Chapter Seven: Wherein love is advanced apace.
Summary: Hermione receives a letter and answers it immediately, which is how life ought to work, in her mind.

September 1, 199_
The Rosary
Vratsa, Bulgaria

My dearest Hermione,

I am not so inconstant in my care for you that the delayed writing of a letter, particularly when you have so many pressing concerns, will upset me so. Do I miss you? Terribly. Would I love to be in much closer contact with you? Without a single hesitation, yes. There is no need for me to forgive you, for you have done nothing wrong, my dearest one. And yet, in case you need to hear it, I forgive you for delaying your response. I know you had good reason. Now we can continue on, fresh.

You did not address many things I said in my last letter, and I understand why. I look forward to hearing your opinion on all these things in your next letter. Take whatever time you need to write it, and make it long, for it will need to tide me over. I, unlike you, rarely get to see your beautiful face in the newspapers, and need your words as appropriate fodder for my fantasies.

You know I hate those pictures, and they largely prefer I be half naked. I had no idea you consumed them with such relish, Myon. I might not be able to scowl quite so convincingly in the next photo shoot, and I might let the shirt come entirely off. They will finally get the picture they've long wanted; fierce, powerful, sexualized, and interested in what he sees.

You may be cursed and broken, but neither of these things are permanent states. If you share more with me, I will help you. And if you refrain, I would still be here for you.

I have your book recommendations, and I thank you wholeheartedly. I shall order them tomorrow and have more fodder for my practice. You have read these, I take it? I hope if you have recommended them to me it is because you particularly like them. That is what I shall believe until you disabuse me of the notion. I am quite pleased that I will be in possession of some of your favorite books, or at least ones you think I might enjoy. I will report back on my progress.

Mm, no, let us return to the photo and your imagination, shall we? Scowling at the camera in possession of a racing broom for a sport you do not care for, rough and inelegant, and you still find me edible? Can this be true, Myon? Perhaps I have been going about this all wrong. Still, it is these same arms that have held you once before that would do so again. It is this same chest in which my fierce heart beats that would give you strength and support. Everything has changed and nothing has changed, Myon.

There is much darkness in your letter, too, so let me address some of that now. I'm glad you use the roses to good effect. And I'm glad that my letters bring you solace in the darkness. Myon, you will not always be this way. I know that these are just words, and just words are all I have as yet. But even if I held you in my arms (the overly muscled ones previously mentioned) and cradled you against my chest (wider than you remembered, but the same heart within), it would still be words. Words that you say to me in the quiet dark with the tears that fall. Words that I say to you to bring light back into your world. Words and gestures are all anyone has at the best of times, to let love and peace and light and joy back into our lives. And words are all I have now, my sweet and beautiful one, and they fail me again to assure you of the certainty I have that you will heal, in time. And if you cannot be sure, I will hold it for you. I will always hold it for you, Myon.

You have lost weight. You were starved. I wish to hear this story, when you are ready to tell it. I hope, by then, you will be able to do so from the comfort and safety of my arms. And my heart does ache for you, but don't let that stop you. It is a familiar pain to me at this point, and will only be assuaged by your healing, and your closer presence. I am glad at least that you are not starving now, nor are likely to be ever again. Eat your fill, Myon, and know that you are safe, now.

There are many things we could say to each other, and perhaps a letter is a perfectly good place for difficult things to be written, rather than said. And yet, I, too, refrain from saying everything. Not because I do not want you to know. I do, Myon, I do. But because I would rather gauge your response moment by moment and so spare us both unnecessary anguish by saying the wrong things entirely, and then going on at length for several more pages yet. And so if that is written, then it is a long series of letters, tentatively inching toward what we do not say.

And when we meet, if it is but for a few hours, perhaps letters will have to suffice, for a few hours is not enough for me to say even half of what I have refrained from saying, not and also hear half of what you might wish to impart. And as you are back in school, obviously you will not be visiting me any time soon. But I would still come to you. You are nineteen, or will be soon. Surely they will let you off campus for a day if you request it. Sundays are my day off, and Saturdays are simply impossible, as I have games every week until the postseason. I would beg a day off during the week, but that would not work for you, I think. Enter negotiations with your headmaster, Myon, I beg of you. And if I can have you only for a few hours in a cafe somewhere, I will take it without complaint. Please send me a day, and I will arrange the portkey. (Why be content to drool over a picture, Myon, when you can nibble on the real thing and discover edibility for yourself? Have you always had this penchant to nibble, and I just missed it when I had the golden opportunities before me for an entire year of my young life? What a stupid boy I was. Idiot child.)

