They had lost.

All that effort, all the sweat, blood, tears, hopes, and dreams they had put into this, and they had lost.

To say that Viktor felt crushed was an understatement. It didn't matter that he had caught the snitch. It didn't matter that they had fought tooth and nail, or that Lynch had tried to pull off the Wronskei Feint and failed before crashing for a second and final time, or that Quigly had hit a bludger to Viktor's face and that his nose was almost certainly broken again, because they had lost despite all of that.

They. Had. Lost.

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of him, along with the hope and joy of the match. His adrenaline was still running high and his nose throbbing terribly as the Irish anthem played triumphantly through the stadium and green and silver confetti floated through the air.

Numbly, he guided his broom to the center of the field so that he could shake hands with the other players. Lynch was notable for his absence, the Irish looking strangely off kilter with six players instead of seven.

They all exchanged the necessary platitudes, even as the Beaters on both teams looked rather murderous, before flying towards the Minister's Box to dutifully pay homage to the hoi polloi. Even though Viktor didn't care much to speak to any of them, his attention focussed solely on Hermione, the Bulgarian Minister still managed to speak with him first.

"Viktor Krum. At last we meet in the flesh," Oblansk said with a politician's smooth smile. His eyes were warm and appreciative as he went on, "I've been following your career. You're an exceptional Seeker. I've never seen anything like it."

"Thank you, Sir." Erring on the side of formality, he gave a half bow. Known for his strict and straightforward manner of accomplishing his goals, Oblansk was a formidable presence in Bulgarian society, not only for his position as Minister but as patriarch to one of the oldest houses of the Svyato. It would not do well to offend such a man.

"Please, let's not stand on formalities." Oblansk waved a hand dismissively. "You are one of my Alexei's friends, and a Bulgarian treasure on your own. Your future is very promising, Viktor, and not only because of Quidditch. What with your performance at Durmstrang thus far as well as your already notable contributions to your House, I see you going very far indeed."

"I am simply doing as I must, but I thank you all the same."

Oblansk laughed. "So modest. Come now, have you thought of a career in politics? With your connections because of Quidditch, you could do very well in the international office. I would be more than happy to sponsor you."

"I'm still considering my options," he replied noncommittally. "There are a few things I'm interested in, but my family comes first, as always."

Oblansk's eyes sharpened. "Such loyalty is to be commended, especially since you can so easily make your own way if you chose."

Viktor shrugged. "I have a duty. It is as simple as that."

"Are you harassing Viktor, chicho?" Alexei came up next to Oblansk, his eyes narrowed. "Give the poor man a break. We just played the World Cup, for Zhiva's sake."

"Do not tell me what I can and can't do," Oblansk replied, but his tone was mild. "He's right in this case, however. Viktor, think about what I said. If you change your mind, send me an owl. I'd be happy to help."

Viktor bowed again as Oblansk moved off, the exchange already fading to the back of his mind as he caught sight of Hermione, the only person in this blasted box that he was remotely interested in speaking with. Her expression was sympathetic as she spoke with Clara, whose visage was, for once, downcast, and he hastened his steps. He needed to talk to her. He needed her reassurance. He needed her understanding eyes and steadying hands as he sought comfort from her in the face of his biggest failure, which would be discussed ad nauseum worldwide for the next few weeks.

"Viktor," she said softly when he finally got to her, her eyes gleaming with compassion, "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged, unable to say that it was fine. It wasn't fine. "I should have caught it sooner—or perhaps later."

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided him, reaching up and resting her fingers on his cheek as she turned his head first one way and the next. Tsking, she said, "That is absolutely broken. You'll need to get Krasmira to fix that up. I would, but—" She grimaced. "I'd rather she do it, given that my hands aren't as steady as I'd like."

"I'll get her to look at it," he promised, "though I wish that you could mend it yourself. You've a lighter touch."

She looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah." He nodded.

Her brows furrowed as she searched his expression. "You're joking, aren't you?" she accused. Against all odds, he felt himself break into a smile.

