Hermione was usually first up, and she was almost always out of the house in the morning before Sirius came down, but this morning she was treated to the rare sight of Sirius sitting at the kitchen table, holding a mug of tea between his hands and pensively staring at a small wooden box sitting on some crumpled pieces of newspaper on the table.
"Good morning. Did you get a delivery?" she asked, curious. He hadn't really had much sent to him since they had arrived in Bulgaria.
He shrugged, eyes flicking her way before going back to focus on the box. "Of a sorts, I suppose."
She moved closer, squinting as she tried to make out the intricate designs on the wood shadowed by the weak morning light. "What is it?"
"Nothing much, really. Just a music box." He opened it, and a silvery sound came out, making her think of times she could barely remember when her nanny would sing her to sleep.
Moments later, he snapped it shut, and reflexively, she protested, "Hey!" He arched a brow, and she flushed. "Sorry. It was just—it sounded so nice. Is it for lullabies?"
Sirius' smile was small but dark. "Of a sort." Standing, he stretched before slipping it into his coat pocket. He picked up the wrapping paper and box it came in and put them in the rubbish bin. Over his shoulder, he told her, "I've got to go get ready. Big day ahead, you know."
"Oh? Well, all right, then," she responded, startled. It was barely half six, but he had been keeping stranger and stranger hours. Who knew what he was doing? "I hope you have a good day!"
He scratched his neck under his collar, his expression inscrutable. "Me too." And then he went up the stairs, disappearing from sight.
For some reason, she had a feeling they hadn't been talking about the same thing.
Feeling a little unsettled by the exchange, she began preparing breakfast, all the while wondering what he was doing with a music box if it wasn't for help sleeping.
She arrived at the Healing Hall right on time and got quickly to work preparing the infirmary for any potential issues that could arise. The team didn't have any scrummages or mock games today as they so often did, which meant it was likely to be a quieter day than usual. However, they were running low on Bruise Paste, and Hermione went to the laboratory to begin making the relatively simple salve.
Losing herself in the work, she startled badly when Mistress Lazarov's voice came from behind her. "You really are quite efficient, aren't you?" Her tone was approving.
In the middle of measuring out 500 ounces of Arnica gel, Hermione responded, "We were running low, and I figured I may as well make some in the case we need it. Best to have too much of something like this since we run through it so quickly."
"I really am pleased with your performance so far, Miss Granger," her mentor continued, and Hermione felt herself flush with pleasure. "Have you read through the Mortibus Aegrotatonium?"
"Yes," Hermione said, somewhat distractedly, "I enjoyed the part on deadly diseases contracted from magical creatures and wildlife the most. I had no idea that there could be such destructive illnesses that could be transmitted from plants and animals."
Mistress Lazarov joined her at a spot further down on the bench, preparing an iron cauldron and getting a bevvy of ingredients from the storeroom. They left the door to the lab open so they could better hear if someone came in, and they passed the morning restocking the inventory and discussing Hermione's thoughts on what she had read in the basic medical texts, as well as the more arcane and obscure texts on Dark injuries.
It was somehow almost twelve when Hermione looked up from her batch of SkeleGro, blinking in surprise. "Is it really almost time for lunch?"
Mistress Lazarov looked up from her own work, her hair curling around her face from the heat of the cauldron. "So it is, I suppose. I can place the Entrail Exciting potion under stasis, but SkeleGro loses potency...how long until yours is ready?"
"Twenty-four minutes," she replied promptly. "I'm only letting it simmer now, but everything's already added. I was thinking —"
"No thinking!" Clara's voice entered the room before she popped into view, her tall, muscular form energetically striding in. "Only eating! Kras, are you ready to get away from your boring old potions and drink wine with me while we bet on if Klaus Schmidt will be ejected from the QWC Ball again for 'behaviour unbecoming a guest'?" She used inverted commas as she smirked. "I'm not exactly sure that's what I would call organizing an orgy by the fountain, but to each their own."
What on earth were they talking about? "What exactly is the QWC Ball?" Hermione ventured. "Is it a celebration?"
The look on Clara's face reminded Hermione of the look Ron got when he found out he'd eaten the last Pumpkin Pasty and there were no more left: unmitigated horror. "What is the QWC Ball? What do you mean what is it? It's the event of the season! How have you never heard of the Quidditch World Cup Ball?"
