Key words: Viktor Krum Hermione Granger Millicent Bulstrode
Spoilers: SS/PP, CoS, PoA, GoF, possibly FB, perhaps QttA, and maybe OotP in future chapters
Disclaimer: JK Rowling (and those lucky companies upon whom she has bestowed the rights, including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Warner Brothers) owns the characters and most of the setting, although I've manipulated things a bit.
The version of the text of the sonnet in the author's notes is from my high school Brit Lit text: Adventures in English Literature (Pegasus Ed.) from Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. If I'm missing any necessary component from my disclaimer, please notify me immediately.
Author's notes: By the end of this chapter, the reference in the title should be evident. Here is the complete poem.
Shakespeare's Sonnet 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red than her lips' red.
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,
If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
In some perfumes there is more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Shall I Compare Thee to a Shakespearean Sonnet . . . 130?
Ch. 2
His assistance having been rejected by his own country, Viktor applied for British Indeterminate Visitor papers. He vaguely remembered from a conversation with Hermione (so long ago, it seemed) that the underground forces in Great Britain were more tolerant of non-conventional aid than any government agency in the world, since they could not afford to refuse any shred of talent or offer of support, however meagre it may be.
***3 years later***
Viktor Krum bobbed through the caliginous depths of Knockturn Alley, absorbed in his morose contemplation of the events of the turbulent past five years. The late hour had enticed the most unpleasant sorts of magical beings out of their lairs to slink in and out of the black-mouthed alleys riddling the unsavoury thoroughfare. Skeletal, hollow-cheeked witches in short, black leather robes peddled their virtually non-existent wares for a few galleons; goblins and warlocks discreetly exchanged suspicious substances under the covert cover of their cloaks; and dark, furtive phantasms continually receded from the edges of his vision. Suddenly, Viktor noticed that the denizens of the lurid lane had dissipated. Disconcerted, he limped into the closest alley and collided with a large, soft body. It belonged to a black-robed woman slightly shorter than he, but considerably wider. The part of her face that was not shrouded in her cloak's voluminous hood seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not recall any previous encounter with the young witch.
Before Viktor could apologise for his clumsiness, she seized his left hand in the iron grip of her right, turned her back to him, and tucked his arm between her elbow and her bosom. Lacing her fingers between his, and using her left hand as an excruciating vise, she pressed their wrists together. Her pulse throbbed solidly against his. After several moments in this position, she exclaimed gutturally and threw down his arm.
"Who are you? Where are you from, and what are you doing here?" she interrogated brusquely, her eyes constantly scanning the shadows behind him.
Bewildered by the perplexing accostal, Viktor gaped at the young woman. "I haff no idea vhat you are meaning," he protested, although he certainly could conjecture. The recently developed Partingham Procedure was the most efficient means of determining whether a person bore a recently summoned Dark Mark, and one did not wander down Knockturn Alley for a leisurely midnight stroll.
As the witch was about to clarify herself, her eyes fixed on a dark figure that was stealthily approaching them. She pulled Viktor into an abandoned storefront (by its scent of musty secret-rooms and fear, overlaid with hints of burnt flesh and damp earth, he recognised it as a former Dark Arts pawn shop). In the darkness, he stumbled over a mouldering pile of debris. His knees collapsed under the strain of trying to counterbalance his forward momentum, so he toppled into the woman, sending a discarded tin clattering onto the floor.
The witch had tried to brace herself for the impending impact. Unfortunately, she did so by planting her left foot on a carved dragon bone. She lost her footing, and they both sprawled on the dusty floor.
Viktor's landing was soft and most certainly not unpleasant, although he doubted that she could say the same. The woman who had cushioned his fall lay so still that he worried he had crushed her. She quietly assured him that she was alright, although a bruise was beginning to crawl up her cheek where his chin had concussed it.
As he attempted to roll off her, she dug her fingers into his back and pulled him more tightly into the heat of her body, enveloping him in her lush contours, his cloak fanned out over their bodies. Just as the disturbed dust motes were beginning to settle, a cramp in his left knee prompted a reflexive spasm that thrust his hips into the pliant expanse of her belly. For an instant, his mind ignored all the distractions of the bizarre situation, unable to focus on anything but the extraordinary woman beneath him.
"Stay," she murmured huskily.
When he was still a famed Quidditch player, Viktor had been propositioned many times. However, never had the invitation seemed so genuine, and never had he been so tempted. Just as he covered her lips with his, an ominous shadow unfurled in the wan light that filtered through the display window. Even without looking, Viktor could feel the penetrating gaze from the faceless mask. Knowing that their immediate future depended on a persuasive performance, he redoubled his efforts, vehemently banishing his customary restraint in a muddle of passion and self-preservation. His land-bound awkwardness receded, replaced by an artless grace he had known only when astride his broom.
Apparently convinced by their fervent osculation, the silhouette receded. A few seconds later, the witch withdrew from his fierce embrace, gasping slightly for breath (although whether out of relief for surviving the encounter or from the kiss, Viktor could not tell). Her startled eyes had softened momentarily, but she soon recollected herself and quickly shifted Viktor onto the floor next to her. This painful jolt dampened his burgeoning ardour and reminded him of his precarious predicament. With a tug on an empty display case she scrambled to her feet and then reached down to help him stand.
Once again, she peremptorily grabbed his wrist and began to lead him, leaving him with no choice but to follow. She pulled him out the back door of the shop into a smaller, more odiferous alley and then into a ramshackle building. Once inside, Viktor had to grapple with the grasping, tangled cords of no less than seven powerful wards that guarded the doorway to a cozy little flat. He recognised five of them from his Dark Defense Tactics classes at Durmstrang as he floundered in the invisible snares, caught as securely as a fly in a spider's web. The witch, whose uninhibited passage identified her as their caster, stabbed her wand into the coil of wards just to the left of Viktor's ear. They hissed regretfully and regurgitated Viktor forcefully into the room.
After locking the door with two Muggle and five magical locks, she haphazardly dumped a kettle into the fire to boil and offered him a sturdy chair. She dropped heavily into its mate and proffered her hand for a belated introduction.
"By the way, my name's Millicent Bulstrode."
