Author's Note: I re-wrote it! So, here it is, the revision of Chapter Two, because I hated the first draft, and apparently, so did some of my readers. I liked your criticism, it was perhaps the most helpful thing I've gotten so far. Sorry, I'm so slow at updating, also, I am very busy with school right now (I'm sure some of you can relate).

Chapter Two

The Dinner Fiasco

Viktor led Hermione into the den of his illustrious abode. It was dark within the edifice, with curtains drawn--thick and heavy--over the high, classical windows. The house elves carried her bags off, up the stairs, most likely to the room she would be staying in. Hermione still regretted having given up her luggage so easily: After all, she was the leader, founding member, and ONLY member of S.P.E.W., she should have at least held up to her own designs.
In the den, a fire crackled warmly in the large, stone hearth, and above it a pot of tea was boiling nicely. Hermione looked and saw more draperies drawn over the windows, but in this room, the firelight made the place seem most cheerful and welcoming. The illumination spread over the aged, dust-covered pictures; some of which were missing their occupants. Pictures often lost their occupants when there were other paintings to visit in the house.
In one corner, sitting very still and snoozing quietly was a woman. She was tall, pretty, and gaunt with long, wavy black hair and a big, Bulgarian nose. Her hands were lying in her lap as she dozed gently with a blue, knitted blanket thrown over her. She wore emerald green robes and around her neck a necklace of small, yellow topaz gleamed against the firelight.
Viktor let go of Hermione's hand and quietly approached the woman, nudging her gently. She stirred with a small sigh and said: "Yes . . . ze man came by with ze milk . . "
"Mahka? Mahka . . . byar ce . . . npeh"
"Oh, Viktor . . ." her voice was weak, "I didn't hear you come in"
Viktor laid a hand on her forehead and kissed her there soon after. He smiled and so did she. Hermione observed them for the longest time before she stepped forward.
"Hebapeh," Hermione said the Bulgarian word awkwardly. It meant 'hello', she'd read that somewhere.
"You must beh Hermi-on." she smiled at Hermione with a sweat, motherly mouth. Just above her lip was a mole that set her pale lips alight when she grinned. "You ahr as beautiful as Viktor has saihd"
"Thank you." Hermione muttered. "You are Viktor's mother, no doubt? You have the same eyes." They did indeed have the same kind, deep eyes. His mother gave another warm smile.
"Yes, I ahm his Moth-err." She laid back once more. "And I ahm very tired"
"Zen we shall not kheep you awake." Viktor said as he kissed her on the forehead once more. "Sweet dreams, Mahka"
She smiled sweetly as her eyes closed, and Viktor straightened. He turned to look at Hermione, but the warm smile he gave her did not reach his angst filled eyes.
"Come, Hermee-on-nee, I show you ze dining hall." He swept an arm around her as she walked with him. As they made their way down a long, candle-lit hallway she thought, My family only has a dining room. His arm was warm around her waist and he held her closer so that she could lay her head on his chest. The Bulgarian seeker smiled.
"I haff missed you, Hermee-on-nee"
"I missed you too Viktor," she admitted, "but, I think we still need to work on your pronunciation"

"I know," Viktor admitted with a bit of a smile. "So . . ." he said with a contented sigh, "vhat haff you been up to?"

Hermione was led to a long varnished, oak table where Viktor pulled a seat out for her. She sat down, admiring the shining wood of the table as he seated himself in the chair beside her. Hermione put her hands in her lap and looked thoughtful for a moment, then a smile graced her features and she shot Viktor an impish look.

"Well . . . I've been reading your letters."

Viktor laughed and put a hand at the base of his neck, "Vell . . . it is the only vay ve can keep in touch."

There was silence for several moments. Hermione put a hand on his knee and patted him gently.

"So . . ." she said, "How old are you going to be?"

"Ah . . ." Viktor smiled, "Nineteen."

"Age catching up with you then, Viktor old boy!"

Hermione looked up, so did Viktor. There, standing in the doorway was a plump man wearing a gray, button-down shirt, black trousers, and a bright red cloak. He was going half bald, and there was a small mustache under his wide nose. Big, bright, brown eyes shimmered as Viktor rose from his seat and held out his arms.

"Uncle Orren!"

"Viktor!" The British man bellowed. "It's been ages! Last I saw you, you were no more than a young pup!"

Orren welcomed Viktor's embrace with a large one of his own. Hermione sat with a look of confusion, as if this sort of exchange was foreign to her. However, it was not the hug that confused her, rather, she wondered why his uncle was English rather than Bulgarian. She assumed he was an in-law, or some such.

