Chapter 11

Viktor ran his hands through his hair in the steam-filled bathroom, staring into the mirror. Hermione was in his hometown, in his house, in his kitchen. Dinner would be quicker, she'd said, if she cooked while he showered. He was relieved; ramen noodles were his specialty, although he could make a mean ham sandwich.

She was in his house. She'd come to Izbor to see him. On the walk over, she'd told him about going to his mother's shop, using books as an excuse, to find him. She was only here for him, not for work. And she'd called him Vitya. She wanted to talk to him. Did he have a chance?

He sighed and stepped into the shower, letting the water pound the back of his neck, hot enough to turn his skin pink. How could he let his heart hope? She was married; he'd lost his chance. Maybe if she was unhappy—and she seemed unhappy—she would leave Weasley. Then he could show her how much he still loved her; he could win her heart again and she would be his. He could love her so well. He would hold her every night, watching her sleep. Every morning he would watch as rays of sunshine came through the open blinds and made her hair shine as if there were streaks of gold in it. As she woke, he would kiss her slowly, over and over, starting each morning with sweet kisses. He would tell her every day how much she meant to him.

Viktor hit his fist against the wall, sending the water droplets clinging to the dark hair on his arm flying. Why was he thinking like this? He could not have her. He knew he couldn't. Those kinds of thoughts would build his hopes up, only to have them crushed again. Once upon a time he'd been eighteen, crazy in love, picturing a fairytale life with this girl; then all of his dreams had been shattered with one tear-stained letter.

As he scrubbed the sweat off of his body, he remembered the heat in her eyes at the pitch. She wanted him; he was sure of that. What if she just wanted sex? Was that why she'd come? Surely not; she could have sex with her husband. Damned lucky man.

Viktor stepped out, toweling his hair dry. If she did, by some chance, just want to sleep with him, he knew he'd have to turn her down. He wanted so much more; he wouldn't settle for a one-night stand, no matter how hard it would be to say no. He wanted a future, and he wouldn't get that unless she was leaving Weasley. If she offered him that future, he would make love to her until her neither one of them could even move out of the bed, and then he'd do it all over again.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and headed for the kitchen, doubling back to grab a shirt. He seldom wore one in the house, but he didn't think he could take it if she touched his skin. Then Viktor stepped into the kitchen, with a smile and an uncertain resolve, because his every dream was waiting inside, with dinner ready.

Hermione peeked into one of Viktor's cabinets, just curiously exploring. She hadn't actually found much yet.

"Nothing but noodles in that vone, I am afraid," came his voice from behind her. She whirled, embarrassed to be caught snooping, to see him leaning against the doorframe. He laughed as she admired his physique. He was wearing worn, faded jeans, with a hole in one knee, and a button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows and only the bottom half of the buttons fastened. She could see dark hair peeking out at her. His arms were crossed over his chest and she could see the bulges of his biceps. His feet were bare and he had water drops in his hair. His eyes laughed at her, beautiful brown, dancing happily, teasing. His smile—God, that smile!—was sweet and mischievous, innocent and sexy, all at the same time. She was so incredibly aware of this man, even though she knew better.

"I think something is burning," he said, still smiling, still giving her that joyful look. It took every ounce of her willpower to turn back to the stove.

After dinner, they went into his living room, where he sank into a huge, plushy couch. Blissfully, she snuggled into the other end. She was in love with his sofa.

"Vhat vas it you vanted to talk about, svetlina?" he asked gently, as if he knew it were something serious, something painful. Even though she'd made up her mind to tell him, and even though she knew he'd be wonderful about it—he was already wonderful about it—she was nervous all of a sudden, and it felt as if a tension had filled the room, making their conversation heavier, thicker, more difficult. It felt as if Ron had stepped into the room, and she was afraid, suddenly, to put everything she felt into words. She was that afraid once she told Viktor, she couldn't help but fall for him. She buried her face in her hands and choked out a sob.

In an instant she felt him next to her, his hand on her back, offering his support without even knowing the problem. In that instant, she felt as though she would love him whether she told him about her marriage or not. She was tired, resigned, exhausted with the day-to-day dealing with her husband, but at the same time, something tiny, green, and new was growing inside of her. She wanted to nurture it, love it, give it fertilizer; circumstances told her she should uproot it. Even so, she left that tiny growing thing intact, at least for tonight.

"Viktor…" she began, then sighed. "I don't really know how to go about telling you this. I want to talk about my marriage."

"You are haffing problems, are you not? Sometimes I think I see that in your eyes."

"You're right; we're having a lot of problems," she answered, and then she told him about Ron's jealousy and moodiness, and the way he treated everyone, not just her. She told him about Ron's drinking, and how she spent quite a few nights at the Potters' house. He listened to everything she said, letting her talk. An hour or so later, they were leaning against an arm of the deep sofa, legs stretched out, with Hermione snuggled against his side. When she'd told him about how she used to care, and how she didn't care anymore, she'd cried and he'd held her. Now, they were sitting quietly, each lost in thought.

"That is not all of it, is it, Herm-own-ninny?"

She smiled sadly, "You can tell?"

He replied, "I alvays could."

She sighed. "When I got home from my last trip here, I found out he'd been sleeping around, a lot, and bringing these girls home, having them in my bed," she whispered.

Viktor let lose a string of Bulgarian words she'd never heard before. "Vitya," she said, tugged his sleeve, "I don't really care about the girls. Mostly I'm just pissed that he had them in my house." She looked up then, tears shining in her eyes like diamond stars. "I don't love him at all anymore, and I don't think I ever will. I think, possibly, that hurts the most. I'm married to someone I can't love."

"Leave him, svetlina," Viktor said, voice low and rough, filled with gravel. "Leave him and let me love you instead."

She pulled away from him, from his embrace. He had diamond stars in his eyes, too, and his voice was so full of emotion she thought it would break. "I can't," she whispered. "I can't. I made a promise."

"So did he. He broke his. That voids yours, does it not?"

"I made a promise, and I don't break promises."

"You did vonce. Vonce upon a time you promised me you vould alvays love me." His voice was painful to hear now, full of tears, emotion, heartbreak. It hurt her to hear it.

"Vitya…I didn't break that one, either." With that soft remark, she was gone, out of his house, out of Izbor, out of Bulgaria.