"No, no," he insisted, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Your Episky is far gentler than hers."

"A broken bone is a broken bone." Vasily came up beside him, companionably jostling his shoulder. "Don't let the man tell you otherwise. He's just flattering you."

Despite Vasily's lighthearted actions, Viktor could see the pain in the Chaser's dark eyes. They were, to a player, crushed, but in the Bulgarian way, they didn't show it to outsiders. They waited until they were behind doors to express themselves.

Viktor glanced down at Hermione, his hand coming up to gently grip her arm. "You're coming to the tent, right?"

"The tent?" she repeated, confused.

"Yeah," Vasily confirmed. "We always have a tent dedicated to the team in case any of us need it before or after the matches, although most of us portkey straight home after since we prefer our own beds. For those who stay to enjoy the revelry, they usually have their own tents, but it's a nice perk. I think I can safely speak for all of us that none of us would like to be alone tonight. We'll probably…" He cut himself off as he realised that other inhabitants of the box were avidly watching them interact. "Anyway, say you'll come?"

"Of course." Her response was immediate and without hesitation. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

A few minutes later, after greeting both ministers, who complimented him on his playing—not that it mattered, considering they had lost—they all said their farewells and mounted their brooms.

Flying back out into the stadium so they could get to the locker room was a uniquely humiliating Irish National Anthem was still playing, the Irish fans were still chanting, and green and white confetti still rained down on them.

"Well," Ivan finally said after they had all trudged inside, "this sucks."

They all nodded. "I wish this was a bad dream," Clara added, her voice hushed. "I wish I could wake up and redo it all over again. Our fans—the country—I feel as if we let them down."

"If only I hadn't argued with Hassan over the damn Veela," Pyotr burst out, kicking the bottom of a locker as they entered the room. "What was I thinking!"

Clara simply rested a hand on his shoulder. He paused, looked at her, and bowed his head.

Zograf ran a hand over his bearded face. The Keeper looked tired as he heavily said, "If we're to go down that path, I caused a foul too."

"And I helped you argue with Hassan," Ivan added. "It takes a team to win, but it also takes a team to lose."

"I don't want to hear any more about this." Islov's voice cracked like a whip as he stood at the entrance to the locker room, his legs braced and his arms crossed. "Each of you—each and every one of you—did your best. Yes, we failed. Yes, we lost, and yes, it hurts. Tomorrow the papers will crucify us. Tomorrow they will ask what we did wrong and they will dissect everything we did."

"Perhaps I did not prepare us well enough—" He raised a hand when Ivan protested, and continued, "perhaps I did not prepare us well enough, but I can say that you all flew your hardest, and you all did your best. I am proud," he told them, meeting every player's eyes in turn, "to have been your coach. It has been an honour and a privilege."

He bowed at the waist, his head bent, heels together, and arms stiffly at his sides. It was the most formal bow one could offer.

As one, they all turned to him and bowed in return, holding it long after he had straightened.

"Get up," he said gruffly. "Get up, all of you."

"We wouldn't have made it this far without you." Alexei stepped forward and offered his hand. "I think I can speak for all of us when we say we wouldn't have wanted any other to lead us."

Slowly, Viktor nodded. Even though he and Islov had some friction toward the end, Viktor did not have to like the man to respect him. Islov was one of the best coaches in the world. He had a naturally hard and exacting disposition, that was true, but he was also excellent at what he did. The man had led them from the initial qualifying matches to the Cup, and Viktor attributed a lot of their success to his strategies and (at times insane) training regimen.

The presser was, as always, full to the brim with fans and press alike. He was grateful when the session was over, his energy flagging and his spirits low. Everyone else seemed to feel the same, and they all apparated one by one to the tent, preferring not to run the gamut of people seeing them.

While Viktor thought of the player's lounge as 'the tent', given that's what the outside looked like, the inside was incredibly spacious and upscale. It was no surprise, given that it was a space for the players to relax before or after matches if they so chose, and had an individual space for each player to call their own, including a private loo.

