Well here we are again has kinda been pissing me off lately. I tried to start an account and submit Bulgarian Mascara to them and after 3 weeks of waiting they said it had too many grammatical and spelling errors. I re-read it and I saw like 2. That's just nonsense. They can accept an ongoing fic about Hermione licking feces off Draco's dick while getting pissed on, but a story that accidentally has 'who' instead of 'whom' isn't quite up to par for a website of such renowned status. Ah whatever, I like submitting my fics here better anyway…
Much luv
The Deni Pie
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P r e t t y T r a c k M a r k s
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Hermione graciously thanked her meticulous early bird habits for what might have been the ninety-four millionth time in her life. Had she gotten up even five minutes later than usual she probably would have missed him. Stepping groggily back into her room still trying to shake the sleep induced mush from her brain she stumbled upon a very much dressed and ready to leave Viktor. She paused, startled by the sight, her hand still on the back of the doorknob. "You're going already?" She gawked incredulously.
"I must leaf, my parents haff been expecting me back since last night." He explained.
Frowning in disappointment and worry she had the impulse to lock her window and demand he stay until Madam Pomfrey inspected him for herself. "Are you sure you should be flying in your condition? Its such a long way back." She fretted imagining him plummeting from his broom from exhaustion or pain.
"I vill be fine, Hermy-own-ninny." Viktor assured her.
She began to feel the heavy weight of concern bear over her shoulders, his excuses doing no good to ease it away. "Saying it over and over again doesn't make it true, you know."
Viktor tugged on his gloves, feeling the leather tighten over his fingers. Besides a broom, they were probably the most useful items in Quidditch. They protected the hands from blisters and helped keep a firm grip on the broom handle. "I haff not received letter from you for a long time." He remarked, disregarding her previous comment.
Hermione blinked, suddenly at a loss for words regarding the abrupt change in subject. "I'm sorry." She said finally. "I've been quite busy really. I was made Head Girl here. I suppose I lost track of time."
His nod was the only sign that he'd even heard her as he continued to right his robes and pull on his other glove. "I understand." And he did, how long could he really have expected them to stay in each other's lives when they were whole countries apart? When she was a whole life away? Loosing track of time. It was inevitable. But it didn't soften the bitterness rising in his heart. "You haff responsibilities."
Gazing at the floor, unable to meet his eyes she couldn't stop the bit of shame worming its way underneath her skin. "No, not so much that it would justify ignoring you." She confessed guiltily. Yes she had been made Head Girl, and yes she had been busy and given new responsibilities, but her insensitivity had been more due to her forgetfulness rather than her overworked schedule. She had obligations to her school and professors, but he expected things from her as well and it was her own fault for dismissing him so rudely. "But the year's half over and if you'd happen to have another invitation for a visit this summer, I'd love the chance to make up for lost time." She asked sincerely.
Things were different now. They couldn't rewind everything and act out the 'good ol' days'. They'd lost track of time as it were. And that's all they had now. Lost time. Time that could never be regained. Never be recovered. A clock that could never turn back the hours, the seconds, the minutes. "I vould like to thank you for letting me rest here. But I must go now, Hermy-own-ninny."
His accent was thick and gruff, his face that same assortment of tight lips and dark glaring eyes. For a second she thought she was fifteen again catching him invading her library once more with his round-shouldered slouch, dour look and duckfooted walk. Hermione sighed as he slung his spindly over the sill and took off, not sparing her a second glance. Her first impulse was to go to the sill and watch him until he faded from sight, but something held her back, held her firmly in place.
The sudden brush of something light and soft against her ankles caught her attention, taking it away from the blowing curtains and open window. Glancing down, she watched as Crookshanks twined himself in and out of her legs, making a perfect eight between them. Hermione smiled warmly, crouching down to pick him up in her arms, grateful for the small comfort. He let out a disgruntled growl at being hauled off the safety of the floor, but began to settle himself when she ran her fingers along his neck in a soothing manner. "And just where have you been you naughty little thing?" She cooed scratching the backs of his ears with her index and thumb. "Hiding under the bed? Did you not recognize that strange man in mummy's room?"