I want also to know the story of the injury on your arm. And names, Hermione. Who starved you? Who cursed you in such a lasting fashion? Who has been responsible for your woundedness, your brokenness? In your own time, of course, but I want to know. And if you prefer to share this, too, as I hold you close and remind you of the light, I will wait with great patience.

I am glad you liked my last letter. I am so glad it will bring my presence closer to you when you need me most. Shall I give myself away entirely if I tell you I wish it was me? To wake you before the nightmare got out of hand. To hold you in the darkness, and take up the rose on your bedside table, to brush it against your lips and tell you to breathe, breathe, Myon. To assure you of light, even in the darkness with all of these words, and all of these gestures. To have you fall asleep again, but peacefully this time, resting in my embrace. I could make a fine pillow, I think. Consider the possibilities, Myon. Maybe not for the cafe, though. On second thought, if you declared it absolutely necessary for your wellbeing, I would strip to the waist in the middle of your capital and hold out my arms for you with a smile on my face. It is just one more service I offer, Myon.

And now I hope I have made you smile. Go negotiate a time with your school and write back to me taking all of the luxurious hours you need on whichever sequential days. Tell me everything, Myon. Tell me what you love about being back at school. Tell me of your friends. Tell me of your parents. Tell me what you have done that your queen will shortly make you a knight. And definitely tell me about whatever beautiful dreams you have of me, for I am particularly interested in these. If you tell me of your beautiful dreams of me, I may be inspired to share one of mine, concerning your own bright self.

No, that is not fair, to be such a tease. You have already told me that you drool over my promotional photos and imagine I hold you close. And I have told you that I have imagined you kissing that white concordia rose, breathing it in and having just a moment of peace. So it is my turn.

I cannot get you out of my head, Myon. What one thing can I tell you when my every other thought is you? Should I tell you how most of my thoughts trend? Should I give you something tender and comforting? I have already said more than I intended in this letter, and so perhaps this is the portion where I whitter on needlessly for pages yet and make you uncomfortable. But I cannot imagine that the woman who wishes to nibble on me half naked as I smile at her with my hair being riotous and uncooperative (with or without broom, you understand, unless you particularly wish my hands restrained for private reasons of your own, Myon?) would be terribly uncomfortable knowing how much of her I wish to kiss. Lips, face, neck, hands, yes, naturally. Resisting is a herculean task, but I manage. But there is no piece of clothing you could wear that does not bar my way and cover another delectable morsel I wish to taste. Because how could I stop at kissing? I would need to taste, to bite, to suck and lick, to memorize and categorize and so refigure all my dreams based on what I learn from your skin.

This is, I think, what they generally want me to convey in the photo shoots, but it did no good in the past, because I didn't realize you would be watching. Now, is maybe not a problem.

Write to me my dearest, most beautiful Myon, and tell me everything you dare.

With all my heart,
Viktor

September 3, 199_
Hogwarts Castle

My own dearest Viktor,

September 19th. It's a Sunday. It's my nineteenth birthday, actually, and I could do with some cheering that day. Come just after breakfast and stay until well after dinner, if you can. I'll have so much to show you and I think it's likely we'll have so much to say. I'll make sure we eat well, but beyond that, and the two places I want to show you, there will be no agenda. However, if you're very, very lucky, you may get me up on your broom. I'd been thinking flying is a fear I need to get over. And I can think of no one else I'd feel safer with, not even Harry.

So much has shifted and changed since my last letter five days ago. How can it only be five days? It feels like five years. Nothing bad though, this time. Or, at least nothing terrible. But when you see me, if all goes well, broken I will still be, but the curse will be gone. It's an ugly, brutal thing, the cure. But I trust that it will work and I'm on day three of eight. It's funny that healing only occurs under the right conditions. That might be a larger metaphor for life, if only I cared to examine it closely.

