Chapter One

A Bite to Chew On

It had been a long and difficult process of persuading her parents to let her go, but in Hermione's opinion it was worth the wait. She'd been planning the trip to Sofia for weeks now, scheming every possible means of transportation. First she thought that she'd borrow Harry's broom, but then, if she had an accident he would probably never speak to her again—well, perhaps not never, but he would certainly be peeved for quite some time. Then, she thought that perhaps she could go by train, but it occurred to her that a train ride all the way to Sofia would be very costly, and all that boarding and unloading would become tiresome. So finally, with much disagreement from her parents, Hermione decided that her best bet would be taking a jet-plane out of London. It was faster and she hoped that the ride would be much less tedious than the train. It had taken her three months to scrape together enough 'Muggle' money to board the plane, and another week to convince her parents that she would be fine—that the airliner would not crash. Her mother had begged her not to go, but in the ender father had given the 'she's old enough to make up her own mind' speech, and that seemed to settle things, that is, until she got on the plane.

"Flight 109 now boarding passengers for Sofia. Flight 109 now boarding passengers for Sofia."

The flight attendant at the desk beneath a huge sign that read, TERMINALFOUR, made the announcement through a loud, slightly fuzzy microphone. Hermione stood up with her trunk heavy at her side. She had dressed warmly (her father had told her airlines were sometimes chilly) in a brown, fleece pullover and a pair of denim jeans. Her abundant, brown hair was pulled back into a half ponytail held by a pink, satin ribbon, and in her hand she was clutching her plane ticket with a death grip. She had never flown before, and the moment had finally seized her, sending her heart pounding. She swallowed hard and thought about Viktor, how nice it would be to see his face, and suddenly her feet seemed to come unglued from the pavement and she began to walk toward the terminal. She had just screwed up the nerve to get on the plane when a hand, roughly two or three times larger than hers, clamped down on her shoulder. Hermione nearly cried out.

"So sorry," said the voice behind the hand, and Hermione looked up. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, stood with his hand on her shoulder.

Hermione just stared—not because it was Fudge, but the way he was dressed . . . and seeing him in a Muggle airport threw her for a loop. As usually, the lime green bowler was clutched in his hands, but he had a pair of pinstriped pants on, gray and black in scheme, and a dark-green men's blazer hung loosely over his shoulders. Beneath the jacket he wore a white dress-shirt and a strange yellow and black striped tie with a clip in the shape of a duck. The minister looked odd indeed. Hermione gaped at him, speechless to his apparel—he obviously thought the ensemble looked good because he wore it with paramount confidence, but anyone who saw him, who didn't know who he was, would simply think him a madman. Fudge shot her a small, tooth-filled grin and said, "Miss Granger, how are you?"

"I'm very well," she answered, "but, Your Honor, I must be g—"

"Going to Sofia are we?" he inserted forcefully, though it had not been intentional, Hermione was quite certain. "Is Harry with you?"

"N-no." Hermione found herself stammering, trying to speak. Fudge took a look around the terminal, as if he expected Harry to jump out of a trash bin. When he could not locate Potter, the Minister fell silent and looked somewhat thoughtful as he stared at the departing times—though Hermione was sure he was not thoughtful at all, but rather he was squinting to see the times written on the board.

"You're Honor?" Hermione prodded, and immediately the Minister tore his eyes away and gave her a sideways glance. She was reluctant to ask, but her curiosity was too much. "Why are you in an airport . . . a Muggle airport?"

"Hsshush!" he scolded and the woman at the flight terminal looked at them funny as the line moved. They also took a step or so forward. Fudge leaned down to her and a look of seriousness clouded his face. "Don't say that word around them, they might catch on. No offense meant," he apologized smartly, remembering that Hermione was Muggle Born. "But I and a fellow are going to Sofia to straighten some things out with the Bulgarian Minister. They say they've been having some trouble with . . ." he looked around, making sure no one was in earshot, and he leaned in so close that Hermione could actually feel his breath on her face. "Werewolves."

"Well, sir. Why don't you just Apparate?" For seconds Fudge regarded her cautiously, then Hermione asked, "Did you say there is a werewolf—"

"Hsshush!" Fudge exclaimed again, and once more the flight attendant shot him a peculiar glance. Fudge continued to speak in a very low tone. "Look, the Ministry thinks it sharp for us to undergo the Muggle world, I mean with so many things happening lately . . . and with the last sightings of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it is a good idea to have research handy on this world."

