A few days after her encounter with the ballroom at Krum Manor, Hermione had had a particularly grueling day and was grateful to sit down and just relax for a moment. It wasn't that anything particularly awful had happened, but in between Vasily managing to get his arm broken, Pyotr getting his fifth concussion of the season (and did she have some things to say about that), her research with Madam Lazarov on the efficaciousness of dual wand use in potion making, her inability to stop thinking about her dance lessons with Viktor, and her nerves about her upcoming outing with Clara, she was quite wiped out.
Heavily, she dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs, content to sit and stare at the grain of the table while the kettle warmed. A good cup of tea would set her right in no time, and surely after that she would be ready to read more about poultices while tucked away in bed. Right now she was even too tired to even consider sitting in the garden, and that was saying something.
A glint of something ivory on the floor caught her attention, and she saw a piece of parchment on the floor under the table. Perhaps she had accidentally dropped some notes that she had taken while reading?
When she picked it up, expecting to see her handwriting, she was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a lighter, more spiky script than her own carefully rounded letters. Curiosity getting the better of her, she scanned the brief note.
Magellan,
I managed to get the item you requested, although the wards for the location you mentioned were a bit slippery. I hope you know what you are doing with this, my boy. It is not something to be trifled with. In fact, I wondered for some time if I should have retrieved it for you at all, but I trust your judgement in this situation. Regardless, it's yours to do with as you wish.
Be careful, my boy.
AD
She frowned. A music box was 'not something to be trifled with'? And where exactly did this AD person have to go to get it? And who was AD? Perhaps Albus Dumbledore? That seemed somewhat plausible, at least.
"Ah, poppet!" Sirius, masked as Magellan, clattered down the stairs. She looked up from the table in surprise, quickly tucking the note into one of her robe's pockets. He was in his most insufferably Pureblood outfit, the whites of his shirt impossibly starched and the lines of his pants creased to perfection until they hit his snakeskin loafers. His thin, royal blue summer vest, which matched his pants, was buttoned to the top. "You're home early."
"Sirius," she said slowly. "It's half six. And what are you doing dressed like that?"
He waved it away, the motion graceful. "Half six, quarter to five, it's all the same these days, especially since I'm not keeping normal hours like you do." He winked, but his cornflower blue eyes remained flat and opaque. "Kitten—Hermione—I've got to ask you to do a damned uncomfortable thing and ask you to leave me the house for the night. I've got a, hm, thing, planned, and you can't be here." His smile was tight but not remotely apologetic.
Excuse her? "I'm...I'm sorry?" Hermione managed to get out around her complete disbelief. "Did you just tell me you're kicking me out of the house?"
Sirius held up a finger. "Just for the evening, you know! It will be over quick as that."
It felt like she'd be blindsided by a Bludger. He was her guardian. Yes, perhaps it was more in name only than in actual deed, as far as she understood it, but they were supposed to support each other as best as they could, not...not do things like this.
"This is my home, Sirius, just as much as yours. I get to stay here every night like you do."
He shifted, looking a little uncomfortable. "I know, really, I know, but Hermione, you can't be here tonight. You just—you can't, kitten. You've got to go."
"This is really out of nowhere. I just—I don't understand. Can I at least have an explanation?" she asked, sitting back against her chair. "If there's something dangerous going on, I think I should know so I can, at the very least, prepare some potions or poultices to heal you if you're injured."
Waving a hand, he dismissed her. "I don't think those will be necessary, Hermione, although I do appreciate your care. Really, something's come up and I think it's better if you aren't here for it."
She frowned. "I don't particularly see what could happen that could make me need to leave the house. Besides, I really think that I could stay and help—"
"I don't need your help," he told her, interrupting. His shoulders squared and his mouth flattened. "What I need is for you to leave."
Stung, she stood, feeling the beginnings of anger stir within her. "And where exactly should I go, do you think?"
Sirius shrugged and pulled a small bag out of his pockets, lobbing it to her. Reflexively, she reached out and caught it, hearing the clink of coins from within. "I think there's a hotel down the way," he said, pointing towards the Square.