But come the 19th. Tell me where your portkey will bring you and I'll meet you there. Negotiations had already happened by the time I got your letter this morning, and I am at liberty at nights and on weekends, though I'm still resident in the castle and have to effectively sign in and out. They wish to ensure my safety, which I find novel. Still, their hearts are in the right place, and I have more liberty than the average student, even of my married and eighth year fellows. Because yes, there are three pairs of married students post-war in the castle, and Harry is one of them. He married Ginny Weasley, Bill's youngest sibling and only sister. She's a seventh year, and becoming quite a good friend. The others are acquaintances, fellow war veterans, classmates.

None of us eighth years are in the standard dorms, of course. There would be no place for us. We're in suites of three bedrooms, a shared sitting room, and a shared bath. I have quite a lovely private little room and I'm quite fond of it, despite its desperate lack of bookshelves. My suitemates are Harry and Ginny in one room and Neville Longbottom in the other. Neville, you may have noted, is also an Order of Merlin, 1st Class and will be knighted with us presumably for organizing the resistance within the school last year, secreting targeted students away and keeping them safe in hidden rooms with little outside help. He also organized classes and teachers among the student body to keep everyone busy, out of trouble, and still learning useful things. Neville was, if you will, the hidden headmaster of Hogwarts last year, and all under pain of death if he was caught.

The school was taken over, you see, by Tom and his gang of evil sods, and the headmaster was briefly our finest spy, whom we all thought had turned on us, but he kept a tight lid on things, he and Neville in their ways. He secretly worked to keep Neville alive and together they managed to keep any of the evil sods/newly appointed teachers from torturing or killing the students. I like to think he would have been knighted, had he survived. I couldn't save him, though. I was close, but too late. One more regret.

I wonder if you can knight someone posthumously. I'll need to look into that.

Presumably the three of us, Harry, Ron, and I will be knighted because we went on an unholy crusade to find and destroy all of the horcruxes Tom in his madness had made, and we did so. The last one was Harry. And yet he lives. Long story.

No one starved me, directly. Indirectly, everything is Tom's fault. Blame Tom. That's what we've begun to do. And Tom is dead. Dead as a doornail. Really very dead this time. Bellatrix Lestrange tortured me, cruciatus, and carving me up with a cursed blade, in the sitting room of her sister's mansion. She scribbled a derogatory epithet on my arm with it as she tried to get me to give up Harry. As if. Unfortunately for you, but not for my nightmares, Molly Weasley, Ginny and Bill's mother, killed her in battle. I have other scars from this war. Some visible. The one across my chest, from the death eater Antonin Dolohov. Due to be kissed by dementors in the next several weeks. He'll still breathe after that, but I wouldn't call it life.

My wand was snapped. I have a new one, now, but it's not quite as nice as the old one, I think. Quite liked the old one.

You know, I'm not usually this morose. I can keep it together with other people. I can lose myself in my studies, which of course I enjoy. And then it all seems fine. Everything is fine. I'm not a seething cauldron of emotional turmoil. I seem happy on the outside. My happy, normal, bossy self. Well, I'm trying to work on that, actually. But I just can't seem to lie to you. Not that it necessarily feels like lying with other people. They're just… not safe. It's not safe to be truly honest, deeply real. I can only be a shallow little wading pool, and somehow I can lose myself in the wading pool and really for short periods of time it seems just as real as the ocean, and in its own way, it is. It really is. A little wading pool with its little rubber ducks of concern. No sharks. No merfolk bearing weaponry. No vengeful kraken. And no coral reef, either. No brightly colored little fishes. No ponderous whales singing. No puffins fishing like the birds they are flying through the water. No seals eating fish, and then being eaten themselves by killer whales. Just the one painted bobbing rubber duck with a painted on smile that will squeak on command if you squeeze just right.

There is no wading pool with you. But with you there is also the sound of the surf, all night long, its soothing rhythm working some minor miracle in my soul.

Thank you for the sound of the sea, Viktor.

You wanted a long letter, but I want to send it immediately so I will more immediately get a response. Terribly selfish of me. I shall duly pause for tonight and return to the project tomorrow, and reread all of your recent letters in bed before I sleep, instead. It's not much in the way of fantasy, but if I'm lucky, I'll fall asleep midword and take you with me into the dreams, you and your voice and your strength and your safety and maybe this time it won't be so dreadful. And if your strength and safety happen to be wrapped in pajama bottoms and nothing else? Who am I to complain?