Hermione absolutely loathed baby talk, and would always cringe whenever she caught her mother doing it with the neighbor's new bundle of nappy wasting, colic infested, sleep disrupting joy. Honestly, how were children to learn to speak properly when their alleged instructors were doing nothing but 'goo-ing' and 'gaah-ing' at them? But for some reason all her intellectual standards and morals were tossed right out the door when it came to Crookshanks and that flat sour face of his that apparently only she was capable of finding adorable. Fortunately she made sure she was in private when indulging in speaking to him like a love struck Neanderthal.
Casting one last lingering look at the billowing window she held the ginger cat a little tighter, more to reassure herself than anything else. Giving her head a regretful shake she went to her closet to get dressed before going down for breakfast, knowing Harry and Ron would be rapping thunderously at the Head Picture Frame in a matter of minutes complaining about how they would be forced to sit at the end of the table if she didn't hurry up.
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She hadn't been wrong about the flight being terribly long and tedious. But he felt it did him good. He was still horribly sore in more places than one, but his body no longer felt like it was being ripped apart at the seams. The good night's rest did wonders for him and he wished he could simply fly back home but knew he couldn't continue to stall as he had been. Firming his resolve Viktor slowly leaned into a decent, straightening up when he neared the ground and began to land. Before, when he had been younger and still learning the art of landing he would often stumble or fall with the momentum once his feet hit the grass. Now he could stop on a nut, knowing to pull up later instead of sooner so the speed wouldn't buck him forward.
Once he touched down, he scanned through the area, searching for something he could transfigure into a portkey. The chosen object ended up being no more than a stray rock, but it did well enough. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to ignore the vertigo induced blurs that rushed about him at breakneck speed, becoming a melting pot of raging colorful smears all mixing and twisting together to give him a grand headache. Unlike his broom, a portkey landing was something he doubted he would ever get the total hang of. Viktor let out a painful grunt as he fell headfirst into the slush and snow, his first sign that he had reached home in one piece.
Rising to his feet he shook the frigid ice out of his hair and robes, gathering the later more tightly around him. It was night once again and he squinted around the area, concentrating on regaining his bearings. Spotting the warm light of a recognizable house roughly a dozen yards behind him he started in its direction, his long feet making sizable imprints in the whitish powder beneath them. The large château became bigger, brighter, and more distinct in the darkness the nearer he came until he was finally at the doorstep, and for once no relief was to be had from standing before the thick wooden door.
Before he could even raise his hand to the knocker the door swung open with enough force to crash against the wall behind it. Jolting in surprise he didn't get the chance to react before the small, dark haired woman now in front of him leapt on him in a shower of tears and kisses. Viktor shook off his initial surprise and hugged her back, trying not to show his discomfort regarding the rough treatment his injuries were now having to endure. She sobbed his name over and over muttering her worries and thanking the deities in her own Bulgarian. His mother tongue washed over him like a soothing blanket, seemingly taking a weight off his shoulders now again able to understand and converse without fear of tripping over or misinterpreting another language. "Maika, I am okay." He mumbled, not knowing how to respond to her maternal fit.
"Vare haff you been, Viktor? It has been almost two days! You vill never do that to me again! I thought…I thought they..I thought they had….." The stocky woman's reprimand dissolved into another bout of sobs and fierce, smothering hugs, trying to assure herself that he was really there, that he was really okay.
Viktor rubbed her back comfortingly, not wanting to upset her any more. After a few moments of further crying and bawling words he couldn't make out, she finally pulled back, sniffling and dabbing at her watery eyes. "Come in here, vot are you doing still out in the cold?" She scolded pulling him through the doorway.