The big man grabbed Viktor by the shoulders and pulled him away to study him for a moment. His face was serious as he scanned every inch of him.

"Let's have a look at you." He made small noises, grabbed Viktor's chin, surveyed his arms and finally, grinned hugely. "Real man now, eh!"

"Yes, Uncle." Viktor said, a little exasperated, as he was pulled into another crushing hug. Orren slammed a hand into his back and smile over the boy's shoulder.

"Ello, 'ello," he said, seeing Hermione. "And who is this lovely, little tart?"

Viktor stepped aside so that Orren could see Hermione better. She smiled, a little sheepishly as she was, for one of the first times in her life, regarded with some value.

"Hello, sir," she said gingerly. "I'm Hermione Granger, Viktor's . . . g-girlfriend." It was the one time she'd actually referred to herself as such. Uncle Orren blinked and looked at Viktor, then back at Hermione. He smiled sweetly, and began over, straightening out his shirt. He took Hermione's hand and kissed it gently.

"Ashanti," he uttered.

"Ah . . . thank you sir," Hermione giggled. She wasn't quite sure what to say.

Uncle Orren looked down at her with a gentle smile, "You're one lucky bloke, Viktor m'boy. She's a keeper."

"She . . . does not play Quidditch . . ." Viktor answered. Orren turned and looked at a him with a confused expression, which quickly cracked into a huge grin.

"Always the joker!" He laughed. "Viktor, I need to talk to you for a moment, about . . ." he smiled at Hermione, but the expression was fleeting. His voice had changed into something rather, cautious. "About that . . .thing tomorrow."

Viktor's brow furrowed and he looked momentarily lost. Then, a look of dawning comprehension filled his face and he uttered, "I vill return shortly, Hermee-on-nee."

Then, he was led off, down the hall by Uncle Orren who gave her one last sharp glance over his shoulder. Hermione was left alone in the dining hall.

She sat and waited for a while. Uncle Orren seemed like a nice man, but what was it that was so important that he couldn't talk about it in front of her. She was Viktor's girlfriend after all, she supposed. She crossed her legs and folded her arms as she sat in silence. It was cold in the old house, it made her wish she had packed heavier clothes.

Just then, she heard footsteps from the hall. Hermione straightened up, smiling a little. She didn't plan on asking Viktor what he'd talked about, but she hoped, deep down inside, that he would tell her eventually.

But, it was not Viktor who came from the hall, who glided in like a raven. This man was different, Hermione had not met him yet, but he immediately had a mysterious, dangerous air about him that made her skin tingle and her blood run cold.

He was tall and unnaturally slim with wan skin and dark, narrow eyes. The stranger donned robes of deepest red, with wide cut sleeves and a high collar, like a turtleneck sweater, but with tarnished silver buttons running straight down the middle. A long, heavy braid hung over on shoulder, and in it was entwined a gold, silken ribbon. His expression was of faint surprise at seeing Hermione, and the man stopped dead in the hall, eyes fixed to her with a wary gaze.

"Do you . . . need somezing?" He asked, his tone low and critical. Hermione twisted the hem of her sweater uncomfortably and answered him with a sideways glance.

"I . . . I'm waiting for Viktor to come back."

The man played his tongue along his teeth, scratching the patch of beard that pointed off his narrow chin. He gave her a once over look with his probing eyes.

"Hermi-on Grahnger?"

"Y-yes sir."

The stranger stepped forward, robes swishing as he walked. He was like some great, ghastly bird, Hermione noted. She smiled up at him weakly, her face visibly paled.

"Who are you?" She asked, then added, "Sir."

His lip curled and he bent a little to gaze into her eyes. His own narrow, cold ones piercing her mind, or so it seemed.

"Vhat a rhude child, you ahre." His brow furrowed. "To ahsk a mahn in hees own house who he is."

"I didn't mean—"

"I ahm Count Baldimier Krum," he interjected, "ze fifth."

"Wow, you must have a long family line."

"Indeed." The count answered, his black eyes swirling. He furrow his brow once more. "You ahr from Britain. . ."

"Y—"

"It vhas not a question, Miz Grahnger."

The silence between them became almost painful then. Hermione had the strong urge to get up and run from the room, but did not. After a while, the count straightened and nodded, finally walking off into the kitchen where she heard him scream at the cook to get to work. She sat in silence until Viktor returned, hoping she would not have to speak to that man again.

