Hermione's head spins and the cool stone wall she leans into does nothing to quell the heat coursing through her body. She had fled the library in a way very much unlike her, forgetting her books and bag in her abrupt exit, but every new sensation the older wizard had expertly evoked from her during their discussion if you could call it that, was far too much for her inexperience. The teenaged witch tucks herself further into the secluded alcove she chose to hide in, letting the shadows camouflage her flushed cheeks and rapidly rising and falling chest from the rest of the castle's inhabitants.
Viktor Krum, Hermione decided, is an enigma. She had pre-judged him before, during the World Cup, letting his fame and renown cloud her perception of him. She should have known better, being best friends with the Harry Potter, than to assume a famous facade meant anything more than just that. Viktor was a fantastic flier, well-muscled and incredibly handsome, no doubt, but he was so much more than that as well: powerful, dark, alluring, and, most of all, she decides, a problem.
Oh, how he made her body feel positively alight with seemingly simple touches. Her throat still felt warm where his fingers had traced and her lips — oh, her lips. Hermione touches her hand to her mouth, feeling the slight swelling there that Krum had left with his ungentlemanly perusal. She could still taste his skin on her tongue. It was musky; the tang of salt lingered along with what Hermione could only describe as a masculine flavor she inadvertently desired to savor on her palate as long as possible.
'What just happened,' the young witch wonders to herself. 'Does Viktor Krum…want me?"
This seems the only logical answer, Hermione decides, collecting herself mentally in the fashion which earned her the title 'know-it-all.' She takes a few more steadying breaths in her alcove before she squares her shoulders back and pushes away from her safe, cool wall. Only then, with the weight of its absence, does Hermione realize her bag is very much missing.
'Oh no,' she thinks, knowing exactly where she left the all-important bag containing her favorite books, her schoolwork, and her personal journal which, while warded, was not nearly well-enough warded to keep a fully-grown, powerful wizard like Viktor out. She flushed anew at the possibilities of him reading her personal, incredibly secret, girl-like musings, some of which were most definitely about him. After all, how was she supposed to contend with his ardent stares without writing them down to analyze? In her journal, she had described Viktor's attractive attributes in great detail, from the thickness of his arms to the brief glimpse of the tantalizing V of muscles leading from the base of his abdomen she'd seen during his morning exercises by the lake. Hermione had even written in her journal of how she would very much like to get her hands on him, map out those muscles with her hands, and know, for the first time, what a man's physique would feel like beneath her fingertips. Viktor could simply not be permitted to read the deepest, most scandalous musings her teenaged mind could muster.
This, Hermione decides, is not a mission that can wait. Without further pause, she finishes her run to the Gryffindor tower, nearly bowling over a second year in her eager clamor through the portrait hole. Her gaze focuses in on Harry, who is perched on an armchair by the roaring fireplace, and she makes a B-line for her best friend.
"Harry!" She exclaims, out of breath but emphatic enough to make the black-haired boy jump in his seat.
"Merlin, Hermione. You really need to give a bloke a warning before jumping out at them like Peeves on a bad day. Are you okay?"
Harry's head is tilted quizzically to the left, green eyes reflecting the common room's warmth and flames flickering back at her in the dim lighting. He looks concerned as he takes in her disheveled countenance. While Hermione's hair is usually out of place, it now sits practically wild after her near-sprint away from the library. Combined with her rushed breathing, blushing cheeks, and the frantic energy she seems to carry as a shawl, Harry has every right to his concern.
"I'm perfectly fine, Harry," Hermione replies, trying to project nonchalant confidence when all she can feel is a small bubble of panic overtaking a deep lake of first-time arousal. "Yes, perfectly fine. I was just wondering, well, asking really, if you would be so kind as to lend me your invisibility cloak for the evening. I have something that I need to do."
Harry blinks at her a couple of times, slowly and with a deep consideration that, on any other day, his best female friend would have applauded. As it was, Hermione deeply wishes he would just say yes and have done with it.
"Are…are you in any danger?" Harry asks, cautious (and rightfully so).
"Yes, I mean no, of course not," Hermione replies, unconvincingly. "No, I'm not in any danger. I just really REALLY need this favor, Harry, and you can't ask why."
Harry, bless him, takes only a moment more to mull over her request before he nods once and bends to retrieve the cloak from his school bag which rests at the base of his armchair. The cloak shimmers as he withdraws it from the satchel and hands it to Hermione.
"Take care," he advises. "And good luck with whatever it is you need to do."
Hermione grabs the cloak and, with a rushed 'thank you' to Harry, she turns on her heel and scampers back through the portrait hole, leaving a confused and slightly concerned Harry in the process. He shakes his head upon her exit, sighs heavily, and returns to contemplating the fire. 'Some things,' he thinks, 'are better-kept secrets.'
—
Hermione dawns the cloak as soon as she is outside of the Gryffindor common room. The fabric settles around her shoulders and falls in beauteous pleats over her entire body, hiding it from view from the rest of the world. Now invisible, she has nothing to stand between her and the Durmstrang ship upon which she is absolutely positive her book bag now resides. In a vain hope, the young lioness visits the library first, searching her table for any sign of the possessions she had left. They are, as she had suspected, gone.
With a heavy, steadying breath, Hermione begins the familiar path through the castle, out the door, and to the shores of the Black Lake. It is a clear night for late autumn in Scotland, and the moon reflects its perfect crescent onto the glassy dark waters, interrupted only by the occasional ripple, presumably coming from the stirrings of the great squid beneath the depths. Upon the night-black water rests a formidable ship, its silhouette stark against the backdrop of stars and moonlight.