September 4, 199_

Sometimes things look better in the morning, and sometimes they don't. Day four of eight in getting rid of this curse, and it's good the elves ward my room against sound, because I scream my way through it and then faint afterwards. I can't bear to write it down. There's much I can't find it in me to say. Some good things that I just don't want to put down on paper, but want so desperately to tell you. Some dreadful things that I feel I might eventually be able to tell you, but none of them are things I particularly want to rush into.

So saying, I'll just tackle your letter of June 17th and give you some entirely overdue responses to what you've written.

I think I might want to go into politics after school. Not entirely sure what it will entail yet, but the picture is beginning to fill out. More in person.

It's possible I'm on board with letters not being able to convey quite everything one might wish them to convey. I'm sorry I didn't come and visit you and your family this summer, but I am very much looking forward to you spending the day, or as much of it as you can manage, with me on the 19th. I'm really quite looking forward to finally getting a decent kiss. (I feel I should be entirely upfront about this, in case I've misread your intentions. You still have time to run.) And of course all of the private conversation. And I can't possibly have a flying lesson through a letter. And one day, you will play your cello for me, and I will be entranced. I'm familiar with the piece you mentioned. My parents have a recording of it, and I grew up listening to things like it. I'm honored you think I'm like the first movement. It's in a major key, isn't it? I'd like a life in a major key. That's what I really want for my future, Viktor. No more minor keys. In music they're fine. In life, they're despicable.

I would never wish you to feel desperate in any regards, but I find it slightly thrilling to know that you are desperate to see me. Are you really? Even with me as I am? I do feel as if something inside of me is somehow irrevocably broken, and I'm not trying to harp on the subject, but I would hate for you to feel you hadn't been forewarned.

Then again, I've watched two brave and beautiful men try to push away the women who adored them because they felt they were too broken, and both were entirely stupid and wrong about things. And they gave up many opportunities for great joy in their lives because they were thick-headed idiots. Before they eventually came around, that is.

I don't wish to be a thick-headed idiot, Viktor, and I also don't wish you to be unaware of what mess you may end up with. There. I have warned you. You have been warned. Caveat emptor.

Thank you for forgiving me. I think I need your forgiveness more than I could have ever imagined.

So you want to hold me as I cry and rage, do you? I'll see if I can't accommodate you on the 19th. It may be inevitable, given that you are the ocean and I'll be out of my wading pool for twelve hours. Shall I bring a hefty supply of pocket handkerchiefs, or is that something you'll be doing?

I would like there to be no misunderstanding between us, Viktor. But that would require many more words than either of us seems comfortable to clearly say. Beating around the bush has been fun, though. Sort of. Sometimes. Once I understood you were flirting with me. Or, perhaps more than flirting.

And sometimes I've flirted back. And other times I've been terrified, because what if you really mean it? And what if you don't? Both seem like prospects requiring much courage. Skipping over to your most recent letter…

As you describe what they want of you in your photo shoot I'm both enraged on your behalf that they should be so violently and sexually objectifying you, and totally ashamed because I'd rather like to see those pictures, your body stripped to the waist, muscles rippling and gleaming, or whatever the bulging muscles of athletes naturally do when they're being shown off to those who appreciate them. And whether your hands are up, down, hanging off your broom, tied to my bed (did I really write that? Yes, yes I did.) or otherwise engaged is a detail that concerns me slightly less. Slightly, because then I wonder if they're otherwise engaged, what are those strong hands of yours doing? Several reasonable alternatives come to mind. I am directly involved with most and indirectly involved with the rest. At the present moment, one particular option has captivated my imagination, but it might be anything, really. And why should I dream of what you do alone when you think of me? And what your hands might need to do? And how the muscles of your arms look when you do it? The muscles of your abdomen? Why should I wonder how you sound? How you smell? How you taste?

The fact that you said, 'fuck' during your explanation of quidditch does not help me in this instance, because now I can imagine you saying it, you see, and if you can say it for one thing, you can say it for another, and why wouldn't you say it then?

