The very idea that one could not only teleport but could also take someone along boggled her mind. It was one thing to see it in the films and yet another completely to have someone mention it casually in conversation before inviting her along.

Truth be told, she was somewhat terrified, but she didn't want to ruin their fragile rapport by declining; besides, she figured she'd have to do it sooner or later anyhow. His very matter-of-fact manner about it also relaxed her because it made it seem so commonplace. Surely he was good at it if he had done it many times before…

"It's really very easy for you," he reassured her. "Simply hold onto my arm and don't let go no matter what. Apparating is definitely a unique experience in that it's unlike anything you've felt before, and some people who Side-Along get a bit nauseated. It's completely normal. Hm, what else? Ah, yes. It's up to you whether to close your eyes or not. Some prefer it, some don't. I'd try both before you decide."

"What do you do?"

"Eyes open," he responded instantly, explaining, "I like to see where I am at all times. Now, hold on."

Hesitantly, she placed her hand on his forearm, the muscular appendage wider than her palm. The dark hair crinkled under her touch, its texture rough and unlike anything she'd touched before.

"Tighter than that, Herminn—Hermyown—" his face twisted in a grimace "—Mia."

"Mia?" She exclaimed in dismay.

His shoulders hunched a little and the skin of his throat and cheeks darkened in a light flush. "It's your name. It's very...long. And English. I can't say it, and Clara calls you Mia, so I figure, why not? I am sorry. I'll work on it. But for now, please be patient with me."

"Well," she allowed, "it does make sense to have a nickname if my name causes that much trouble, but...Mia?" She grimaced.

He shrugged helplessly. "I will try and think of a better one, but I think Clara's will remain since it's already sticking. Now, hold on very tightly. You won't hurt me, I assure you."

Gingerly, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He arched an eyebrow, then repeated, "Tightly, Mia. Not so soft a bowtruckle could do better."

She bit her lip before stepping closer, sliding her hands down to his waist and wrapping her arms around him tightly. It brought them rather close together, much closer than most anyone else she'd ever been around.

"Better," Viktor said, his voice vibrating through his chest. She felt his whole body tense, and then the world suddenly turned liquid, the sky sliding down as the street rushed up before they twisted together and she was rammed through the very center.

With a pop and a bang, they were suddenly somewhere else, and she let go of Viktor as she stumbled to the side and violently wretched up every last thing she'd had to eat that morning.

When she came to awareness, Viktor was standing beside her, a commiserating hand on her shoulder. "It happened to me too for my first time," he told her when she straightened up, a violent blush vivid against the backdrop of her waxen cheeks.

She wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. "Really?" she asked dubiously. He could be saying that just to make her feel better for throwing up in the middle of a small alley in front of a storefront. A noise of dismay escaped her when she realized that she'd lost her guts in front of the very restaurant they were supposed to go into, a cramped glass front topped by a ragged awning declaring Pavla's doing nothing to hide the worn wooden tables—or exuberant Quidditch players—within. "They all saw me," she said dully, a fresh wave of humiliation adding to her lingering nausea. "Wonderful."

"I vomited on my mother's shoes," Viktor said matter-of-factly, shrugging when she gaped at him. "At least you didn't do that." A second later and the whole mess had disappeared courtesy of a sleight of hand spell from Viktor.

She was still processing what his mother's face must have looked like when Viktor took her by the elbow and deftly guided her into the restaurant, opening the door and letting her pass through before stepping in behind her.

"Mia!" The perpetrator of her nickname waved excitedly at them as though trying to catch their attention in a jam packed crush. The restaurant was completely empty except for them, and he was again reminded of how glad he was that they rented it out for lunch for their victory lunches ("might as well call them Viktory lunches after dear old Vikky," Pytor had smirked evilly while marking it on the team agenda that hung on the locker room wall) since it meant they didn't have to deal with fans.

"You're late." Pavla glared at him and pulled a chair away from the table. The proprietress glared at the chair and then back at him. "Sit."

He sat. If he didn't she would give him servings of everything in the wrong temperature—hot when it should be cold, cold when it should be hot—and he never wanted to live through that again.

For Hermione, she was much nicer, going so far as to give her a cocked brow and a faintly accepting air. "You're the new Healer. I will bring you some ginger ale for your stomach." A sly glance toward the window facing the street.

"It wasn't—" Hermione began, and then stopped when Pavla hustled off without so much as a pretense that she was listening.

Across the table, Clara cackled. "Don't mind Pavla. She basically does what she wants and gives us what she wants, never you mind your preferences."