Hermione shivers and tries to convince herself it's the squid rather than the incredibly tantalizingly handsome Bulgarian onboard which evokes such a reaction from her.
Her feet creak against the loading boards as she walks aboard and she hopes no one hears. The deck is empty save for a young man, dresses in traditional Durmstrang furs, asleep at the far end near the post for the sail. Hermione creeps past the sleeping student to the door which presumably leads to the rooms. She turns the handle and it creaks open, revealing the illuminated hallway which hosts a few dozen doors. Realizing her folly at visiting the ship with no real idea of where Viktor Krum resides, Hermione curses and takes a moment, tucked behind the hallway door, to brainstorm a way to find Viktor and, through him, her belongings.
'Aha!' Hermione thinks. And, without further ado, places her want in the palm of her hand.
"Point me," she whispers, "my private journal."
The wand spins several times before settling in her palm. It points straight ahead, to the door on the far side of the hallway.
'Of course, Viktor would have the best room,' Hermione muses, silently stalking closer to her target. Each door she passes is a weight off her shoulders, one more person that won't accidentally swing their door into her and discover the invisible Hogwarts student sneaking into the legendary Viktor Krum's rooms. 'This is all his fault,' she decides, finally at the imposing wooden door at the end of the hall. She stand still before it, weighing her options as the gentle waves of the Black Lake rock the ship beneath her feet. The moment is soothing rather than unsettling and Hermione quickly finds her courage. With a quick silencing charm and an alohomora, the lock slides open with nary a sound and Hermione is able to quietly turn the old metal handle, revealing the dark room inside.
Not a candle nor lantern is lit in Viktor's room, making her task all the more difficult. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and she slips in and closes the door behind her, locking it for good measure. The room is spacious, filled with chests overflowing with books. Hermione tries not to note that some of the pages look dog-eared, to her dismay. A figure rests in his bed, breathing peaceful, undisturbed breaths in and out. Hermione almost sighs in relief before she catches herself. She must be quiet.
Hermione's eyes scan the room, taking in the surroundings. The windows are large, giving her an absolutely breathtaking view of the lake. The moonlight is just bright enough for her to take note of the fine tapestries which adorn his walls — family heirlooms, she concludes. Magical trinkets litter the desk and table and a fine broom, to her unpracticed eye, rests in an open case at the base of a dying, ember-filled fire. Fresh polish and broomcare materials lay beside it. Finally, her eyes light upon a familiar satchel resting at the base of Viktor's bed. She descends upon it with all the stealth of a master thief, crouching to take inventory of her belongings. Textbooks, check. Essays, check. Journal…missing.
Suddenly, the fire roars to life, illuminating the room with light enough to see even the darkest corner with clarity. Startled, Hermione falls back with a loud thump, though the cloak still covers her from view. Hermione's wide, brown eyes flit around the room, finally settling on the bed where Viktor sits awake and alert.
"I know you are there, pretty vitch," Viktor drawls, voice husky with the overtones of sleep. He sits, propped up on his elbow, the Quidditch-toned muscles in his arms flexing in the light of the flickering fireplace. His eyes cast out the room, taking note of every corner. Finding it empty, his gaze swivels back to the space where he heard the sound of Hermione tumbling backward. Finding it empty, Viktor spends a moment in obvious deep contemplation before, smirking, he pushes the blankets from his form, revealing bare skin inch by inch in a display Hermione could only describe as lewd. The conformer and the sheet fall away in indecent slowness, revealing first the famous athlete's defined pectoral muscles, covered with a slight smattering of dark hair. Further, the coverings fall, past row after row of deliciously defined abdominal muscles. Finally, the blankets come to rest just above his groin, just low enough that Hermione finds her invisible gaze glued on the happy trail of hair leading from his belly button, down past the v in his hips, down past the muscled, flat expanse of his abdomen, and down, finally meeting the thick patch of hair which leads to many unknown, pleasurable things. Hermione can do nothing but stare at the inadvertent show, taking in the novel experience of seeing a devastatingly attractive man, curled up in nothing but luxurious sheets and authentic fur blankets.
'I am in so much trouble,' Hermione decides as Viktor, holding the thinnest sheet to cover his barely-there modesty, stands from the bed. His eyes, dark and smoldering in the firelight, are fixed directly on her. Despite her invisibility under the cloak, Hermione knows she is discovered. It takes more than being unseen to avoid a truly great wizard and, much like Dumbledore could see Harry despite the cloak, Viktor, too, knew that she was sitting, alone and unprotected in the bowels of his school's ship.
She sat, petrified with fear, thrill, and unadulterated arousal as Viktor walked directly towards her. The hand not holding his thin, almost sheer blanket over his manhood reached out into the darkness as though guided by his desire to touch her. His fingertips skimmed closer, closer, and closer still until Hermione was holding her breath to avoid his detection. Finally, his thick hand brushed the edge of Harry's cloak and, without further ado, gripped the material in a strong fist and pulled it from her form.
Suddenly, Hermione felt quite naked, sitting visible before the smirking man who was, in actuality, the one who was essentially naked himself. Crouched as she was, Hermione couldn't help but stare at the impressive bulge beneath the sheet as it was directly at eye level. She let her gaze rest there, a touch too long for and decently modest witch, then, with a gulp, she let her eyes travel up the trail of hair, up his abdomen, past the Bulgarian's heavyset pectorals, and finally met the eyes of the man who made her feel so empowered and disoriented, all at once.
Viktor's smirk had not abated. In fact, the quirk of his mouth only grew as the young witch's stare lingered in all the right places to make a man feel appreciated.
"Vell, little vitch, vhatever are we going to do with you?"