Several staff members stood ready to cater to their needs, but Viktor's gaze went straight to the brunette witch pouring a glass of water from a carafe, her plait falling over her shoulder as she concentrated on her task.

"Ah, Mia, Mia, Mia." Pyotr strode over and unhesitatingly pulled her braid before slinging an arm around her shoulder. "What in Zhiva's name are you doing?"

The younger witch looked up at him and back at the table. "Pouring...water?" She said in a tone that questioned why he was asking the obvious.

Pyotr leaned against the table with his hip. "Are you now? I would have thought you were doing something particularly complex, given your absolute concentration. Is there an art to water pouring that I'm unaware of? Could you provide some tips?"

A pale pink crept up Hermione's cheeks as she answered him, Pyotr continuing to played dumb and asking increasingly idiotic questions that required similarly stupid answers. As Viktor watched them, he felt something inside himself unclench. He was with family here. Family and the girl he held most precious. Everything would be alright.

Eventually, Alexei went over to save Hermione, inserting himself into the conversation with a quiet comment that had Hermione turning bright red and Pyotr roaring with laughter.

"I'm glad she's here." Clara came up next to him, leaning against the wall as she watched them all. "I mean, I know I've said that before, but I mean now, specifically. She just...adds something."

His lips curled at the edges in a way they only did around Hermione. "Yes," he replied simply. "Yes, she does."

"Soooo," Clara nudged his shoulder with her own, "when are you going to do something about your undying love for Mea?"

"I'm not—" he began, and then stopped himself. There was no reason to hide it any longer. The Cup was over. He was free.

"Tomorrow," he told her, a smile growing on his face as he straightened his shoulders. "I'm going to say something tomorrow. I don't want to wait another moment, not now that I don't have to worry about any of the consequences. I was actually going to say something earlier, but then—" She was Crucioed. "Well, the timing wasn't quite right."

"Why not now?" the Chaser asked. "You don't want to do it in front of all of us in some disgustingly romantic sweeping gesture?"

He cast a sidelong look at her in response, and she sighed. Ruefully, she said, "I suppose it was too much to ask for, wasn't it? The two of you aren't like that. It's all in the small things for you."

He thought of all the small moments they had shared over the last few months—how she had come to him when she had needed help, and how he had leaned on her when Maika was hurt, and how everything, somehow, seemed to be a little bit softer, a little bit easier, and a little bit more manageable just when she was near—and smiled softly. "I suppose it is, isn't it?"

"I can't even be upset about it." Clara sighed mournfully. "You two are really just...kind of gross, you know? It's really sweet. I just wish you would make your move tonight."

"Tonight? Why?" he asked, startled, then frowned. "Don't tell me."

Five hundred galleons, Viktor." Clara sighed again. "If Ivan wins again, I'm gonna be right pissed off. I really am."

Viktor covered his face with a hand as he began to chuckle, then to laugh. "Another pot?"

"Viktor," Clara replied, somewhat affronted, "did you really think there wouldn't be one?"

"Oh, damn." Ivan came up next to them. "Did he find out?"

"Who's got tomorrow?"

Ivan stared at him, wide-eyed for a minute, and then his face burst into the smuggest grin Viktor had ever seen. "Hey!" he called out, "I won the—"

Viktor collared him around the neck. In a conversational tone, he threatened, "If you finish that sentence, you won't be alive to collect your winnings tomorrow."

"Honestly, I don't really care." He patted Viktor's chest. "Two of them. Zhiva, I am so good at this romantic shite. You could just call me Mister Romance. Maybe I'll open a consulting shop now that my schedule's open." Ivan swaggered off to get a drink, clearly having recovered some of his good spirits.

"He's going to be insufferable." Clara looked after the Beater with a defeated expression before shrugging. "Eh. All the more reason to get drunk tonight."

Viktor barked out a laugh, and she shot him a sly look. "If I don't do it tonight, I've got no excuse, have I?"

He shrugged. "I may have one myself."

"I'll get them to bring you a drink, why don't I. Preference?"

He made a noncommittal noise. "Anything alcoholic, I suppose."