Face still red, Hermione sat down in the seat next to Viktor's and primly folded her hands in her lap. "Thank you for inviting me to lunch," she told the table at large, resigning herself to Pavla's treatment. "I've heard it's a bit of a team bonding event, and I appreciate being included."

"Why wouldn't we ask a pretty girl to lunch?" Pytor asked, a friendly smile on his face, which vanished in the next instant when Clara slapped him on the side of the head with the flat of her palm. "Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"For being an idiot," she scowled at him. "No flirting with school girls, Pyotr." She then faced Hermione, expression growing earnest. "You're part of the team now, Mia, even though you haven't been here long. Your actions at the match only reinforced that."

Biting her lip, Hermione looked around the table of players, who all made some kind of positive motion. When she hit upon Viktor, her brown eyes swirling with uncertainty, Viktor reassured her, "It's true, Mia." Something hit one of the legs of her chair and she jolted in surprise, glancing down and then back up only to see a slight smirk on Viktor's face as he continued, "though I wouldn't say it's a good thing. Some of us might give you a hard time—a harder time—now for it."

Across the table, Vasily bit into a hunk of break and said succinctly, "Pranks and tricks. Pytor and Alexei are the worst of the lot."

It was just like Fred and George, then. Her expression eased, and she relaxed into her chair. "I can handle that just fine," she responded with the air of someone who had been around troublemakers for an extended period of time, and added, "Don't think I won't hex you, though."

Pytor narrowed his eyes. "I will not be cowed by your intimidation tactics!"

"But you will be by mine," Clara replied warningly, then dropped a wink in Hermione's direction. "Us girls have to stick together, yeah?"

The friendly gesture disarmed and warmed her at the same time. The whole rest of lunch progressed in a similar vein, with everyone including her and getting to know her. They seemed genuinely interested in her as a person, even though she was so much younger than them (apart from Viktor, of course). By the end of lunch she felt like she truly had been adopted into this strange family that she had somehow fallen into by luck. Pavla bullied her into eating things she never would have tried, Pyotr and Clara argued the entire time about absolutely everything, Zograf put away an absolutely alarming amount of some kind of lasagna, and Vasily and Viktor talked about defensive spellwork most of the time, which was both fascinating but completely apropos of nothing, as far as she could tell. At one point, she had asked a question without stopping to consider it, and both of them had taken it at face value, answering it thoughtfully and without rancor that she had entered their conversation without invitation.

What felt like several hours later, the entire team stood at some unspoken signal, leaving Hermione to scramble out of her chair and stand with them. Next to her, Viktor was still arguing with Vasily about the use of grey spellwork in both offensive and defensive tactics, but without pausing for breath, turned to her and told her, "I'll take you back to the pitch."

The idea of doing a Side-Along again made her stomach, now full of incredibly heavy and rich food, turn. She did not want to vomit up lunch (and six glasses of ginger ale, which Pavla kept bringing her and glaring at her until she started drinking it) on Viktor's feet again.

A friendly arm slung around her shoulders and pulled her tight. "I'll Side-Along her, Viktor, no worries," Clara offered cheerfully, and then whispered, "He's still pretty new with his Apparition license, so he's probably pants at Side-Alonging."

"It was my first time," Hermione replied in an equally low voice, shamefaced. "I've never done it before."

Clara winced. "That would do it, too, especially with a novice acting as the primary Apparator."

"I brought her, and I'll take her back." Viktor turned his full attention toward Clara, that infamous scowl beginning to form on his face. Idly, Hermione wondered if that expression was more his default than anything else. Sure, he could be moody and seemed easily riled, but he wasn't mad half so much as his expression suggested.

Behind Viktor, Pytor turned around to see what was going on that had Viktor using his pissy voice. Immediately, Clara made some kind of gesture with her hand, and Pyotr shook his head. She did it again more insistently, and then Pyotr wordlessly said something that looked suspiciously like, you owe me before clapping a hand on Viktor's back. "Hey, sheep-for-brains," he said cheerfully. "You owe me for the last time I Side-Alonged your pissed self home after that game with the Germans."

Viktor half-turned to face Pyotr, his scowl melting off his face as a look of incredulity replaced it. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I'm saying I'm feeling lazy, you idiot." He raised his voice so Pavla could hear his next statement. "Too much good food makes me a lazy sod."

