A/N: Another update! This one's quite a bit longer then the other two, because it just took longer to play out the idea. Some actual dialogue is involved. :P I'm on some shaky grounds here -- I'm not sure of this oneshot. So let me know what you think of it when you finish reading it.

Dear Hermione,

I think perhaps it is time that I…I am not sure of the word. Perhaps the expression is "cut you loose"?

I know that you would never need my permission to do anything of course. But I thought that it might make you feel better if I told you that it would be mutual. That is, I mean that I thought it might be easier for both of us if we…broke it off?

I do not understand half of the expressions of you English.

The point is that for a few months now I have listened to you speak of a certain boy. And for one entire year I watched you interact with this boy. And once I got home and thought about it, I realized that I have never had a chance.

I am not going to accuse you of "stringing me along" (these expressions will be the death of me) because I do not think you entirely understood things yourself. But to an outside observer, it was fairly obvious I suppose. I did not want it to be, and so first I accused that boy, Harry Potter of having won your affections.

That is right, I am not speaking of Harry Potter.

I am speaking of Ronald Weasley.

I think that he has obviously won your heart (do not accuse me of being cliché please -- I'm trying to be "chivalrous") and I am no longer going to interfere.

I hope that you have a very merry Christmas, and that you will write me back soon so that we may remain friends.

Sincerely,

Viktor Krum

Hermione Jane Granger was blushing, just as she did every time she read The letter. To her it was always "The" letter. But this time she felt something else. She felt reckless. Also stupid. Also like maybe it was time to do something that she might regret for a very long time afterwards.

She didn't often feel like that.

She picked up the parchment and plucked up the Gryffindor courage she was supposed to possess. She gulped. She hesitated.

None of these things were things she was used to doing.

But eventually she strode out of her room, parchment in hand.

As she walked slowly down the stairs she thought about a lot of things. She thought about years spent with Ron at Hogwarts that had come to nothing. She thought about strange feelings in the pit of her stomach. She thought about the sheer awkwardness of all this.

She was not often an awkward person. And all of this could be avoided if she just went back upstairs right now with The letter. She could go back to practicality and sensibility.

"Hermione?"

Or at least, she could if she hadn't just reached the bottom of the stupid stairs and walked into the kitchen while thinking about everything. She could have, if her feet hadn't led her into the kitchen where Ron Weasley was sitting. Stupid feet, stupid kitchen, stupid Ron.

Gah.

"Hello." She managed, the hand that held the parchment shaking ever so slightly.

"Erm, hi." Ron said, looking at her concernedly. "You look a bit pale Hermione. Do you feel alright?"

Oh Merlin.

"Yes." She said firmly. "I feel fine. Here," she added, before she could think (something she normally did in alarming amounts) read this."

"Read what?" Ron inquired, bemused.

Wasn't she supposed to be the sensible one, not the rambling, impractical one? People weren't supposed to look so confused when they looked at her. They were supposed to look like they understood things now, and were thankful that everything had been cleared up.

"It's a letter from Viktor." She said, once again not thinking.

"Oh, a letter from Vicky." He sneered, his face leaping from concern to scorn in seconds.

"Don't call him that." Hermione said automatically, and thrust the letter at Ron, waiting for him to take it.

"Look I don't want to read your love letter Hermione." Ron said, turning back to eating his toast, disgruntled.

"It isn't a --" Thank Merlin she had Ron here to irritate her back into her old, sensible self. "Just read it Ron." She ordered exasperatedly.

He reluctantly took it, dislike written all over his face.

Suddenly fear flooded through her. What had she done?

She must be insane. Temporary insanity. That would be her plea. Why had she given him the letter? He would be reading…What was the first part of the letter? Something about breaking it off. Well that in itself wasn't so bad. But what would happen when he got to the part about her heart belonging to someone else? Would he believe the letter? Maybe he wouldn't believe it. She clutched at straws, desperate and terrified, her face turning what must have been a million shades of red. Oh Merlin…

She watched him, scrutinizing him for signs of laughter or incredulity. Or for signs of…well, she didn't know what.

His eyes scanned down the letter, his face turning from irritated to something unidentifiable. Her stomach felt like it might drop out of her. Why didn't she leave? She should leave. That was it. If she just left she might still be able to save the situation.