Slowly, they all gravitated toward a grouping of sofas and couches clustered around a long, low wooden table. Viktor took a seat on the arm of the deep loveseat Hermione had settled in, her legs curled underneath her as she sipped some kind of fizzy drink.

Time passed smoothly as they enjoyed themselves, trading memories of their time together. Viktor found himself, more than once, toying with the end of Hermione's braid or leaning down to whisper a comment in her ear, and aside from a light blush on her cheeks, she didn't move away.

And it wasn't just him reaching out. Once, daringly, she even touched his calf to get his attention, and it burned with heat. When he snapped to look at her, she bit her lip, her eyes wide at whatever she saw in his face, and a long moment of full silence passed between them before she managed to say whatever it was that she had meant to.

Yes, he thought. There was a chance. A good chance, even, that she would accept his suit.

"Viktor." Hermione shifted and stretched up so he could better hear her. "I'm going to go visit my friends' tent for a little while." At his blank look, she expanded, "Ron and Harry are here with Ron's family, the Weasleys. Harry sent me a letter about it awhile back, and I've missed them, so I was going to pop out and say hello before I come back. Will you all still be here?"

"When I went to see Krasmira after the match, she told me that she wanted to go check on Aidan Lynch to make sure he was healing well, so I want to make sure I'm with one of you all since I can't...well," she lowered her voice, "since I can't use magic."

He reared back so far he almost fell off the couch. "You what?"

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd react like this. It's only for a few days," she said hastily. "It's because of, well, you know. So, er, anyway, I just wanted to make sure I could get back in here since she said she'd meet me here later tonight."

"No," he said emphatically, "there is not a 'so anyway' happening here. You can't use magic?"

"Not so loud!" she hissed. "Just for a few days, until Krasmira says. I mean, I can use it, if I really needed to, but she said not to."

Damn that man for doing what he did to her. Viktor felt the simmering dregs of rage reignite in him all over again. Damn him.

"And you just want to go out and traipse around the fairground by yourself, unprotected?" he asked tightly. What if she got hurt again? What if she found herself in some kind of situation that she couldn't protect herself from?

She rolled her eyes, her voice returning to a normal pitch as she replied exasperatedly, "Viktor, there's security all over the place. Stop making such a big deal out of it." Getting that stubborn look on her face that he knew meant she wasn't going to budge, she told him, "I'm going. I'll be back in, I don't know, an hour? Their tent is in the southern section by the forest."

With that, she swung her legs off the loveseat and stood, telling everyone she'd be back soon. Before he knew it, she had flounced right out the door.

Drumming his fingers against his legs, Viktor contemplated going after her. It was a safety thing, after all. But if he went, was he being overbearing? It wasn't his place to tell her where she could and couldn't go or what she could and couldn't do, not even if they were courting. And she was right: the event was supposed to have quite a lot of security.

He took a deep breath and let it out. She would be fine. She was very capable. And she'd mentioned she could use it if necessary, so really she was perfectly capable of defending herself if need be.

Although...he frowned. How were her defensive spells? How many did she know? She was only in her fourth year.

"Don't do it," Pyotr told him when Viktor rose. "She'll only be angrier if you chase after her. Take it from me, someone with extensive experience—"

"Thanks for the reminder," Clara muttered.

"—that it's not something you want to do. So why don't you sit right back down and have a nice time with us. She'll see that you believe she's capable, and you'll get to hang out with me."

As much as I hate to admit it," Alexei chimed in, "he's right."

At that, Pyotr raised a brow at Viktor, and he reluctantly sat back down. "Excellent decision, my friend."

As the conversation resumed, Viktor remained distracted, although he eventually got back into it. The boisterous mood faded back into a somewhat melancholy atmosphere as the reflected on the matches throughout the season and began to dissect the Final, unable to help themselves.

Thoroughly engaged, Viktor didn't notice the noise coming from outside at first, so focussed was he on the conversation. When the strange sounds became increasingly louder as they filtered inside and the indisputable smell of smoke filtered in, he sat up and glanced toward the entrance to the tent.