It's like a song stuck in my head, constantly repeating just one long refrain. In this case, a one word litany, or perhaps two if I may be so bold as to put in my own nickname in there as well. Fuck. Myon. And I can hear you say it, the vowels rolling around your tongue, in the enviable position of being temporarily in your mouth, and the consonants. The hard ck that mimics the action so well, the f, m, n so soft, so sensuous, mimicking other things, perhaps.

It's after breakfast and before my classes, and I'm not quite fit to attend them, and yet no time for anything else, I'm afraid. Rest assured that anytime my concentration slips in class this morning, it will be your voice I hear.

Strangely glad all the professors who were legilimens are now dead. Well, that's a first. And remarkably dark, as thoughts go. Sorry about that. More later. Of which variety, I do not know.

Afternoon

I love arithmancy and ancient runes. I love that the numbers work or they don't, and if they don't you know it's just wrong. There's no finesse. There's no subtlety. It's just black and white. And if you learn enough rules, and here a further study of non-magical mathematics has helped enormously, you know which to apply when and the equations just flow. It's easy to spot mistakes. It's easy to fix them. I love that you can create new spells and potions through inspiration and intuition if you're very good at it, but you can also run the arithmancy calculation to see what would be necessary, first. I mean, originally it was used for divination, but I don't think that is its strongest function.

And I love the longevity of ancient runes. I love the idea of words of power. Which reminds me, Frank Herbert, author of Dune. Words of power come into play and arcane concepts of how to run giant, self-serving cons on entire civilizations through the use of religion, but that's neither here nor there, because in the end the con was on the con artists because he really was the messiah. Anyway. Ancient runes. Spells that outlast the caster. It's a beautiful thought, isn't it? To make a useful, beautiful mark on the world, instead of a scar of pain and hatred?

That's why I want to go into politics, by the way. I had been thinking of it before the events of August 31st, but in a minor way. Maybe try to get on the Hogwarts Board of Governors so I could help to shape the curriculum, which of course in turn would shape absolutely everything in Magical Britain, eventually.

Turns out I have a hereditary seat on the Wizengamot (Magical Britain's adjudicatory body). And I think I'll be a shoe-in for the HBoG. And there are other things. I hope it all turns out to be in a major key. More in person.

I find your quidditch tactics admirable. Let all the fucking of peoples heads be in sport, and not in war. Do continue, and please feel free to swear with me whenever you like. I think I'm going to like how your lips wrap around the words.

I find your quidditch training technique questionable. Is it absolutely necessary to risk breaking your neck at 21 just for the fuck of it? Have you nothing better to live for, Vitya? No other way to relieve stress? I realize I am no model of self-care over here, but really.

You're hinting that you'd move to Britain, aren't you? God, I'm torn. I want you near me so badly. And I don't, I absolutely don't want you to be distant from your parents. They're so precious, you should be with them. No, I can't even think about it right now.

Tell me what other kind of roses your family grows, and send me some of those, if you can. I wouldn't mind being surrounded by roses that will never fade, you know, if they all have that trait. And they smell so beautiful. I walk into my bedroom and I'm calmer. I'm a big fan of the Bulgarian white concordia rose.

You studied English for me, didn't you? And so you could work easily in Britain. Well, your letters are a work of art and the words do seem to come more easily to you now. Thank you, Viktor. You are clearly a very dedicated man, in addition to your other fine qualities.

I'm glad you're considering a mastery after quidditch. Your mind is too fine to squander. Tell me which branches of magic fascinate you most right now. I won't hold you to anything, of course. I understand. The future is in flux.

My friends find it revolting you are so talented, though they mean it in the best of ways. An athlete, a scholar, a polyglot, and a musician. They say we deserve each other and will have outrageously intelligent children. I generally choke on my tea at this point. For myself, I find it inspiring that you are so talented. I love it.

Your life is boring. You do what you love and get paid well for it, you are surrounded by family, you are immersed in your studies and your music, and you are surrounded by beauty and life and flowers. I'm so envious of you, Viktor. I'm so bloody envious. Don't you dare say your life is boring. Your life is idyllic.

Send more roses. I clearly need them. Either that, or I need you. But the roses will have to suffice for now.

Tumultuously yours,
Hermione

September 6, 199_
The Rosary
Vratsa, Bulgaria

My dearest Hermione,

Thank you for your letter. Thank you for its length, its contents, and the time you took to write it.