"Er, I don't exactly keep up with Quidditch," Hermione offered, "and the last time the World Cup was held—I'm assuming four years ago—I didn't even know I was a witch yet?" She winced slightly and hoped it was sufficient.
Clara frowned. "Fine. I accept your excuse. I do not, however, accept your excuse for not telling her!" She pointed an accusing finger at Madam Lazarov, who looked unruffled.
"I am not the chair of her social calendar, Clara. Besides, I wasn't even sure if she would be allowed to come, given her age and all."
"Tch! As if the team wouldn't allow that. Pytor has already started murmuring about waltzing with our English Rose, and then Alexei threatened to cut Pyrotr's feet off if he so much as stepped wrong. And then," she finished gleefully, "Viktor got strangely quiet, and dare I say, even sulky?" Giving Madam Lazarov a significant look, she said decisively, "it's happening. Get over it."
Madam Lazarov pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Very well. However, I do insist that her guardian attends to act as chaperone."
How embarrassing. A chaperone? Perhaps it would be best if Hermione just avoided the ball altogether. Besides, she didn't particularly enjoy social gatherings. "Maybe I shouldn't go, if it would be inconvenient? I don't have a dress to wear, either, so maybe I should just miss it."
Slashing a hand through the air, Clara dramatically declared, "I forbid it! You are coming, and that is the end of it. I will take you shopping myself. Honestly, I can't believe nobody has even brought this up. That's practically neglectful!"
"Are you implying I'm a derelict Mistress?" Madam Lazarov drawled, her tone dangerous. It was one that Hermione had learned to recognize as slightly in trouble but not in hot water.
"You know that's nothing remotely close to what I said," Clara dismissed. "Don't even try to pretend to be mad at me right now. We've got bigger cauldrons to stir. You didn't even tell your own apprentice about the biggest party in the world that's going to happen! What were you going to do, let her miss the ball?"
"I would have told her eventually," her mentor said, "when I remembered it. It's not as important to me as it is to you, moya priyatel. Remember, you're actually one of the stars, and we are mere accessories."
Clara laughed brightly and slung an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I wouldn't call our English Rose an accessory, and you know perfectly well why." She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully at the Healer, who rolled her eyes.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it will be a big to-do at some point," she agreed begrudgingly.
Hermione was totally lost at this point, but willing to go along with it. She was having Girl Talk with two women she really respected, and what was more surprising was that she was enjoying it!
Hesitatingly, she entered the fray. "So...the ball involves the players?"
"Oh, darling girl," Clara's arm squeezed her so tight for a second Hermione saw stars, "it includes everyone who is anyone. The Ball only happens every four years, and it is talked about until the next one happens! Something big always happens at the Ball."
"Not necessarily good," Mistress Lazarov added sotto voce.
Impossibly, Clara's eyes brightened even further, and Hermione had a strange feeling of déja vu. Where had she seen that look before? Oh yes, in Lavender's eyes. That...did not bode well for her, did it?
"It's always delicious. Remember last time when that Hungarian and the Peruvian Chaser got into a duel over the champagne fountain?" Clara reminisced, gleeful. "And then the entire South African team was found in some kind of compromising position—did we ever find out if they were having some kind of orgy with the Veela delegation?"
An orgy? A duel over a champagne fountain? Doubtfully, Hermione asked, "Are you sure I'm allowed to go to this?"
Clara looked at Hermione, took in her wide eyes and blushing cheeks, and positively lost it.
"Sweet girl," she reassured her on the tail end of a gale of laughter. "The entire team, myself included, would kill themselves before they let anything happen to you. They're awfully fond of you, you know."
Hermione blinked. "They are? Why?"
Looking over at Mistress Lazarov, Clara pointed her finger at her. "I told you," she said knowingly. "Not. A. Clue."
Clara took her arm from around Hermione's shoulders and stepped back, ticking Hermione's fans off with one finger. "You saved Alexei and earned his undying gratitude during the match with the Morrocans; you are a wonderful source of gossip and news for Pytor, so that's earned his loyalty—" she rolled her eyes and shrugged as if to say he's an idiot, "—and you brewed an exceptionally tasty pain potion for Vasily after he dislocated his shoulder that he swore made him feel like new again; I personally love that you're a girl, and that you're not a secret Quidditch groupie; Ivan hardly ever speaks, I know, but he appreciated your Bruise Paste ever so much. Shall I go on?"