"What is going on?" he asked as a scream sounded from outside.

Next to him, Ivan frowned. "Is there some kind of late night entertainment going on that we didn't know about?"

"I don't think so." Clara stood up. "They would've told us."

Viktor was the one who went to the door and opened it. The noise and smoke, which had been muffled by the multitude of wards and charms placed on the tent, was suddenly overwhelming. It was what he saw, though, that made it all sink in.

Everywhere he looked, something was burning. A tent. A flagpole. A stand. The grounds were covered with a haze of smoke that people darted in and out of as they sought to escape. In the distance, he saw the hazy silhouettes of people hanging in the air as different lights—red, green, white—flashed towards them. Some of them, who had been struggling, went eerily still, their bodies floating like broken marionettes.

His blood ran cold.

What the fuck was going on?

"Someone is attacking the grounds," he told the team as soon as he slammed the door shut, locking and warding it as best as he knew how. "We've got to get out of here."

"Attacking the grounds?" Vasily's brows furrowed. "Surely not. This is an internationally sanctioned event. The security—"

"The security has failed." Viktor's body went preternaturally still in that way it did right before a match, his blood cooling and everything becoming crystal clear as the adrenaline came in. "We've got to go. I think—" He swallowed, remembering the floating bodies, "Whoever it is, I think they're killing people."

"So let's go." Zograf, the oldest of them, stood authoritatively, his hand dipping into his pocket to hold his portkey. "We've all got a way home, and nothing's stopping us."

They all murmured their agreement, each pulling out their personal portkeys, until—

"Hermione." He breathed her name, and they all went still. "She's out there. I have to go get her."

"I'll come with you," Clara said immediately, her face determined.

On her heels came Pyotr's assertion that he would accompany them as well, and Alexei slapped his wand into his hand. "Do you need us, too?"

As tempting as it was, Viktor wasn't sure if having too many would create problems. "Perhaps if we split up into teams? You and Vasily—if he wants to, of course—could go, and us three will go in another direction. Whoever finds her can send a Patronus to the others, and we'll portkey back to Bulgaria." He had never been more thankful for the on-demand portkeys they had been provided as international players.

"Of course I'm coming." Vasily sounded a little affronted. "We're a team, even if a losing one. We look out for our own. Besides, she's young, too. She might not know enough spells to adequately defend herself."

Viktor's jaw clenched. Knowledge was irrelevant when she was completely incapable of doing any magic whatsoever.

Urgency pounded through his veins. He had to go. "Thank you."

Even as they burst out of the tent, there was a horrible, high-pitched noise. He watched in dawning horror as a ball of light shot into the sky, only to explode moments later into a massive skull with a snake writhing out of its mouth. What the hell was that?

The strange symbol only hastened his steps, and he pushed through the acrid smoke, which had only gotten worse in the intervening time. He cast a Bubblehead charm and a few protective spells on himself as he went, grateful he had been reading a few of the texts that Karkaroff had been sending him.

Desperately, he racked his brain for a clue of where Hermione had said she would be. Earlier, she had vaguely mentioned where the Weasley tent was, but the campground was sprawling and he was entirely unfamiliar with its layout.

Out of pure desperation, he grabbed someone passing by. "Please," he said in English, "the southern side—where is it?"

The wizard looked at him with half-crazed eyes that widened with recognition a moment later. "That way." He pointed in a nebulous direction before hurrying off.

Well. Some direction was better than none. He looked at his friends, both of whom shrugged. Moments later, they were sprinting down rows of gaily festooned tents, some now shredded, others burning or reduced to ash, and frantically prayed he would find her.

It turned out that the luck that had so deserted them during the match returned with a vengeance. He sprinted out of a row of smoking tents and into a large intersection before stopping short as he saw Hermione standing there, locked in some strange, silent standoff with a silver-masked figure as a lanky boy with a mop of black hair and round specs stood next to her, his wand raised.

Viktor lunged forward, his own wand springing to his hand, but between one frantic heartbeat and the next, the masked figure pointedly turned away, leaving Hermione and the boy alone.