Pavla, who was wandlessly levitating the used dishes off their table and sending them to the kitchen with the point of a finger, turned and glared at Pyotr balefully. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Vulchanov."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," Pyotr responded lightly, hauling Viktor out of the restaurant to the side street, "it gets me everywhere!" The door slammed shut behind the pair, and Hermione watched Viktor glare at Pyotr for a minute before grasping the Beater's arm. A moment later, the two twisted in an impossible fashion, accompanied by the tell-tale crack of Apparition.

Next to her, Clara looked at her expectantly, her eyes twinkling. "Shall we?"

Hermione swallowed. "I'd rather walk, I think. Or perhaps floo?" she asked hopefully, looking around for a tell-tale fireplace.

A friendly arm slung around her shoulders a moment later, and Clara tousled her hair playfully. "C'mon, Mia. I won't splinch you!"

"Splinch?" She felt herself go white, and Clara positively cackled at her expression, her laugh following them as they vanished into thin air. The trip back to the practice grounds was much easier than the trip from there, and the contents of her stomach remained firmly in place even as she gulped in a huge breath.

"Merlin, that's amazing," she breathed. "Why would anyone want to ride a broom if they could do that?"

Wryly, Clara responded, "Well, aside from the obvious…"

It took her a second before she made the connection and then she could have kicked herself. "Of course—I didn't mean —"

Clara clapped her on the back lightly, a friendly move. "I know, silly girl." She reached over and tugged on Hermione's braid. "Time to get back to work for both of us. I can't work off this lunch just gabbing away, you know." She patted her completely flat stomach. "I can feel it sitting there like a bludger in my stomach—the weight of lunch will drag me back to earth if I'm not careful." She cast a sidelong glance at Hermione, who rolled her eyes in response.

"I'll patch you right up if you do fall," she promised, and Clara hooted with laughter, pulling her in close and giving her a quick head rub. Yelping, Hermione tried to pull away to no avail, ultimately slipping underneath Clara's arm and scrambling away. "Such a Healer already," the Quidditch player grinned unrepentantly. "Don't start saying that to the guys, or they'll start coming to you for everything." She grabbed her hand and waved it at Hermione dramatically. "Mia, Mia, something terrible has happened. I've got—I've got—I've got a splinter!" She thrust the offending appendage into Hermione's face. "Surely I'm going to die from this." Clapping a hand over her heart, Clara swooned.

This was too much for Hermione, who giggled. Clara, hearing the noise, recovered miraculously from her injury and whooped, punching a victorious fist in the air. "I made you laugh! Just wait until I tell Pytor." She fairly rubbed her hands together in glee. "He's going to be so mad I did it first."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Do you two bet about everything?"

"Of course not," Clara responded piously. "We would never do such an ill-mannered thing like bet on our own Quidditch games."

"But everything else?"

"Of course." Clara waved a hand negligently. "What is life without some excitement, you know?" She winked at Hermione. "I would think that you would agree, wouldn't you? After all, you did move here from England to apprentice with Madam Lazarov. That's not something just anyone would do."

"Oh, it's not like that," she tried to insist, but Clara laughed.

"Isn't it, though? When I was your age I was happily flying in the fields behind my parents' house with not a care in the world, and here you are, bravely learning under Kras." At Hermione's askance look, she laughed again, the friendly sound washing over Hermione warmly. "I love Kras, but she can certainly be tetchy. Don't let her sternness fool you. She has quite a warm heart underneath it all."

Kind of like Professor McGonagall, Hermione thought. The Transfiguration teacher could be rather stern and imposing at times, but when push came to shove, she was rather warm-hearted and protective of her students. The comparison made Hermione feel a little easier and not as concerned to go back to the Healer's Hall as they split up, and she was able to more easily bear the heavy weight of the Healer's whip like attention for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time the afternoon wound up, Hermione was ready and excited for the weekend. She hadn't gotten a lot of free time to explore so far since she had moved here, and the next few days offered the perfect opportunity to branch out and explore the open air market more. That bookstand she had seen with Sirius was still calling her name, and she resolved to go there first thing in the morning. Her parents had sent quite enough money in the letter Dumbledore had forwarded her, though the text was brief.

Bunny, her father had written in his slanting script,

We hope you enjoy your summer in Bulgaria. We've told everyone about your apprenticeship with the Healer. Here is some money to last you for the summer.

Daddy

Not precisely the effusive praise she had wanted—had always wanted, if she were to be strictly honest with herself—but she had learned long ago not to expect much more. At least they had sent her a letter, she consoled herself.