Walking into the house was like walking through a wall of much needed heat. He relaxed and let all the icy coldness melt away and warm him inside and out. His mother hurried to shut the door behind him, removing his robes and whimpering in concern at the violent rips and holes she found there. Swallowing back her worry she hung them up and ushered him into the den.
"Viktor?"
He had just made it out of the foyer when a tall man with pale skin and a rather hooked nose passed the hallway, stopping at the sight of him. "Bashta." He acknowledged, not sure what else to say. What could you say after what had been done, what they already knew had been done? His father's eyes softened sadly and he beckoned him into the house.
"Come." He said, putting a careful hand at his back and leading him to the fireplace in the living room.
Viktor took a seat opposite the sofa his father now occupied. He stared at the wavering flames brooding slouched in his chair. What did you say when there was simply nothing left to be said?
"I did not think it vould take so long." His father started, looking him over.
What did he know of how long it was supposed to take? he thought sourly. "It didn't." Viktor curtly replied.
The older man nodded, understanding and accepting his son's antipathy. He let his gaze skim over his sharp profile, noting every scratch, every welt, every bruise. He sighed regretfully, hanging his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. It could have gone worse, he supposed, but it could have gone so much better as well. Making a firm promise to himself, he resolved to never question Viktor about the details of what had happened. He doubted his son would ever want to relive such atrocities, and he didn't think he could handle knowing about them either. He wanted to say something though, but what was he supposed to tell him? You did the right thing, son? Adding more pressure to the top of his nose he tried to fight off his rising frustration. Who was he to say what was wrong and what was right anymore? The lines were so blurred and hazy these days. Now it was almost impossible to tell the difference between the right thing to do and the smart thing do to. Luckily the dainty clattering of porcelain and silverware saved him from any forced conversation of discomfort and unease.
"Viktor, I haff brought you some tarator. You must be starfing." His mother said sympathetically, carrying over a tray of soup, hot drinks, and bread.
Fisting his hands on his knees, Viktor shook his head negatively. "I am thinking I vould rather eat at my own home, Maika." He replied sternly, rising from his chair.
The dark haired woman balked at him, stunned, and even his father's eyes widened in surprise at this. "But, but you haff just gotten here!" She squawked, almost dropping the tray but luckily her husband caught it in time and set it aside.
Nevertheless Viktor continued back towards the door only muttering brief apologies as he passed her. She cried out his name tears coming to her eyes again as she urgently tugged at him, following him down the hallway. "Viktor I beg of you-"
"Let him go, Devora." Her husband chided, gently but firmly grasping her shoulders as she pleaded with her son.
Before she could shrug him off, Viktor was already out the door again, the thick wood shutting heavily in his wake. Whirling around furiously she slapped his chest in a flood of angry tears. "Let him go! I let him go once and look how he has come back to me, Edik!" She shrieked.
The tall man let her take her anger out with her miniature fists until they faded into another round of sobbing and hysterical clutching. "He needs time, slatko matze." He answered softly. "Give him time."
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His broom was lost and he doubted it would ever be found again in all the snow. At least not until Summer, and it most likely not by him. Apparating back to his own home he had purchased only a couple of years ago he found that he welcomed the solitude residing there. The house was small and only possessed two house elves of its own but bigger homes always seemed too vast, too ominous, too empty. Smaller homes were much cozier and easier to fill.
He trudged in feeling exhausted and much older than he was or should feel for his age. Immediately the elves of the house popped out of nowhere, gushing over his return, practically fighting over taking his robes and coat. Slinking into his study he sunk heavily in front of the fireplace into a cushioned chair of his own. He could hear the house elf that apparently lost the hanging-of-the-coat-contest punishing himself against the kitchen wall while the other happily stirred something he hoped was warm. The answer to his question appeared with another pop in the form of a steaming mug suddenly shoved into his face. Reclining his head back to see the large glass entirely, he took it, wrapping his fingers around the cup, his thick knuckles standing out against the brown pottery. Taking a sip he half listened to the elf as it chattered away in excited Bulgarian, though the poor, uneducated grammar left something to be desired.