"Mia!" he exclaimed, his feet carrying him towards her swiftly.

Through the smoke, he saw her turn and squint, her confusion clearing as he got closer. "Viktor?"

He ran his hands over her body, trying to feel for any injuries as he asked urgently, "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"

Her slim hand grabbed at one of his wrists. "I'm okay. Viktor, I'm okay. I'm alright. I'm not hurt."

Caught by her voice, he met her eyes and searched them. Finding only sincerity, he grabbed her by the shoulders before pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. "Thank Zhiva. Come on, we have to get out of here."

Next to them, the boy shifted a bit awkwardly on his feet, his eyes a bit wide. With a start, Viktor realised he had completely forgotten about him.

"Harry?" he asked, remembering from his conversations with Hermione about her friends that Harry was the one with specs.

"Er, yeah." Harry nodded, the movement a bit stilted. "Hi."

"Come with me. We need to get out of here." He pulled his portkey, a round, flat disk of metal, out of his pocket, and held it out within touching distance. Next to him, Clara and Pyotr pulled out their own portkeys, preparing to go home to safety even as they kept a watchful eye out for anything untoward coming their way.

As Pyotr cast a Patronus and sent off a message to the others, Hermione bit her lip in that way she had when she wasn't certain. "Ron…"

Harry looked a bit worried himself. "Bill was with him when he took Ron on a walk to cool down after he, er—" He cast a look at Viktor before awkwardly finishing, "well, you know."

Hermione's expression darkened at Harry's words, something pained flashing in her eyes, but her concern won out. "It doesn't feel right leaving without making sure he's safe," she replied, chewing her lip furiously. "Him and all the Weasleys. We should go—"

Suddenly, the row of tents behind them went up in flames, and they all whirled around. A group of masked figures similar to the one they had seen earlier strode toward them, menace radiating from them.

Viktor's blood turned to ice.

"We have to go. Now!" he commanded. "Grab the Portkey."

Hermione's voice shook. "Viktor," she said urgently as she grabbed his arm with one hand and gripped the Portkey with the other, "We have to go. Now."

Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he nodded grimly. "Let's get out of here. Harry, grab the Portkey." Viktor nodded at both Pyotr and Clara, who were staring at the figures with both alarm and confusion. Moments later they were all spiralling through space back to Bulgaria.

When they landed, Viktor instinctively checked on Hermione, who was looking rather wan but remained upright. Potter, who was clearly unused to International Portkey, stumbled as he landed, retching as he went.

As he straightened up, Clara asked, voice hushed, "Who were those people? What was that symbol in the sky?"

Pyotr frowned, sliding his arm around his witch. As she leaned into his hold, the older wizard frowned pensively. "That mark we saw in the sky...I think I recognise it, but it doesn't make any sense."

Hermione was paler than the white walls around them. Her voice hushed, she said, "It's the Dark Mark. I've read about it."

"Excuse me." Harry looked around at them, his brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I don't speak Bulgarian. What are you saying?"

Instantly, Hermione was abashed. "I'm so sorry, Harry," she apologised in English. "I flat forgot. Here, let me give you my charm—" she stopped short and grimaced. "That's right. I gave it to Fudge."

"Fudge?" Harry's eyebrows shot up. "What for?"

"Oh," Hermione said offhandedly, "he forgot his and the Bulgarian Minister was asking me questions I didn't want to answer, so I gave it to Fudge in the hopes that he'd go talk to Minister Oblansk and distract him."

"What was Oblansk asking?" Viktor inquired carefully in English.

To his surprise, Hermione blushed scarlet almost immediately. "Ah. Nothing important, really!" she said hastily before continuing, "But this isn't important. Clara asked about the Dark Mark."

Harry's expression darkened. "Yeah, you told me that's what it was. It's Voldemort's mark." He spat the name.

Something in Viktor's brain clicked over, and he stared at the boy standing across from them in surprise. "You're Harry Potter," he said slowly. "You killed Voldemort when you were a baby."