The house was quiet when she got back, and she was able to blissfully sit outside in the garden amongst the rioting flowers in the glow of the deepening afternoon sun. It was by far one of her most favorite places to relax and read a book, perhaps even preferred over the Hogwarts library. (If asked, she would deny she ever even thought that.) Her revision of the Healing texts Madam Lazarov had handed over to her a few days earlier was going slowly but well, and her mind devoured the knowledge. Sometimes she would stop and practice an incantation or murmur a spell, her lips forming around the new words and phrases, before continuing onwards.

Time passed in hops and skips until she was forced to stop due to lack of sunlight. She stood up, stretched, and made her way into the house, ready for dinner.

Halfway through the recipe for salad she had taken out of The Housewitch's Guide to Easy Cooking, she heard a telltale crack in the front yard. Sirius had returned from wherever he had gone.

"Welcome home," she said absently as the door opened, frowning at a particular set of instructions. What the bloody hell did they mean in step seven?

Silence for a long moment, then Sirius' voice said weakly, "A little help, kitten?"

"Help with what?" she asked as she turned around. The question didn't need answering. Sirius, disguised as Magellan, was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his hand clutching his side and his bruised face pale as a Nearly Headless Nick.

Rushing towards him, wand already out and up, she exclaimed, "Good heavens! What happened to you? Can you walk, or do I need to levitate you to the couch?"

"I can walk." He waved off her offer of assistance but leaned on her arm as he made his way to the couch as she started a list of diagnostic spells Madam Lazarov had taught her. "I just met the wrong end of a few people's wands, that's all."

She raised a brow as the readings came back. "That's all, is it? Well, you've got several cracked or broken ribs, bruises all over your body, and an impacted spleen. I would beg to differ that it was a minor scrape," she said tartly. "Now sit still and don't say anything. I've only just learned these." And some of them she hadn't even gotten to practice because they were so new, but she didn't say that. It wouldn't do for both of them to doubt her.

Honestly, she wished she could take him somewhere, but it was too complicated, especially since he was here in disguise. And beside, she didn't even know where the closest hospital was. It was either her, or nobody, so she bent her head and grimly set herself to the task. He really was quite injured. The ribs worried her because if she didn't get them all the way healed, a fragment could potentially rupture something important. She couldn't simply vanish them and use Skele-Gro because critical organs would get displaced or crushed. He always had to be difficult, didn't he?

She wasn't sure how long she worked, only that magic flowed out of her in a steady stream. In between spells she looked up at his vitals, which were still hanging where she set them. They were improving, and eventually got to a place she felt comfortable with. Slowly, she drew down the last spell, staggering as exhaustion hit her. "I think you'll be alright, " she told him, wiping her hands on her trousers, and then realized he had passed out, most likely from pain, at some point.

Well.

"I suppose that's that, then," she muttered dryly as she went to the basement, where she was brewing the polyjuice potion and kept her other stock of practice healing potions. She had only ever kept the ones that turned out textbook perfect, so she assumed they were good for use.

She swallowed as she swept up a few potions, not wanting to think about how many hypotheticals she had practiced on a living human body today. There were so many steps in the learning process she had skipped today, and getting even one thing wrong could have done grave injury to Sirius. She hadn't had anyone to watch over her either, or to take over if things had gone wrong.

The enormity of what she had done washed over her. She sagged for a moment on the stairs back up, bowing her head. Sirius could have died, and it would have been all her fault. Her patient, her responsibility.

"I'm not prepared for this," she murmured, the words reverberating in her ears. "I'm really, really, not prepared for this."

Thank Merlin she was a swotty know-it-all, but even that only took her so far. It couldn't substitute for years of knowledge and practical application, but it seemed that she was going to have to fly by the seat of her pants.

She could only hope that he didn't have another 'that's all' moment again.

After falling into bed completely exhausted and sleeping dreamlessly, she woke up still feeling drained. It was nearly ten in the morning, much later than her usual time to wake up, but she figured she deserved it after having a full day at work and then performing an emergency healing that had depleted a lot of her magical stores.

After checking in on Sirius and eating a quick breakfast of toast and jam, Hermione prepared to go to the market. While her original mission to explore the Square stood, she also now needed to stock up on potions ingredients so she could brew an additional batch of the potions she had used on Sirius last night.

The market was just as exuberantly alive as it had been the last time she visited, throngs of people visiting the open air market. Everywhere she looked there were places she wanted to visit with new and exotic things to look at. She was lured to a stall manned by a lanky old wizard, who gave her one of the tastiest desserts she'd ever had. He had laughed at her look of wide-eyed wonder after she took her first bite and given her another one for the road. "You're too skinny," he had insisted, handing the wrapped pastry over and refusing any money in return. "You must eat so you can grow up to become a powerful witch."