"Avel made the master his own special drink!" He beamed. "He puts honey in the airian this time, and he warms it too! Is good, yes?" He inquired eagerly.
Viktor nodded, he had to admit it did taste different, in a better way. "You did vell, Avel."
The words had no sooner left his mouth than the other house elf appeared glowering spitefully at Avel, carrying a tray of bread and an open jar of something that looked like a cross between chocolate and peanut butter. "Master can'ts fill up on airian." He jeered, giving the other elf a pointed look. "Efim brings some toast and nutella." He announced proudly thrusting the tray up at Viktor. "Efim makes more if master is vanting?" He asked hopefully.
"I vould like to be left alone now." Viktor replied, resting his head against the tall back of the chair.
Avel's ears fell dramatically in exaggerated sorrow, already thinking of a punishment fitting such a crime as displeasing his gracious host. "Master is not happy?"
"Master is tired." He repeated.
The two gave a reluctant nod and obediently disappeared as he'd wished. Viktor let out a relaxed breath and mad himself comfortable in his seat, the heat from the flames bouncing off the fronts of his defrosting skin. In the few letters she had written him, Hermione had once mentioned some sort of campaign she was trying to put together, he couldn't remember the name but it was basically for the betterment of elfish rights or something or other. He couldn't help but laugh sentence after sentence, picturing her serious expression and composure while writing something to blatantly silly. He could only imagine the outrage on Efim and Avel's faces should he ever hand them a pair of mittens and tell them he was turning them loose.
Taking one more swig of the honeyed airian he set it down before decidedly popping the nutella laden butter knife in his mouth. Efim had obviously wanted to add his own two cents and it was best not to ignore him. House elves were quite the jealous creatures when given decent reasoning. Plus, he'd sooner lick a patch of the delicious substance off the floor than let a drop of it go to spoils. He'd first found a jar of the wonderful mixture at Hogwarts and become so enamored with it he'd made sure he'd always had a lasting supply of it at his own home ever since.
Sucking the knife of every last bit he finally relinquished it back to its rightful container before resuming his previous dwelling. He would have to buy another broom early tomorrow, he had a Quidditch match late that afternoon. It was funny, in a rather morbid way, that the whole world was changing before his very eyes and he was still expected to be at practice. It wasn't a big game, not like Ireland, but he was expected to be the first one there anyway. They were playing Russia, it wasn't as if the team wasn't good, they just had such poor funding that he doubted they would ever get the financial support necessary to achieve their full potential. Talent only went so far, it was like an old saying, you could be a master of the sword but when everyone else has a gun what does it matter?
Now though, his team wasn't his only priority, at least not the first, anymore. He was one of them now. If his dark mark beckoned him, it didn't matter if he had just caught the snitch in the middle of the Quidditch field, he would have to go. What did you do when the thing you were most repulsed by was now the number one precedence in your life? Viktor idly lifted his arm, his fingers grasping the little knot he'd tied it with and slowly began to unravel it. Bit by bit, it came apart until he could see the whole of the grotesque skull and snake in all its monstrous glory. The serpent swiveled out of the gaping jaw, flickering at him mockingly. He gazed at it longer, his muscles tensing furiously the more he watched it, until finally he aggressively snatched the innocent butter knife from the jar, falling out of the chair to his knees and sunk the serrated edge into the tainted skin.
Burning pain seared through his arm as he dug the knife viciously into the damnable mark, desperately carving, desperately cutting. He had no sooner begun drawing blood than a piercing wail broke out from behind him, small arms flinging themselves around him in a vice-like grip. The feminine form struggled fiercely with him grappling for the knife he was viciously scoring into his forearm.
"Stop it! Stop it! Give it to me Viktor!" She cried.
Viktor growled irritatedly and continued to shove her away. "Get avay, Maika!" He snarled.