Harry looked down at the floor, his posture screaming discomfort, before he looked up and met Viktor's eyes. "Yeah. What of it?"

He shrugged. "I learned about it in International Wizarding History, that's all."

Suspiciously, the black haired wizard stared at him. "That's it?"

"Is there...supposed to be something else?" he asked, confused. It had just been nice to figure out why the name had been so familiar, though he was a bit surprised that Hermione had never mentioned it. But, well—she'd never mentioned her own status as a muggle noble, either. She simply didn't stand on status.

Harry appeared a bit dumbstruck, though something approaching gladness was dawning on his face. "No. No, nothing else. It's nice to meet you, really," he said, growing enthused and glancing at Clara and Pyotr. "Wicked game tonight. Sorry about the loss."

The three players jointly frowned, though Clara, as always, recovered first, stepping forward. In accented English, she said, "Thank you. You know, you should come to lunch with the team tomorrow, Harry. Is it okay if I call you Harry? We don't stand much on formality here in the team, and if you're a friend of our Mia, you're an honourary member until you leave."

"Really?" Harry looked thrilled. "You'd let me—the whole team?"

"You've really done it now," Hermione said wryly. "He's just as Quidditch mad as anyone. He's actually the Seeker for our House team at Hogwarts."

Viktor turned to him. "You are?"

Harry nodded. "I'd love to talk with you about your training regime—er," he stumbled over himself a bit, looking a bit sheepish, "if you'd let me. I mean. Well. If you wouldn't mind. I'm, er, a bit of a fan. But," he added hastily, "I understand if you wouldn't. I've got loads of experience with people asking me questions I'd not want to answer."

Hm. Harry was, somehow, not quite what Viktor had imagined Hermione's friends would be like. He didn't know exactly what he'd expected, considering Hermione's tales and Viktor's newfound understanding of Harry's fame, but he really seemed just like any other normal wizard.

"I wouldn't mind," he replied, making a snap decision. "We can talk about it later. In the morning, maybe. Now, let us go. It's late, and we're all tired. We'll Side-Along."

Hermione, who had been leaning more heavily into his side as the conversation continued around her, made a noise of protest, and he winced. "I'm sorry," he told her, slipping back into Bulgarian without thought. "But we must. It will be faster. I want you in bed immediately."

"I don't need coddling," she said, valiantly making an effort to look lively and failing.

Clara tsked. "I think you rather do, Mia. You look completely done in. Don't be stubborn. I'll Side-Along you to Viktor's. That's where you're going, right? I don't know where Krasmira is."

"I'm not sure, either," Hermione said with a creased brow. "When I went down to the Healing Hall to find her after the match, she was gone."

"I'll find out where she is and tell her you're with Viktor," the Chaser said firmly. "You look like you're about to fall over. Go."

Hermione looked about to protest, and Harry, who was standing there looking rather confused, asked, "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing's wrong," Hermione said before anyone else could. "We were trying to figure out where we'd be going."

"My house," Viktor summed up, though he was interested that Hermione had avoided telling Harry anything else. Perhaps she wasn't as close to him as he'd thought? Knowing her, however, it was more likely that she was simply used to keeping such things to herself. "Have you Side-Alonged before?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I haven't."

Hermione winced. "It's not pleasant," she told her friend, "but it gets better. I still get sick sometimes, so don't feel bad if you do, too."

The British wizard looked a bit alarmed. "You get sick?"

"Most wizards do the first few times," Viktor replied a bit impatiently. "Let's go."

In short order, Harry had one hand on Viktor's shoulder and the other on his arm. Viktor tightened his hold on Hermione, nodded at his teammates, and imagined the living room of his house.

With a sharp crack, they were gone.

Hi Harry! Also, welcome to Bulgaria my dude lol I definitely was surprised when he joined the Bulgaria party but tbh the most shocking thing about this entire chapter for me was when Viktor thought, 'what the fuck was going on' lmao that boy can cuss!

Next time: "Sirius?" Harry choked out, his eyes fastened on the figure coming down the stairs.