Flustered, Hermione replied, "That's really all part of my job, Clara. Well, perhaps not being a source of gossip, but everything else? I'm just doing what I need to do to make sure that you all are functional."
The Chaser's face grew earnest and serious. "That's why we love you, Mia. Because you try your hardest to help us and do not fawn over us like we are gods. You're here to learn and do your job, just like we are. So far you've managed to avoid the circus of the media, but that is likely to change at some point, and I won't have you unprepared. And if preparation looks like primping and preening, so be it. I won't let you get eaten alive."
Touched, Hermione impulsively hugged the Chaser and then quickly stepped back.
"Thank you," she said, heartfelt. "I have never particularly cared for...primping and preening, so I could definitely use your guidance and would really appreciate it." Thinking for a moment, she added, "And for navigating the ball, too, I think."
Mistress Lazarov and Clara exchanged a glance.
"As if I would let my apprentice show herself badly," the Healer sniffed, crossing her arms.
"And as if I would let a friend show up to the biggest party she ever attends dressed in a paper bag," Clara scoffed. "Mia. Don't worry. We will protect you. And between me and the team, you have seven—well, six—older siblings."
"And considering you're not of age," the Healer added, "I fully expect your guardian will attend as well, like I mentioned earlier. It's all for the appearance, you see. Nobody actually cares. They just pretend they do."
Ah. That was...comforting? Hermione merely nodded, not knowing what exactly to say to that.
Hands firmly situated on her waist, Clara declared, "Now, the biggest concern: the dress."
Hermione blanched. "I don't have a dress." Biting her lip, she wondered if she could get one of the staff back home to send her one. Her parents, of course, were already in France, and wouldn't particularly bother themselves with something that trivial anyways. Perhaps if she could call up Lucy, one of the housekeepers? "I could get one sent from home—"
"Dmitri?" Clara was having one of her strange telepathy moments with Mistress Lazarov, who was nodding.
"I'll send him an owl. He likes me much better than you."
"That was one time!" Clara protested. Mistress Lazarov simply looked at her, and Clara amended, "Okay, two times. But! I really just had to."
"You always 'just have to'." It was said exasperatedly, but fondly.
Hermione was dying to know what they were talking about but didn't feel as if it were her place to ask. Even if they were being friendly towards her, how was she to know if they were actually, truly friends? What if she accidentally said something that made them mad, and left her on her own again, like had happened with her and the boys? She always managed to make a muddle of things like this. No, best to stay quiet until she knew better.
With a promise to take Hermione shopping soon, Clara absconded with Madam Lazarov to do whatever it was they so often did during lunch, and Hermione made her way to the dining hall. She had just sat down for lunch when she saw an owl flap in, weaving and bobbing until it collapsed on the table in a familiar pile of feathers.
"Errol?" she asked incredulously. "Are you here all the way from Egypt?"
The owl hooted wearily. Readily, she fed him scraps and stroked his head until the old owl, exhausted from his journey, had stopped trembling. It was only then that she looked at the letter he carried with him.
Hermione Granger
Vratsa Vultures Stadium(!)
Bulgaria
She smiled and opened the letter, curiously scanning the contents.
Dear Hermione,
Mum said that I should send this letter to you at your house, but I couldn't resist sending it to you at the stadium. Blimey, now I can say I've sent mail to someone who worked at one of the semi-finalist teams for the World Cup! I'm positively mad with envy. Can you get them to sign an autograph for me? And Viktor Krum! What's the bloke like? Word is, he's the most talented seeker since Glynnis Griffins, who caught the snitch after a seven day match. Nobody can do what that bloke does with a broom. Have you seen him do a Wronskei Feint? Never mind. You probably wouldn't even recognize one if you did. But, well, tell him if you see him that Ron Weasley is his biggest fan.
Hermione grinned despite herself. If there was one thing Ron was, it was Quidditch mad.
Things in Egypt are amazing. Bill's shown us all around the tombs and stuff. Did you know that Pharaoh Thutmose is a ghost? It's wicked. Anyways, we're all excited about the Quidditch World Cup coming up. Fred and George told me to tell you that Krum's a good Seeker but they think Ireland's got it in the bag this year, although Ginny told them they're full of it. Apparently the Egyptian papers have an Arithmancer on staff that's running equations. I think it's a load of rubbish. Bulgaria is going to make it to the finals and win. I'd bet my Exploding Snap set on it!