Still munching on her treat, Hermione continued on her tour of the square, stopping to look in the windows of several stores. One, a Quidditch store, caught her eye, and she mentally noted down the name so she could return later on and see if there was anything Ron or Harry might like. A small bookstore next to it, simply named Irena's Tomes & Scrolls, beckoned at her, and she stopped in there next.

The books were absolutely fascinating. A lot of them were copies of works she had seen at Flourish and Blotts, but there were so many she had never seen before, ranging from the care of magical creatures local to Eastern Europe to The Lore of Herbs Oftyn Seen in the Bulgarian Wyldes. There were books on ancient customs, Wizarding culture, circle magic, home spells, runic circles, and more. Everywhere she looked she saw something of interest, but there was one book, a slim volume bound in faded green leather, that made her frown and pull it off the shelf. The Arte of the Darke: Level One. Level one? How could something off limits be broken into levels? Almost furtively, she nudged the book open, scanning the contents quickly.

"Interested in the Dark Arts?" A voice came from behind her. Hermione jumped guiltily, turning and hiding the book behind her as she faced an older woman with black hair neatly braided back in a crown.

"I—er—I was just looking," she stammered. The book seemed to burn in her hand. She couldn't get in trouble for merely looking at it, could she?

The woman propped her hand on her hip. "Of course you were," she said crisply. "What year are you? Fifth year? Sixth?"

"Fourth year," Hermione responded with her school year automatically, before her mind caught up. "Wait. The Darks Arts is taught at Durmstrang?"

Briefly, the proprietress frowned, then her brow cleared. "Ah, I didn't place the accent for a moment. English, are you? So you attend Hogwarts. That explains your reaction. Yes, here in Eastern Europe the Dark Arts aren't regarded the same way as you Western Europeans think about it. Here, we think about the Dark Arts as just that—another art to be taught. Just as all crafts have considerations to it, so do the Dark Arts."

Nibbling on her lip as her mind raced, she responded, "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"Think about it this way, mila," the woman said kindly. "In Potions class, you can learn to make potions. There are many potions that are harmless if administered correctly, yet a traditionally harmless potion can still be used to kill. Take, for instance, the Calming Draught. Too much of it, and you can kill someone via overdose or cause lasting brain damage. However, the right dose applied creates calming effects that slows the nervous system and allows someone relief. The Dark Arts are similar, although it boils down to three things: intent, your ability to control the spell or object once you have begun interacting with it or channelling it, and your affinity."

"Intent? Aren't you simply intending to cast with your wand?"

The proprietress shook her head. "Think bigger. What are you intending to do with the spell you cast? Good or harm?"

A lightbulb went off in her head, and she exhaled. "Oh. Oh, I see. The intent to do harm, versus the intent to do good to someone via the spell."

"Precisely. And that is why we have classes at Durmstrang on the Dark Arts. While you learn about the spells, potions, and charms, and objects traditionally classified as harmful, there is an art to using your intent to master the Arts as you intend. We do not shy away from them, as they can be very powerful tools when used correctly. And yes," she allowed, "some spells or items are classified purely as Dark, but that is just how some things are classified purely as light, like the Patronus charm. However, most things are not so clear cut."

"I see," Hermione said slowly. "So this—" she held the book up "—would be the primer on the Dark Arts?"

She nodded, eyes glinting. "I do not think it wise for you to take back with you to England, but I also think it perhaps even more unwise not to learn about."

Well, she never was one to disagree with the 'knowledge is power' argument, considering it had largely guided her actions for the past three years. She thanked the proprietress (who seemed disinclined to discuss the subject much further once she explained enough to pique her interest), collected a few more books, and left the store with her coin purse lighter but her sack quite a bit heavier. The weight of the books felt comforting and familiar, although she felt guilty somehow, for the book on the Dark Arts was neatly tucked in there amongst the more innocuous books she so favored.

As she made her way out of the store, she was suddenly knocked to the ground in a sudden collision of bodies. The cobblestone scraped her hands and knees, and she knew she was going to have a good bruise or two. As she pushed herself off the ground, the person who ran into her was already apologizing, one hand helping her up by the elbow.

"I am so sorry. I wasn't looking when I came out of Rakov's Racing Brooms and I must have—Mia?" came a familiar voice, and Hermione, startled, looked up directly into Viktor Krum's eyes.