At dinner, Hermione dressed warmly in a long sleeved, grey shirt and a black, woolen, pleated skirt. She wore white stalkings and black socks, with her best pair of Mary Janes. With her hair brushes and face washed, she headed to the dining hall at seven thirty to find everyone there. Including the count.

Hermione took a seat beside Viktor, as far away from his father as she could. The smell of food wafted in from the kitchen, and soon something Hermione had never seen before was lain out on the table before them. It was piled high on the plates, curly noodles with a creamy, white sauce spread over them. Pieces of browned meat graced the tangle of noodles, and shreds of green spices colored the sauce delightfully. As side dishes there was sour kraut and big, thick sausages, steamed squash, bowls of olives, hunks of roasted meat, and freshly baked, steaming bread.

Everyone began eating at once, except for Hermione, who looked slightly taken aback by so much food. Viktor took a bite of his noodles, savoring it for several moments before he looked to Hermione. When he noticed she hadn't touched her food, he grabbed a piece of bread from the nearby basket, and laid it at the side of her plate. She looked up slowly and smiled. She picked up her fork and took a bite of the noodles, chewing slowly.

"Is it ghood?" Mrs. Krum inquired from across the table. Hermione looked up.

"Oh . . . yes ma'am, did you make it?"'

Mrs. Krum gave a short, loud laugh, like a bark. "Mein habittha, no! Ze house elves prepared everyzing you see here."

Hermione's stomach turned at the thought. Suddenly, the noodles didn't look so appetizing anymore. She put her fork down and picked up her napkin, spitting the remainder of the bite of noodles into it. Mrs. Krum eyed her with a raised brow.

"Hermi-on? Is somezing wrong?"

Hermione nodded slowly, bringing the napkin away from her mouth. She looked up at Viktor's mother with wide, slightly anxious eyes. "Have you ever thought of getting . . . human servants?"

Mrs. Krum looked slightly taken aback. "Vhat?" She said.

"Well," Hermione said, fidgeting in her seat, "there are a lot of advantages to having human servants."

"Like vhat?" Krum's mother looked to Uncle Orren, who shrugged and continued eating.

"Ah, yes . . ." Hermione frowned, "well . . . there's . . . well, slavery. Don't you know that having house elves is like slavery."

Mrs. Krum put her fork down and cocked her head. She looked like a dog who'd just heard a very high noise and wasn't quite sure of where it had come from. Hermione was aware of everyone staring at her, and she went suddenly red.

"Slavery?" The count uttered. "I thought house elves enjoyed serving humans."

"That's just the thing," Hermione protested, "if you use them, it's like exploiting their commitment. They think they have to serve us, but they don't really need to. They could just as easily live in the wild . . . I suppose."

Everyone went suddenly quiet. The only sound was the gentle clink of silver on china. When everyone was done, the plates cleared, just as they did at Hogwarts, and their contents were replaced with heavy whipped cream and strawberries. At the middle of the table was set a large stack of small angel food cakes, each with a small, circular dip in the center. Viktor grabbed two of these cakes and placed one on Hermione's plate.

Everyone ate in silence for several moments. Hermione however only stared at her plate, at the strawberries that were buried in a heavy white coat. She couldn't eat it. It wasn't because she wasn't hungry, but because she knew it was wrong for her to eat something that had been procured through slavery. What disgusted her the most however, was that the entire family didn't seem to care, even Viktor.

Finally, when everyone was done, the plates cleared, and the last thing that would hail the destruction of a nearly perfect dinner appeared. The tea.

Hermione didn't drink from the cup, but she held it between her hands. It was warm, and the old house was very drafty. As she sat pondering whether or not she should just go home, Uncle Orren spoke up.

"So, Viktor, old boy, how about tomorrow, eh? Are you ready?"

Viktor took a drink of his tea and set his cup down, smiling at Hermione, "I think so."

Hermione looked confused, "Ready?" She looked around. "Ready for what?"

Uncle Orren looked at her warily. Mrs. Krum gave him an aggravated look, then turned to Hermione with a fake smile on her face.

"It's nothing dear. A family tradition. He'll be gone for most of the night."

That was when Hermione got the feeling all girls get when they know something bad was about to happen. The kind of feeling that creeps up your spine, into your brain, and down your throat where it settles in your stomach and becomes a tight, nauseating knot. She looked to Uncle Orren, who had gone unnaturally silent, then to Viktor who seemed too interested in the depths of his tea to notice much else. But when she looked up and saw the Count, his lip curled and gazed into her eyes. His own narrow, cold ones piercing her mind.

She would have to find out what this "family tradition" was, before tomorrow night.