play.
"Here." Startled, she glanced over at Malfoy, who wasn't even looking at her as he held out a pair of Omnioculars. She and Krasmira had used them before, and they had been really helpful.
When she didn't take them, still too surprised that Malfoy of all people was offering her something not only nice but also helpful, he pulled his eyes from his own pair long enough to give her a disgruntled look. He shook them at her a little. "What are you waiting for, Granger? An engraved invitation?"
"Thanks." She took them, her mind buzzing. The first voluntary interaction Malfoy had had with her all evening and it had been something…not hostile. Nice, even.
"Oh, I say!*" Hermione scrambled to adjust her Omnioculars as Ludo's exclamation alerted her to the fact that Viktor and Aidan had started plummeting to the ground like comets.
They were going to crash, she thought, half-horrified but hoping it was one of Viktor's more suicidal feints. At that velocity, it would be bad if they crashed.
At the last moment he pulled up, the broom giving the slightest shudder as he asked it to change trajectory on a dime. Aidan, however, wasn't so lucky and ploughed right into the ground.
She hissed as the Irish Healers sprinted out and started plying him with potions, the crowd clamouring at the sight.
At her noise, Oblansk turned to her, curious. "What is it?"
"No matter what they give him, his play will be affected after an impact like that. He's likely got at least a few broken bones, though if he's lucky he'll have avoided a concussion." She shook her head. "He'll be right mad about that one, I bet."
The crash seemed to light a fire under the Irish: after Aiden was up in the air again, they were merciless, scoring goal after goal. No matter what happened, Hermione knew, Zograf would be getting soused that evening, angry at himself for letting so many Quaffles through.
When she took a moment to peel her eyes away from the play and check the score, she winced. 110-10. The only person who'd scored so far was Clara, and that was after the team had done one of their sleight of hand manoeuvers they were so famous for.
The match got dirtier as time went on, the Irish angling to broaden their lead as the Bulgarians fought to tighten it. Hermione gasped and groaned and cheered with the rest of them, though she closed her eyes when Ivan and Pyotr were penalised for arguing with the referee about the mascots.
"What are they thinking?" she groaned as the Irish scored an easy twenty points. It was now 130-10, and Viktor and Aidan were circling and swooping and diving as they searched for the snitch.
"They weren't, I don't think," Malfoy said dryly. "That's a poor move if I've ever saw one. Everyone knows you don't argue with a referee. Madam Hooch would have my—" he caught himself as he realised the company he was in. "Well, it wouldn't be good if I tried that. I'd get a detention."
Hermione had, for a moment, flat forgot that Malfoy played as well. Not only played, but was also a Seeker of all things. She opened her mouth to ask what his thoughts were on the crash when Quigly, an Irish Beater, clearly, blatantly, and quite maliciously hit a Bludger right into Viktor's face.
"Now see here!" She was on her feet without knowing it, protesting the foul with the rest of the audience as Viktor bled profusely from his nose. It was certainly broken, she thought with a wince. That'd make, what, the third time? He was going to be so mad about it, insisting it would make his nose even more crooked no matter how many times she told him it had healed back to its original shape.
Next to her, Oblansk was furious as well, gesturing for the referee to call a foul. Unfortunately, the wizard in question seemed quite distracted by the fight that had broken out between the mascots.
And yet, above the chaos and pandemonium, the match continued as ferociously as the fight below it. Viktor, who had been wiping his nose with his sleeve, suddenly snapped his head down and to the right. A bare instant later, he was off in that way he had, sleek and fast and true.
"He's seen it," she murmured, knowing it was true. He'd seen the snitch. The end of the game was nigh.
Ludo almost vibrated out from underneath his bowler hat. "Krum's spotted the snitch, and Lynch is hot on his tail! They're going—they're going—another dive—is that a Wronskei Defense by Krum yet again? He's gone—he's diving—He's—and Lynch crashes once more!—Does Krum have it?—Does he—HE DOES! KRUM HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH!"
Hermione laughed exuberantly and danced in place, her excitement getting the better of her. Viktor really was incredible, wasn't he? He had such a way with the—
She stopped short and gasped as her eye caught the numbers flashing on the scoreboard: 170-160, with Ireland in favour.
"No," she breathed. "It can't be."
"KRUM CATCHES THE SNITCH," Ludo yelled, horrified glee in his voice, "BUT IRELAND WINS THE MATCH!"
Notes. I am so disappointed that they lost, but I couldn't figure out how Hermione's presence over the summer would affect the match in a way that changed the balance, especially since she isn't directly involved in the sport and match itself. She only heals them when they're injured. I wrote the match four times and it just never worked out. :(
It's hard to believe this was chapter eight of GoF! Hehe. There's only one calendar week left in this fic until the term—and the second arc—starts!
Credit. Anything with an asterisk in this chapter is a quote from GoF.
Translations. Akh, glupaviyat chovek! = Ah, the stupid man! (I am sorry if this is wrong, I am at Google's mercy.)