She laughed in disbelief. "Sirius, I'm fifteen years old. I'm not old enough to even rent a hotel room! Please, can't I just stay here?" Her voice was rising, and so was the feeling of quiet, complete panic inside her. Who was this man standing in front of her? The wizard she knew was one who was haunted, sure, but thus far he'd been a fairly good guardian and companion.
Sirius ran his tongue over his teeth. "You really, really can't. You've got to have friends, right? Couldn't you stay with them?"
Huffing, she asked, "Friends? In Bulgaria, where we've been less than a month?"
He winced, but ploughed on ahead. "What about from work? Couldn't you ask to stay with them?"
The thought of owling one of them and begging to stay at their houses made her want to be sick. Hermione Granger wasn't one to ask for charity, and she wasn't willing to ask people she was only just beginning to become friends with for help. She had been raised to be independent and to figure things out on her own, and by Merlin she would do that.
But, one part of her mind suggested quietly, what about Viktor? He would help you. Perhaps him, or perhaps even Milena? As soon as the thought entered her head she dismissed it. It wouldn't do to bother them.
Besides, her mind had supplied an easier alternative. Sirius's mention of work made her think of the Healing Halls, and there were thirteen good, functional beds there. She'd floo to the stadium and sleep there. She just had to wake up early and make it seem as if she'd gotten to work early.
"I've got it figured out," she responded shortly. The kettle began to whistle, then, and she stared blankly at it. Tea wouldn't fix this. "I'll go to the Quidditch stadium. There are beds in the infirmary."
But she had to try one more time...swallowing, she looked at him. "Please, Sirius. Won't you tell me what's going on?"
He watched her with an inscrutable gaze. "I can't."
"So that's that, then?" She angrily pushed a loose tendril of hair out of her face. "That's all you're going to tell me to explain? 'Something's come up and I don't need or want your help, you useless girl, so get out of my house.'"
Something pained flashed across his face, but he stayed his course. "It's not like that," he said quietly. "But Hermione," he looked at the old clock on the wall, "you've really, really got to go."
Incredulously, she looked at him before smiling, thin lipped and tight. "Fine. So be it. But Sirius? I won't forget this." She strode up the stairs, her anger and hurt propelling her.
Eight minutes later, she was gone.
The stadium was a strange place to be at night, even with the sun still setting as it was. The stands cast long shadows over the pitch, and the hoops' shadows in particular made strange circles on the grounds. That, combined with the lack of any other human being, made her shiver.
The Healing Halls were the same as she had left them only a short time ago, brewing potions in stasis, the beds neatly made, all the bandages and potions needed in an emergency ready for use on trays or in bags.
She chose a bed at random to make her own for the night and placed her bag on the foot of the bed. That being done, she had little else to do. She was unpacked for the night, and it was still hours from bedtime.
Staring sightlessly out the large, wall-to-wall window that showed the quidditch pitch, she allowed the adrenaline of the last hour to subside and gave way to the more immediate feelings of pain and hurt.
She and Sirius had been thrown together more by happenstance than anything, but she had believed that the man she had known to be innocent, who had shown her he was trying to recover from his time in Azkaban, who had woken up haunted from his friends' deaths, was a man worth knowing. The man who showed himself tonight was not the man she had thought he was, and she wondered if the Sirius she thought she knew was perhaps an incomplete picture. Truly, she hardly knew him or his motivations aside from that of his single-minded desire to hunt down Peter Pettigrew.
Well. It hardly mattered, did it? She was stuck with the man until the summer was over. She'd given her word to Professor Dumbledore, and she wasn't one to break it. Aside from that, she wasn't willing to give up her position with the team. The experience was one she would never get again.
Sighing, she turned and picked up a book before saying the spell to vanish the floor-to-ceiling window and walking through it. The sun was still bright enough that she could read by natural lighting, and it seemed better somehow to sit outside than sit on one of the beds inside and pretend everything was fine.
It was only after she had gotten onto the pitch that she realized there was nowhere comfortable to sit, and she relocated successfully to an empty spot in the stands a few minutes later. It was a strange experience, given that she had never actually sat in the stands here before, instead having only experienced things from the pitch.