"Isn't that the Department of M—"

"Fudge . . ." a voice as sleek as a snake reached Hermione's ears, ending her objection, and both she and the Minister craned their necks to see just who had spoken. Hermione nearly gave a groan of dislike as she saw who was standing there behind them, pale pointed faces gleaming with sweat. Lucius Malfoy, accompanied by his son, Draco were fixed to the spot where they stood as if they had been forced into coming along. They looked like those cats with the sulky faces you often see being touted around airliners and such in tiny metal cages or holed boxes. However, upon seeing Hermione's face, Draco's features cracked and his mouth seeped into that normal, arrogant, simper he often got when he was about to say something exceptionally foul. Mr. Malfoy on the other hand was too engrossed with all the other Muggles running around in the terminal to even notice. Hermione had to keep from laughing at the tall, blonde man. He looked as though someone had petrified him because in a place this jam-packed with non-magical beings, he was as stiff as a board, glued to the spot where he stood—as though if he moved, if he so much as touched one of them (as the Minister had put it), he might not be so perfect anymore. Of course, it was pure rubbish, and vaguely Hermione wondered how on earth he had avoided them while walking through the halls. Well, at least they were dressed better than fudge.

Draco sported a black sweatshirt with his initials embroidered in tiny print on the left breast in curly green and silver letters. The denims he wore were of fine quality, good material and the tennis shoes he wore were plain and white. Spotless. His white-blonde hair was not slicked back, but was missing its usual coat of gel and hung loose in a simple bowl-cut. His father, Lucius Malfoy looked rather business-manly; donning a three piece, black silk suite and expensive loafers. Beneath his pitch-black suite-jacket ( buttoned down the middle) were a grey dress-shirt and black tie. His pale blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and with the grey and black tones, his steely eyes were more prominent than ever.

"Lucius, good to see you," Fudge shook hands with Mr. Malfoy then, he turned to face the boy beside him. "And marvelous to see you again Draco . . . my, you've really shot up, haven't you!"

Draco didn't say anything, and obviously his cold gaze unnerved the Minister because he quickly retracted from the blonde boy and addressed his father once more.

"Lucius . . . could I—could I have a word?" Fudge looked unexpectedly insistent, and after a sharp looked at Draco, Lucius nodded and was dragged off some distance. Hermione could not hear them, so she assumed Draco could not either.

"Why are you here, Granger?" Malfoy sneered, his sharp face full of trouble.

"Are you running away? Hogwarts too much for you?"

"No, thank you. I'm going to see Viktor."

"The Quidditch player?" Draco sounded somewhat surprised, but the moment passed. "Don't you know he's just going along with your rubbish?"

"Why does he still send me letters then?" she asked, and she crooked her hips, crossing her arms. Draco was not going to drag her down now.

"He feels sorry for you and your teeth," Draco's smile widened until his face threatened to crack. Hermione was about to open her mouth and call him something very rude, but Mr. Malfoy and Fudge were walking back over to them. Draco shot her a sort of "Victory" smirk, but as they made their way further up the line, Hermione gave Draco an expression that declared "This isn't over you spoiled, little, snot".

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Krum Estate was one of the oldest buildings in Sophia, built during the 17oo's, most likely refurnished and remodeled every decade or so. It was the sort of thing Hermione had only heard or dreamt of, but now, as she stood before it she had trouble actually accepting its authenticity. The place was huge, nestled beneath a mountainside, surrounded by thick bushy trees and overgrowths of plant life. Vines climbed up the sides of the three story house, latching on to windowsills and spiraling up the base support columns in a tight, symbiotic embrace. A natural wall of rocks guarded the front of the estate and the only passage into the entire place was a gate that had been somehow embedded into the stony wall. The windows were so shiny that they reflected the sun light back in glistening sheens of silver and platinum gold. The ground floor where the patio was had columns the size of mature yews, and they were festooned by etched depictions of twining leaves and nude, women carrying jars.

The second story was mostly composed of windows through which no one could see due to the heavy, burgundy drapes that had been drawn over them; and the third and final floor was perhaps the most interesting. On one side of the story there was a wonderfully decorated balcony with a covered roof so one could sit during rain or snow—but the balcony was not the odd thing there. Opposite the balcony, on the other side of the floor, there sat a highly decorative, golden door . . . but no stair or veranda beneath it. Outside it held all the glory of antique beauty mixed subtly with the innovation of the new millennia.

