Chapter 13

Hermione stood staring at Viktor's door. It was three in the morning; she shouldn't be here. A good wife would be home, taking care of her husband. Of course, a good husband wouldn't be passed out on the couch from a night of drinking, groping women, and being arrested. She wanted to be here with Viktor. She couldn't force herself to stay home with Ron, not when he behaved the way he had tonight. She needed, at this moment in time, to be weak for a change, to cry, to have someone to hold on to.

She wondered, briefly, as she walked slowly toward the door, if it was wrong to put Viktor through this, especially after their conversation the last time she'd seen him. He still cared for her. He'd asked her to leave Ron.

How could he still care for her? Was she even the same person as the girl he'd known? She'd been through a war since then! Surely she had changed. But then, he seemed so like the boy she'd known, and he had fought in the war as well. She'd heard his named mentioned in connection with foreign movements. Every time, she'd felt a jolt to her heart. At the time, she'd written it off as mere memory: a worry for a boy she'd once known, an affection she'd once had. At the time, she'd thought Ron would always be the only one for her. She could look back now and see that Viktor had stayed inside her heart, hiding, waiting for her to remember and love him again. Now she was on his doorstep in the middle of the night, desperate for someone to care about her, and she remembered. She still loved him.

With a deep breath, she knocked on his door.

A sound crept in through uneasy dreams. Rap-rap-rap, a fist on wood, a tentative tapping. Viktor sat up, eyes bleary, hair tousled, glancing at the clock. Who on earth was knocking on his door? He stumbled to the living room, still confused from sleep. He pulled open the door and stared in shock.

Hermione. What the hell was she doing here in the middle of the night? Part of him wanted to shut the door and go back to bed. He knew, without a doubt, he would be hurting before she left, in one way or another. He sighed. She had tears on her cheeks and hurt in her eyes. He knew he could never turn her away, even though he knew she'd leave him bleeding inside when she went.

"Hermy-own-ninny…Vhat…greshen…ne…" He ran his hand over his face, trying to find his English. "Vhat vrong?"

"Vitya…" she whispered, tears in her voice, "I needed someone…"

He knew better, but that voice, speaking his name like that, tore at his heart. He reached for her, drawing her close. She felt so good, soft, sweet, even though she was shaking slightly with small sobs. He knew he was a drowning man. "I am here," he said quietly, speaking slowly, still having to think to find his words. "Tell me, svetlina, vhat matter is. I fix if can."

"I need to cry," she murmured against his chest. She sounded so small and lost. She was breaking his heart again.

"Then cry." She let loose, great wracking sobs coming from her small frame. He held her closer, whispering soft Bulgarian words, wanting her to feel safe and cherished even though he had no idea what was going on.

Several minutes later, those sobs faded to quiet hiccups. A rough wind was blowing, raising their skin in shivery bump, and Viktor could taste rain on the air. He heard a soft roll of thunder, still far off, but coming. "Ve should go in house, svetlina," he whispered into her hair. "Storm coming. Need to talk?"

Hermione nodded, but she didn't move. Maybe she was simply too tired to go any further, Viktor thought. Crying like that would wear anyone out. He scooped her up, surprising a gasp out of her, getting her attention. She looked at him questioningly, eyes big, like those of a tearful child. "I am cold," he told her, even though he wasn't. He knew she was. "Ve need go in house. It is starting to rain."

"I can walk."

"I can carry you." He wanted to have her close, to take this moment, because he might never get another chance to feel her in his arms like this. Tonight, he was the man she had turned to. He would be anything she needed.

Another rumble of thunder sounded, louder, as he settled her on the couch by his side. She wasn't crying now; she was watching him with a peculiar look on her face, somewhere between misery and pleasure. Perhaps he wasn't the only person confused.

Viktor pushed her hair out of her eyes, gently, and murmured, "Are you going to tell me vhy you showed up at my door in middle of the night?"

The tiny glint of pleasure was gone from her eyes in an instant, replaced by fury. She told him about her husband's latest adventure. When she told him about his drunken comments in the jail cell, Viktor had to choke back his opinions and fight clenching his fists. How could any man do that to his wife, particularly to this wife? He understood her need to run. But…

"Vhy my door, Hermione? Vhy not Potter or somevone else?"

"I don't know, Viktor." She looked up at him. She did know. It was there in her eyes, swirling in the caramel. Her eyes told him all the things he wanted to hear her voice say. She loved him and she wanted to be with him. She wanted to leave Weasley. Why else would she run to another man? She wanted to stay.

He was lost, surrounded by the message he found there. Surely she would stay now. Please, please, let her stay. He didn't mean to kiss her, but his face was tilting down to hers; his eyes were closing; he was tasting her soft lips. Her arms were sliding around his waist—God, why hadn't he worn a shirt to bed?—and her mouth was responding to his, sweetly, gently, yet eagerly. He cupped her face with his hand and knew right where he wanted her to be. He needed her in his life. Please, let her stay with him.

Hermione broke the kiss and looked away, down at her hands, tracing her finger over the thin band on her left ring finger. She couldn't look at Viktor, not now, not when she knew his heart would be in his eyes. He wanted her to stay, and she wanted to. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back. It was wrong, and she shouldn't have done it, but it felt so incredibly perfect. She was teetering on the line of promise-breaking. No, she thought, she had broken it. Surely, after Ron's behavior, such a minor breech of contract was acceptable. She was still in the clear, she decided.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "That shouldn't have happened. Thank you, though, for listening. I needed someone to talk to."

Viktor groaned, and she looked at him, sweeping her eyes over his pajama pants and the dark hair on his chest. He, too, was staring at his hands. He sighed, then looked up, meeting her eyes. He looked torn, tortured. She shouldn't be doing this to him. Thunder burst above them, loudly, and she heard rain pounding the roof.

"Hermione," he said, voice rough, "I am only a man. I love you. I know you care for me. If you vant friendship, I do my best to giff you only that. But friendship must be casual, simple. Must be lunch vhen you are in town, easy. Ve both care too much to share deep friendship. It hurts too much. Either leave your husband, and be vith me, or do not show up at my door in middle of night. I am only a man, man who loves you, and I cannot take it."

He stood and walked to the door, refusing to look at her again. In the doorway he turned, met her eyes again, and said sharply, "Blankets and pillows in hall closet. Sleep vell." Then he was gone.

She sat for awhile, watching rain streaming down the window, thoughts ripping through her head. She was hurting him. She didn't want to, didn't mean to. She wanted desperately to leave Ron, run to Izbor, and love Viktor. She wanted to give that tiny green growing thing inside of her a chance to grow and blossom. She wanted to go down the hall, climb into bed with the man in the bedroom, and hold him for the rest of her life. She wanted so many things, so much of her future, to include him.

But to reach him, she had to overcome that damned pride keeping her with Ron. She curled herself into a tight ball on Viktor's sofa and wept like her heart was broken.

In the next room, so did he.