She hadn't expected to see one of the players flying around the pitch still, their robes flapping in the wind behind them as they effortlessly sliced through the air. Squinting, she tried to get a better idea of who it was, but then the player crouched over the broom in the prelude to one of the moves he was famous for, and Hermione knew it was Viktor.
Her book remained closed on her lap, and she just watched him for awhile as he flew and flew and flew, endless loops of seemingly impossible acrobatics accomplished with ease. Watching him made her acutely aware of just how skilled he was. There was something about Viktor with a broom, some kind of innate ease that other players lacked in the quantity Viktor had it in. Of course, it wasn't innate talent—the fact that he was here practicing after everyone had left attested to that—but he had some kind of relationship with flying that made it beautiful to watch.
It almost, but almost, made her want to fly.
She smiled at the thought and looked down at her book. Hermione Granger and flying were two things that never would fit together. No, she was destined to stay with her feet planted firmly on the ground.
Suddenly, Viktor's trajectory switched from a fast, sweeping arc to something slower and definitively angled towards her. He'd seen her.
Indecisively she stood, wondering if perhaps she should flee. How would she explain things to him for why she was here? Believable excuses would be few and hard to come by for explaining why she was here long after everyone else had gone for the day.
Viktor came to a stop in front of her, floating right by the edge of the stands. One hand gripped the broom handle easily as he took off his goggles. "Mia?" He frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"I…." she floundered. "Well, I—you see, I was just wanting some, hm—," she stumbled, trying to come up with an excuse that didn't say, my guardian kicked me out of the house and this was the only place I had to go. To her complete and utter horror, her voice broke on the lie she was attempting to come up with, and a tear streaked down her cheek.
"Mia? Mia, what's wrong?" A bare instant later, Viktor had swung his leg over his broom and came into the stands, his warm hands gently gripping her shoulders. "Talk to me, mila."
She shook her head and knuckled away her traitorous tears as they made their slow way down her cheeks. "It's nothing, really. I can handle it."
Viktor shook his head impatiently. "You wouldn't be crying if there weren't something amiss. Now tell me what is wrong, and we will fix it."
That fierce statement—the loyalty underpinning it—made her crumble. Slowly, haltingly, she explained what had unfolded earlier that evening, and Viktor's grip became tighter and tighter as his face grew darker and darker. His nostrils flared, and he said, "that kopele. That….that fool. To think he can just do something like that to you, that he can just kick you out without any repercussions?" He gave a short crack of laughter, the sound empty of mirth.
"Viktor," she murmured, growing a little alarmed, "it's not as bad as you think it is. It's just one night. You'll see. It's not that big a deal."
He looked at her incredulously before lightly shaking her and crushing her to him in a brief, sweaty hug. "You're stupid if you think that's true," he told her, holding her at arms length once more, his hands sliding down to lightly hold her wrists in a gentle grip. "Don't you see? He could easily do something like this again, and you would have no recourse against it. And haven't you mentioned that he has been absent more and more and has been keeping strange hours? Mia, this is neglect."
"It's not all that bad," she insisted. "Really, it's not. Today is the worst thing he's done by far, and really, Viktor, I can manage fine. My parents were never terribly present when I was younger, either, so I'm used to it and can get around on my own." At that, his entire face crunched in on itself for a moment before smoothing out. "I think it's just the housing situation that got me," she finished, voice small. "I can figure everything else out. I always do."
Carefully, he released her and took a step away, running his hands through his hair. "You shouldn't have to 'figure everything else out'," he said with an awful patience. "You shouldn't have to think of any of these things. You're a teenage girl. You should be worrying about school, and friends, and boys, and quidditch. Stuff people our ages think of."
He ignored her protestations that he was being too dramatic and told her, firmly, "We are going to go to my house, and you are going to spend the night. In the morning, we are going to go to my mother. You are going to tell her everything that you told me, and we are going to fix this for good."
"Viktor—I don't—"
He slashed a hand through the air, stopping her protests. "I don't want to hear it right now, Mia. Just. Just do as I say, and we will talk about it when we get home."
Quelling the urge to ask him if he was sure that he wanted to take her home with him—he certainly seemed very sure—she quietly told him her things were in the Healing Hall and let him Apparate them down there. Her stomach roiled as they materialized by the door, but she said the phrase that made the floor to ceiling window disappear and stepped through. As soon as she gathered her things, he gently set his hand on her waist and moved close to her, his dark eyes looking down at her as tension thrummed through his body.