Two iron torchlight's flanked the front door on the inside, and on the outside on either side of the gateposts sat a Chimera statue with the head of a lion and the wings of a great bird. The figures gave the house a chilling feel, but Hermione suspected the coolness creeping down her spine was from the frigid air. So, she began climbing the hill toward the house.

When she reached the gate, the front door of the house cracked open. Hermione, oblivious, was trying to figure out how to open the gate.

Maybe they've got to buzz me in, or some such. It's pure foolishness, having

This gate up! Who on earth would try to—

"Hermi-on?"

"Viktor?" Hermione looked up from fiddling with the gate. And look up she indeed had to do.

He was taller than the last time they had met each other, but then, so was she. He was wearing long, midnight blue robes that were clinched at the waist by a vastly ornamented belt and the cloak he wore was made of a denser, black fabric with golden trim. Viktor's black hair was longer, a little past his shoulders, and his form had filled out somewhat—at least, he looked less gaunt than before, as if he had been eating more. The prominent nose and eyebrows hadn't changed much—other than he looked as though he'd tried something to make his brows a little less bushy (they were a bit thinner)—nor had the pale, olive skin tone faded. She looked him over once, then twice, and the third time she dimly noted that he was wearing a large, white bandage on one arm—she just assumed a Quidditch accident. But then, why hadn't he gotten spells to fix the injury? Maybe he'd refused spells—Viktor could be quite stubborn if he wanted to be.

"Wow!" Hermione managed to sputter. Viktor only smiled and stuck out his uninjured hand.

"Shall I help you through the gate?" He asked, his accent heavy as ever. Hermione was glad to here it, but the matter of getting through the gate puzzled her. So she stood and waited for him to open it. When he didn't move for several minutes, eyebrows creased with confusion, Hermione examined the gate and asked,

"Aren't you going to open it? I can't seem to find the handle."

"Eh . . . there is no handle." He replied. "Just step through. It is a . . . how you say it—" Viktor waved his undamaged hand through the air. "An illusion."

"An illusion?" Hermione repeated, then she thought back to platform nine and three-quarters. There, you would just step through the wall between platforms nine and ten, and you were where you needed to be. Perhaps the gate was sort of the same thing, but its soul purpose was to deter outsiders.

"Just step through," he repeated, and once more his hand thrust out to her, but this time it passed through one of the steely bars as though he were a ghost. Hermione took his hand and stepped up, passing with ease through the fake gate.

As they walked to the house, Viktor helped Hermione drag her bags along. Now that they were closer, she could have a nearer look at the bandage. It seemed larger than it had before, and there were some rusty stains showing through from where it had obviously been bleeding. Upon closer inspection, Hermione noticed that Viktor had gotten more muscular as well, she could see the small bulge of a bicep sliding under the dark, blue velvet of his robes. She wondered how he had changed so fast, perhaps it was that whole "boys mature later" thing coming into effect, but Hermione was certain that this was a bit excessive.

Maybe Bulgarians are late bloomers. She thought with slight amusement.

"How haff you been?" Viktor said, his syllables coming out harsh, as they usually did. It was understandable, Slavic was a difficult language to switch over from.

"Very well," she replied and paused a moment to adjust the strap on her laundry bag. Viktor paused on the hill as well, watching her fight with the defiant strap. He had one foot ready to stride, the other stretched out behind him. As she looked up, Hermione noted, that he looked like some strange, foreign crusader. She fixed the strap and they continued on.

"How have you been, then?" she asked.

Viktor seemed reluctant to answer, "M-many changez over summer, over the school year. Many hardsheepz."

"Ships, hard-ships," Hermione corrected. He didn't mind.

"Haard-shipz," he repeated. "Difficult timez for my family."

Hermione looked panicked, "Did I come at a bad time then?"

"No!" Viktor said quickly, he briefly paused in his steps but picked up once more. "Not a bad time. A very good time."

"And why is that?" She asked with a chuckle. Viktor did not answer for several minutes, until they reached the doorstep where they left her bags. A door on the other side of the patio, roughly knee high, swung open and ten or twelve house elves came scurrying out to whisk away the luggage. Hermione twinged slightly, seeing the little creatures strain to get her things off the porch. She did not believe in enslavement. She shook her mind free of the thoughts as Viktor put a hand on her own and opened the front door. As it swung open he announced, "Tomorrow is my birthday."