But she came at him again, this time throwing her arm around his eyes to blind him long enough to wrestle the butter knife away. Once she seized it she hurriedly shoved it behind her back, climbing to her feet and quickly stumbling away from him.
Viktor rose up angrily and advanced on her. "Give it back to me, I can stand this no longer!" He growled.
His mother stood her ground unafraid. "I vill not! You are hurting yourself!"
"I am getting rid of this!" He shot back, thrusting his butchered arm at her. "I vill not look at it anymore!"
"Then do not look!" She retaliated.
Glowering furiously he caught a silvery gleam shining behind her back and lunged at her.
She squealed in surprise but easily dodged his clumsy attempt. "Efim!" She hollered. Instantly the house elf appeared before her all a twitter, excited to have a new chore. Unfortunately his elation was short lived, the earnest smile vanishing at the rage present on his master's face. "Take this avay!" She commanded shoving the blade at Efim.
"You vill not!" Viktor shouted. "She is not your master. Give it to me!"
"Look at his arm, Efim." Devora urged, pointing at the bloody appendage. "He is trying to hurt himself vith it. You are not vanting him hurt, are you?"
The little elf followed her finger to the gaping wound and shook his head in fright, immediately yanking the new weapon from her and disappearing before his master could grab him.
Viktor growled heatedly, gripping the nightstand with the bread and airian and heaving it across the room. The furniture smashed against the wall in a grand firework display of splintering wood and shattered glass. "This is vot you vant?" He barked, jerking up his sleeve to better reveal the now sliced up mark. "You are happy now, yes!" He sneered.
"I am happy you are alife!" She retorted defiantly.
He scoffed at her, crossing the room to get in her face. "Alife for vot?" He spat. "Vot life? The life of a servant to a murderous madman! That is the life vorth safing!"
Her eyes watered pitifully as she stared him down. "Any life," she hissed "vare I know you are still breathing, is a life vorth safing."
Shaking his head he looked away from her, not wanting to see any more tears in her eyes. Slowly he felt the fight drain out of him and he relented. "I do not vant to vake up alvays vith this on my arm, Maika." He whispered weakly.
His mother cupped his face tenderly, bringing him to meet her loving gaze. "It vill get better, my lof. I promise you, it vill get better."
"I do not know if I can vait that long." He sorrowfully confessed.
Devora embraced him fiercly, her small arms trapping him with a powerful grip. "Parents vere not meant to outlif their children, God did not make it so. And my heart vould shrifel up inside me and die if it vere ever to happen." She wept. "Viktor I could not stand it!"
Rubbing her back did not seem to have the usual comforting effect it always had before and now she only cried harder.
"He vould haff killed you Viktor! I know it!" She said harshly. "If you stood in his vay he would haff killed you!"
"Instead, then, I should join vith the devil and lif in fear?" He rejoined sourly.
She pulled away and held him firmly at arms length giving him a thorough shake. "No! Instead you should just lif! That is vot I'm asking, Viktor! Do you know vot he does vith his enemies? He kills them! He does not ask questions! Do you know vot the ministry does vith their enemies? They capture them, they take them in, they interrogate them, and if they are not villing participants of crime they let them go! Could you honestly say he vould be so generous?" She asked vehemently. "I vill not stand vith those other griefing idiot mothers who sent their sons out to fight a loosing battle for the sake of righteousness." She spat the word like it left a vile taste on her tongue. "They cry, but they cry proud. They cry proud because they say their sons died an honorable death, died fighting for 'the cause.' I vill tell you now, there is no cause vorthy of me sending my child avay for. There is no such thing as dying honorably, and I vill not let any cause or ministry make a martyr of my son."
Viktor listened to her but found no reassurance in her words. Yes, Voldemort was a more dangerous and lethal enemy than the ministry, but he would still rather be struck down by the hand of the devil than stand at the right side of it. Unfortunately it seemed the situation was much more complicated than a simple question of what he wanted for himself.
Taking him by the undamaged arm she began to lead him into the kitchen. "Come, you are bleeding into your shirt."