First, your roses. These are also the long-stemmed, everlast concordia, but in a pale peach. There are also pale yellows and pale lavenders, but I do not like these for you. The white is best with the strongest fragrance and the purest petals, and the pale peach is second best. With the colors come a weakening of the fragrance and a lessening of the primary effect of the flowers. They do not create calm where calm cannot be. They entice you back to the calm of which you are capable. They help you remember, and from the calm there is a finer meeting of minds, a finer melding of hearts, hence the name. We mostly grow the concordia, and there are different varieties. The long-stemmed ever-last is best for gifts where the flowers are cut from the plant. The ever-blooming, with its smaller blooms and shorter stems are better for the foundation of a garden. The ever-blooming climber must be trained very carefully, or it could take over an entire castle, under the right or perhaps wrong conditions. I can grow them all, of course. It is illegal to export the plant as such, as it has been declared a national treasure of Magical Bulgaria, but since so few know how to propagate them properly, it is not illegal to export cuttings, nor the flowers themselves. And I can propagate from cuttings, possibly in my sleep at this point.

I would grow you a rose garden, Hermione. Wherever it is you settle when you leave school. Wherever you go. Whatever is between us or not. I would grow you a rose garden, to help you find peace when it seems so distant. I never want that for you.

You will note in this package there are two other things. One is a very small white everlast condordia still tightly in bud, and cut short. The other is a silver brooch that can hold it. The silver must be cleaned by hand, or by elf, and two drams of water must be put in it every morning for the flower, again, by hand or by elf. No magic. The roses don't like it. The rose can be taken out every evening and put in a bowl of water. It is a little tedious, perhaps, but it will allow you take a little bit of peace of mind, and a little bit of me with you through your days. The brooch is one of many that we have in our family, which perhaps does not surprise you. This particular one was a favorite of my grandmother's. I hope you like it. I imagine you pinning it to your sweater, the rose gently covered by those ridiculously thin cloaks you wear. And still its fragrance will waft toward you and remind you of a calmer way of being. Out of uniform, perhaps just slightly, but Hogwarts seems much more lax about that sort of thing than ever Durmstrang was, so I do not worry for you in the slightest.

My sweet and strong Hermione. I have been forewarned. Consider it done.

So you are considering what sort of children we would have? Better and better. They would be fiercely intelligent and ferociously courageous, both. They would be wonders as adults and terrors as children, I am certain. We would do well to be prepared for this, beautiful one.

Yes, of course I studied English for you. As for playing on an English side, I knew enough at seventeen to get by. But then I quite suddenly had a very strong motivation to do more than get by. I have spent much time with a tutor, quite intensely for the first two years, and then more periodically as I began to really improve in the last two years. Translations were the worst, after memorizing all the rules of grammar. I think reading aloud has done the most to perfect my speech and help me use the language more easily. And at some point it just seeped into my bones, something inside shifted, and it was mine.

Still, I had to look up the word adjudicatory.

So, you, a muggleborn witch, have a hereditary seat on your country's panel of judges. I find this fascinating, Myon. Odd stories have been reported about you, even in Bulgaria. It is hard to know what is true. I look forward to hearing all about it in thirteen days.

And yes. I will come and visit you on the 19th, and as you are planning the day, I will come bearing gifts. I have an international portkey that will take me to the Leicester Portkey Station, which I am assured is roughly in the center of your country. I will come in at 9:14 AM and leave at 9:36 PM. Compared to a few hours in a cafe, twelve and a quarter hours is a luxury I am thrilled to have, sweet Myon. And yet I know it will pass so quickly and leave me aching for your presence once more.

And now that I know you have freedom to leave the school at nights and on weekends, my dearest one, I must be closer to you. I must. Do not worry about my parents. They will visit in the winter, and I will visit in the summer. Perhaps you will come with me? Summer is a ways away yet, and you have much time to consider your options. But I would like to show you the fields of roses, and the house, and even the dogs, if you are amenable, though not everyone likes them.

I did not imagine you would enjoy learning about my various training techniques, but it is not something I would keep from you. I promise to be careful, Myon, and when my reflexes begin to slow, I will cease such dangerous practices and consider retiring from quidditch altogether, I promise. Even if this happens earlier than I suspect. I love it, but there are other things I love, as well, and some are more important.