Ron
"Funny letter?" Viktor's voice inquired from above her. She glanced up, still smiling, to see him standing by her with a giant plate of food in hand. "Can I sit?"
"Of course!" She scooted over on the bench and he sat next to her, carefully folding his legs underneath. She'd always wondered why they'd gone with benches like they did at Hogwarts since there were so few people they served at once, but she supposed she would never know. "And yes, it's from Ron. He and his family are on vacation in Egypt, but instead of telling me about it, he spent the entire letter talking about Quidditch!" Shaking her head, she exasperatedly continued, "They're all Quidditch mad, the lot of them."
Viktor shrugged. "There's worse things to be. Though I'm also a professional quidditch player, so I might be biased."
She looked at him and then dissolved into laughter.
"Of course," she giggled. "What am I even thinking, saying that to you?"
He grinned back, the smile changing his face from something serious to something, well, shockingly attractive, if she was honest. His eyes lit up from underneath dark lashes, and he looked almost boyish. Her breath caught in her throat at the realization.
Meanwhile, Viktor leaned over her to snag the letter and skimmed it. Casually, he summoned a quill and scrawled something at the bottom. "Send him that in your next letter."
It took her a moment for her attention to snap back, and she looked at what he'd written.
I'll try to make sure you don't lose your Exploding Snap set. Mia would be rather put out with me if you did. -VK
"Viktor," she breathed in delight. "Ron is going to lose his marbles over this." Ron was going to either be insanely jealous of her and not speak to her for months, or Hermione would be in his good graces for months to come. Since he would have something that none of the other Weasleys had from Viktor Krum himself, she was leaning towards the latter. "This is brilliant. Thank you so much."
He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the praise. "It is no matter. I thought he might like it."
She nodded quickly. "Yes, he'll love it!" Thinking about posting it once she'd penned her response, she frowned. "I've still got to get an owl so I can send it back."
"You don't have an owl?" he inquired, brows lifted in surprise.
"I've always just used Hedwig - Harry's owl - or one of the school owls. This is the first time I haven't been able to use another one. I keep meaning to get one, but I forget with everything going on. I'll have to go this weekend, and I've got to go into town anyways to get Clara a thank you present for helping me with the Ball."
Viktor looked confused so she quickly sketched out the situation for him. Halfway through the explanation he began tapping his chin in thought, and he said, "My mother can help you with this also. There are customs and things you may not know, considering you're Muggleborn, that she can help teach you. You know," he said a bit awkwardly, "because she's—we're—Purebloods. She'd be happy to help, I'm sure of it."
Hermione's mouth ran dry. His mother? She would have to meet with one of the nobility of the wizarding world. Her mother had always hidden her away when they had had important visitors over. She would never be able to measure up to someone like her. "Your mother? Viktor—I couldn't possibly—I'm sure she'd very busy—"
"Stop being silly, Mia, and accept the help," Viktor said. "Like Clara told you, we're your friends. And besides, you are alone here, aside from Mister Quickfoot. Let us do as friends and family do and support you. Besides," he continued ruefully, "maika would love this. She has always wished for a daughter, but got me instead."
"If you're sure…" Hermione said dubiously.
"I am very sure."
"Viktor," she said suddenly, "Can I ask why you are being so kind to me? I know we didn't get off on the right foot, and I'm aware that I can be, well... really, just an overall swot," she acknowledged ruefully, "and I don't really get on well with people. So really, I suppose, why would you want to be friends with me?"
Simply, he replied, "You're nice, and you don't care about my fame. You listen to me and ask me about me. Do you know how rare that is?"
Hermione was taken aback. "That's it?"
"When you don't have it, that's a lot. It also helps that you like many of the same things I do," he added, offering her a small smile. "That's fairly rare."
Her throat went dry, and she took a sip of water. It was humbling to hear that simple kindness and interest was all he needed to form a friendship. Although, she reflected, it took less for her and Harry and Ron to become friends at the outset. Perhaps she could gain and keep another valued friend that same way.
Squarely, she looked into his eyes and said, "I'm happy to be your friend, Viktor. And I'm thankful for the offer of your mother's help. I'd like to meet her very much."