He let her take him to the table, sitting down almost mechanically. He felt drained, numb and drained as she left from his sight for a moment. The sound of rushing water vaguely filtered through his ears, reminding him of his time in Hermione's room. She came back carrying a rag, some new bandages and a bowl of water. Carefully lifting his arm she began to blot the torn skin gently with the wet cloth. "He is killing people, Maika. And he vill make me kill people also." He spoke softly.
Devora sighed, wiping the last of the blood away. "I did not say this choice vould be easy. But what must be, must be."
"You vould haff me kill innocent people?" He asked looking up from the gashes peppering his skin.
"I vould haff you lif, Viktor. You cannot fight for good if you are dead. At least this vay you may lif to fight for righteousness another day." She replied coolly, beginning to wrap the new bandages around the clean lacerations.
The last of his wound was wrapped and he didn't even wince when she tied it a little too sharply. Standing up she brushed her robes free of any dirty or lint it might have acquired in the scuffle. "I vill stay here tonight." She announced.
"No, go home Maika. There vill be no more hurting tonight, I am too tired." He rebuked, his voice even and exhausted.
She eyed him suspiciously before seeming satisfied that he would indeed not try anything more. "I vill haff Efim vatching you." She warned.
"Yes." He relented.
She appeared hesitant for a moment but did not object. "You haff a match tomorrow, yes?"
"Ve are playing Russia." He agreed not really paying that much attention.
"Your father and I vill be vatching then." She declared firmly, kissing him lightly on the forehead. When he did not respond she took his face in her small hands once more. "You know that this if for the best, don't you?"
Her dark eyes seemed to beseech him, to beg him to understand. And he did. But that did not mean he had to agree with it or feel good about himself for it. "Yes, Maika."
She smiled warmly at that and gave his brow one last kiss before taking her leave.
Viktor leaned back in his chair with a heavy breath as she apparated away. It felt like there was a dull, droning weight constantly bearing down on his back and there was nothing he could do to get rid of it. Picking himself up he left the kitchen, passing through the den and straight to his room. As he removed his clothes he didn't even bother to fold them neatly aside as he usually did and instead simply threw them haphazardly on the floor before lifting the covers of his bed and sliding between the sheets. Last night he had been so physically exhausted he had no strength left to toss and turn, now though, he wondered what it would take to make sleep come easy again.
Staring up at the ceiling he tried to think of other things, things that had nothing to do with the war, with Voldemort, or how he had turned his back on everything that he was, that he was raised to be. How could his parents talk to him as though this were simply something that must be done? As though it were only something to bear and tolerate. They knew nothing of what was going on. They had no idea of the lengths this wicked madman was willing to go to. His father was right, the world was changing. Though he had no idea how fast. Dumbledore was gone, the Potter boy was still too green, there was nothing left to stop him now. The day of reckoning was growing closer like an ominous black cloud. "Avel!" Viktor called.
The elf immediately appeared at his bedside, his ears drooped in worry. "Master?"
"Get me a sleeping draught." He said.
"Yes master."
Viktor threw his arm over his head as the house elf vanished from sight. Apparently he would be getting more acquainted with the syrupy potion from now on. He would have to remind himself to order it in bulk in the morning.
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Bashta – Father
Maika – Mother
Slatko Matze – Sweet Kitten
Airian – It's a drink that's not only popular in Bulgaria but most other countries as well. And no its not liquor as far as I know. I mean, u can add liquor to it, like eggnog or something but it's basically yogurt, mineral water, salt, and some lemon. Its pretty thick and sweet, but I like it too.
Well how was it? Shorter I know but there really wasn't much that could be done in this chapter, its still early and what not. So tell me what you think, R&R. I'm shocked that this fic hasn't gotten anywhere near as many reviews or favs as Bulgarian Mascara. I guess that's cause I suck at summaries, don't ask me why, I just do.
Much luv
The Deni Pie
