Chapter 3: The hope that blossoms late blossoms best.
Summary: Friends did not look at each other like they were looking at each other.

With trepidation, Viktor waited for his friend to arrive at their designated meeting spot. They had walked around the lake many times. Well, a few times. Alright, three times. They had studied together countless times. Well, to be precise, nine times. He had rescued her from the lake in the second task and it was a hell of a statement, as all three schools now knew she was the person he prized most, and above all others. His friends and classmates all referred to her as his girlfriend, but clearly this was not the case as the witch in question was unaware of the fact.

No.

They were acquaintances, certainly.

They were friends, possibly.

And given that she was willing to say more in the notes she passed, Viktor decided this was the best venue and just started answering questions regardless of her polite dismissals, and posing ones of his own. It gave him more opportunity, at least, to be friends with her and to build that foundation, and it certainly put him in a better light than having to actually form words spontaneously and then have to say them outloud.

If by the end of the year they were still friends and she hadn't declared that she never wanted to hear from him again, he was definitely getting an English language tutor the moment he graduated. Better to embarrass himself in front of a tutor, than Hermione.

And so they had, by the time the Winter Solstice came around, discussed a great many things, often in writing, and while Viktor remained largely tongue-tied and miserable when needing to speak to her, there were slightly more opportunities than at the beginning of the year.

And sometimes, she would smile at him, when he first sat down next to her in the library. Or lately when they passed in the hallway, and Viktor always, always smiled back.

Even that one time when it meant he didn't properly block the hex coming his way from his dueling partner. Or that other time it meant that he had, in fact, tripped over his own feet. But he had gotten a smile from Hermione, so it was all quite alright in his mind.

And all of those smiles, as beautiful as they were, were nothing as compared to the smile she graced him with as she walked down the last stairway to him, looking resplendent and lovely, a vision in a blue gown. She was altogether scrumptious and Viktor wanted to feast and for the first time, for the very first time, it looked like she might possibly consent to the idea. Or at least to the idea of a kiss at the end of the night.

Tonight she was radiant and smiling just for him.

Hope blossomed and not even her disappearance at the end of the night could fully dim it. Clearly something had happened between her and one of her many boys-she-wasn't-dating who circled around her like flies and Viktor could read quite clearly the jealous and angry glares he was getting from one in particular, and one she had been talking to before he'd lost track of her. Now, if he hadn't lost track of her, he might have been more magnanimous about it, and even so it wasn't like he could hex the little shit. But if he still had her in his arms he might not have just won the staring contest from across the room while filling in Vlad on what he suspected had occurred, all while scowling and staring with one single eyebrow raised at her unkind friend who had driven her from his arms.

He would find out this idiot's name, if only to pray for him to find his own girlfriend and leave Hermione alone.

The spring was beautiful, and so was Hermione. She spoke with him. She wrote to him. She walked around the lake with him. She made it very clear that she would never, not ever, ride a broom with him but it was because she was terrified of flying, and so Viktor shelved an entire category of his fantasy life until such time as she might relent in her decision.

He learned about dentists, and London, her half-kneazle, and which subjects she liked best. He told her of roses and dogs and the Black Sea and the mountains of Vratsa.

She warned him about his headmaster, but he already had known about his past, everyone did. She warned him that something was up, but he hadn't really understood the depth of what she might know and why she might know it. She was, as it turned out, remarkably closed mouth about certain subjects.

But they grew closer, certainly. And before the third task he had an opportunity to introduce her to his parents, and of course they loved her. After the third task, win or lose, after she congratulated Harry who of course would come out on top, after all that was finished, he would ask her again to come and visit him, urge her to do so in the name of friendship.

That was his plan. It was a good plan, a well-thought-out plan and they were much closer this time. It would work, this time. He was certain of it. And Viktor entered the maze, filled with that certainty. The Tournament? It no longer mattered to him.

Only Hermione mattered to him.

A shattered vessel holds no water.

His parents had wanted to take him home immediately, but then he would never get a chance to say goodbye to Hermione, to ask her at least to write to him, to give her his address. He hadn't done it earlier. Foolishly, he'd thought he had time. If he'd just done it earlier, he could be home now, home with his parents, home in Bulgaria where life made sense, where peace reigned and love ached but did not cause this sort of suffering. He could recover, in Bulgaria. He could get a tutor or three and finish his exams from there, sitting out near the roses and letting the peace of Concordia wash over all the cracks in his soul.

But now he was stuck here, another three days here. Another week at Durmstrang. Classes. Exams. People. Things.

He didn't get out of bed. He didn't eat. He didn't bathe. He didn't shave, not until the very last day, because he had to find Hermione before they left. He had to find her and ask her to write to him, give her his address and beg her with his eyes, beg her tender heart to wait for him to go home and lick his wounds, to somehow heal that which could never be healed.

And he found her, amongst her guard dogs, but he approached all the same, because how could he not? And really, he trained bigger dogs at home. They would not frighten him off this last time, as well.

And she did agree to write to him, and her eyes, those beautiful expressive eyes said so much more than he could ever have hoped she would say. And she let him hold her hand and kiss it, and the look in her eye changed, deepened, said exactly what Viktor dreamed it would say.

If he had the energy, if it had been before the Maze he might have acted differently, might have chanced to say more, but he couldn't. Not now.

A shattered vessel holds no water.

And this was enough for now.

End note: Oh, the angst! Don't worry. Advance directly to Debts of Honor and reread the prologue and then, if necessary, skip to chapter seven wherein Hermione and Viktor begin corresponding in earnest and let your heart be eased.

In other news, Thank you! Thank you for all of your love and support, and a special thank you to all my Patrons. You're all rockstars.