I enjoyed hearing about your perspectives on arithmancy and ancient runes. It is fascinating to me that there is an underlying logic, of a sort, to magic, which seems in many ways so illogical to those thusly minded. And I understand completely the fascination with magic that survives the caster. There are other branches of magic that speak to this ability, in addition to ancient runes, but I am not sure they are taught at Hogwarts, or even much respected in Britain. Of course Durmstrang has no such qualms and often teaches light and dark magic together so that there is a balance of knowledge and an awareness of where the lines are that cannot be crossed.

I think I would like to study non-magical mathematics as you have. It seems like it could be very helpful.

And now, into the darkness. I am honored to be your ocean, Hermione. I do understand the pull of the wading pool, and it certainly has its uses. It is good to take a dip in the ocean, to purge some pain and feel refreshed, and hear the pull of the surf. Most of life is conducted in the wading pool, however, and this too I wish to share with you. (Rubber ducks - is that a muggle hunting thing? Or just a metaphor? Tell me everything, Hermione.) It will get better. I promise you. And peace will not be so far away, and safety will not be a laughable, novel idea. The curse will soon be ended and the brokenness will heal. It will, my darling. It will.

And now to lovelier and brighter things, as you would say.

I sleep naked.

I thought you should know.

Since you are imagining me, imagining you, I feel this is necessary information at this point. And my legs are also quite muscled, likewise my back. Even in the depths of a Bulgarian winter, thoughts of you fill my veins with fire until I cannot stand the covers and blankets anymore, and I throw them all off. Do I have the boldness to describe what I do to myself then?

I don't remember you as I met you last year. You looked so troubled, even before things ended badly. You were not yourself, and how could you be? So I reach back and think of the girl you were, even as I know you are different now, different in ways I didn't have an opportunity to catalogue last year. I think of your school skirt, which you still wear. I think of your legs, so luscious. I think of your hair, how full and luxuriant it is, how beautiful it smells. I think of the fire and passion in your eyes when you are explaining or defending something you believe in. I think of your hands. Your lips. Your neck. Any one of these things, really, is enough to focus on. And today, today I will imagine that you are watching me with those passionate eyes, watching and learning to see how I touch myself. Comparing and contrasting what you've seen in the photographs as I lay back on my pillows and watch you watching me, my arm moving rhythmically, my hand squeezing just so. And perhaps, perhaps you like what you see. Perhaps I please you. I can imagine your lips parting, your tongue darting out to wet them, your teeth worrying the bottom. And that is enough for all the muscles in my body to tighten all at once. That is enough for me to find an exquisite release, if only momentarily. Just your lips, parted and wet. This is all accomplished silently, as I am at home, but my head is full of loud groans and expletives in many languages, and your name. Always your name, Myon.

Fuck. Myon. Fuck. Myon. Fuck, Myon. Fuck Myon.

I approve of this litany. Were I in circumstances where I could set wards without having my parents be naturally suspicious, this would be the chant of my body.

I did a photo shoot today, after practice ended a little early for me, against the backdrop of the other roses we cultivate (the red empassionatas), for a magazine in France. An interview, too, though it was fairly meaningless, I did get to mention that I would be open to trades, particularly British teams, and this is very good, should any British managers actually read it or catch wind of it. They will send me a copy, and I will send it on to you. I was uncharacteristically shameless and I think they were not-so-secretly overjoyed. Just as well the interview was before the photos, or it might have taken a more personal turn than usual. Regardless, when they asked me to take my shirt off, I did. When they asked me to unbuckle my belt and have the top two buttons of my trousers open, I did. When they arranged my trousers to look like they would very shortly fall off my hips to reveal that I wore nothing underneath, I allowed it. And when they asked me to make love to the camera (they are very clear about these things, the French), I thought of you looking at this photograph, or series of them, I suppose, and suddenly I did not care who else saw it, because you would, and you were the only one who mattered.

You may judge for yourself when you see the article whether or not I succeeded in bringing the camera to orgasm or not. This matters less to me. What matters more, of course, is if I succeeded with you. This I would like to know, and preferably in great detail.

Your temporarily shameless,
Viktor

End note: Welcome to the love letter nature of this piece of fiction. This continues on and off for the next 400,000 words. You're welcome.