"Came down to have a good laugh did you?" Ron said bitterly, just as she was turning.

What?

She turned back to face him. His ears were red and he was still holding the letter. He looked angry and bitter and embarrassed, and she wondered what was in the letter that could make him so unhappy. She tried to recall if Viktor had said anything uncomplimentary about Ron in The letter.

"Your heart belongs to me does it?" He spat out, but to her he looked like he might collapse from the inside out. "I bet you wrote Viktor back and told him it was a really excellent joke did you? Had a good laugh. Did you write him back just now?"

Oh Merlin.

"Ron no I --!"

"Well that's your laugh for the day then." He said, holding out the letter. "Go write Vicky alright? He'll want to hear what a great joke you had."

"Ron wait --"

"Bugger off."

"Ron this letter came two years ago."

She sighed, realizing that it was a bit late to run away now.

He was staring.

"It what?" He said, still limply holding out the letter.

"It came two years ago Ron. He wrote me this two years ago and we've been writing each other as friends for ages now."

"Two years ago." Ron repeated, taking an absentminded step forward.

"Can I have my letter Ron?" She asked, hoping to save some face and escape while she could.

He held it out, and as she took it their hands brushed. They both blushed, his ears turning what was almost maroon, her cheeks a faint pink that spread over her forehead.

Perhaps there was something in the air that made people reckless. Maybe the letter was written on special parchment. Or maybe it was just the built up luck of six years of pretending not to care about each other. But Ron's fingers coiled around her hand and didn't let go.

Her stomach performed a few interesting leaps and tumbles. It probably could have won several gymnastic awards. But she was far to preoccupied to consider her stomach's gymnast aspirations.

"Two years ago?" He asked, as though he needed confirmation.

"Two years." She repeated faintly. She was supposed to be completely confident. To know everything. And yet when this boy she'd known for six years grabbed her hand she could hardly move.

"That's a long time." He commented, and she nodded wordlessly.

There was a pause in which neither of them moved.

"Was it true?" He asked finally. His entire face was red, and she imagined hers' was too, because she knew exactly what he was talking about.

The letter.

She didn't know what to do. She knew what she could do. She could leave.

But for one of the first times in her life she had never read a book that explained what a person ought to do in this situation. And she did not think one of the many jinxes and curses she knew would be appropriate.

For some odd reason she felt compelled to open her mouth.

"Yes." The word escaped her open mouth before she had a chance to order it to stay where it belonged.

She felt a tingle run not just up and down her spine but into her legs and her stomach and everywhere else, apprehension and humiliation flooding through her in a strange, potent combination.

He was actually looking at her now, and her hand was sweating (or maybe it was just his, she couldn't tell) and her breath seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere on its way to her throat, and her face was so hot she thought it might be able to cook an egg.

The letter fell to the floor, but neither of them made a move to pick it up.

That was mostly because they were kissing.

She felt his lips on hers and it felt like it was entirely possible that her heartbeat was in her throat instead of her chest where it belonged. Life in general seemed to be spinning around her, but it didn't matter. For once, rationale had nothing to do with what she was doing. And she didn't mind (at least, not to much).

When they broke apart he was staring at her as though hoping he wasn't going to get into to much trouble for what he'd just done. She wondered what her expression was like.

"It was true?" He asked finally, seemingly trying to fill the silence. It seemed like it had been hours since he'd asked about The letter, and she'd told him yes. Yes it was true.

It was true.

It was.

Her ears were ringing and her face was probably redder then ever.

"It was true." She repeated, and threw her arms around him fiercely, feeling for something solid to anchor herself to in all this confusion and whirling and humiliation and elation.. He seemed to automatically extend his own arms around her, and she felt tingles again travel up and down her spine. His face was in her overly bushy hair. She wondered idly if it itched to have your face in all that hair.

So this was love.

A/N: Something of an abrupt length change I will admit, but I thought two updates might be warranted, since I hadn't written in a while. This one doesn't come from a Beatles song but from one line in "The Delicate Dance", the one about certain people removing themselves from the dance because they realized they didn't belong there. And I thought, "Viktor was a pretty smart kid." So here this is. Please let me know what you thought of it.