"Hold tight," he told her, and then all that was left in the Hall were empty beds.
They landed only moments later in a spacious living room, the ceiling tall and the wood flooring dark. She stared at the wood grain for a minute as she got over her dizziness and released Viktor, who still looked angrier than he should.
That didn't keep him from being gentle with her as he asked, eyes dark, "Okay?" When she nodded, he stepped away and paced the length of the room.
"Viktor," she started hesitantly, and he held up a hand to stop her from saying anything, though he did stop pacing and instead stared at the ceiling, taking a few deep breaths.
"I do not like this," he told her bluntly. "I do not like that your so-called guardian had the nerve to kick you out of your home like this. He, a trusted confederate of your Headmaster, has accompanied you to a strange country where he should be protecting you and is instead leaving you to fend for yourself."
"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she argued. "It's really only this evening that posed any problem, but I managed to suss out a solution."
He spun to face her. "Yes, by sleeping in an infirmary bed!" He heaved a breath and ran a hand over his face. "Forgive me. The thought of you being alone without help makes me rather...unreasonable. Please, make yourself comfortable. I need to go calm down, but I will return soon."
Nonplussed, she watched him disappear moments later and return with what must be his own personal broom. He summoned a glass of water, handed it to her, and was gone a moment later.
It was strange, she thought ruefully, how the men in her life seemed to come and go so easily.
Her fraught mood was somewhat assuaged by the fact he had been so obviously upset for her, although she wondered at his rather sudden display of anger on her behalf. It seemed that Viktor, who had thus far seemed fairly even keeled, could have a temper underneath his exterior. Interestingly, his solution for that was flying, and she wondered if perhaps he turned to flying as a mechanism to solve his problems. Of course, if that was true, then lent a new nuance to his involvement with Quidditch.
She had just begun to prowl around the living room curiously, angling towards a group of portraits and landscapes on the far wall when Viktor barged back in, his hair ruffled and the broom clutched in his hand. "I am an idiot," he told her, his brow furrowed. "I abandoned you just like Quickfoot did."
Perplexed at his behaviour, she looked at him. "Not everything is so dramatic," she responded, biting down a sudden, inappropriate giggle. "You were mad. You went to calm down. I'm not upset in the slightest that you left."
He looked uncertain, and the broom sagged toward the floor as his grip loosened. "You're sure? I wouldn't want to be as unreliable as him."
"You aren't at all. Viktor," she laughed somewhat incredulously, "you took me from the Quidditch pitch and brought me into your home. You took me in and gave me a place to stay. I would say that's anything but unkind."
He carefully propped the broom against the wall, sighed, and dropped to the couch, resting his arms on his legs. "It has been a rather eventful evening, hasn't it?" he asked ruefully, looking up at her.
Walking towards him, she rested her hand on the arm of his chair. "I would definitely say so. Really, it's been an eventful day for the both of us. I really do appreciate you taking me in," she said earnestly. "Really."
The corner of his mouth curled up a little. "What are friends for? Any time you need help from me, you say the word."
Her heart stumbled a little bit at the words and expression on his face. Had anyone ever said something to her like that before, let alone meant it? She would be hard pressed to recall a time.
Impulsively, she replied, "Me too, Viktor. I feel like we've become such good friends rather quickly. I'm so glad I've met you, really. I think I would have been rather lonely here if we hadn't become friends."
Playfully, he took her braid, which she hadn't yet even had time to take out, and tugged it. He grinned when she scowled and swatted at his hand, "Me too, Mia."
About to say something else, he was interrupted by her stomach, which gave an audible growl. At her abashed look, he laughed, something full bodied and unrestrained. "Dinner?" he asked, standing.
Feeling daring, she said, "Only if it involves ice cream."
He laughed again, and her lips curled in satisfaction. "Athletes don't get things like ice cream during the season, though it would certainly be nice."
A house elf popped into the room in front of them, a little less formally attired than Enzo, the butler from Krum manor, but still extremely well dressed all the same in a neat dress and butter yellow apron. "Master Viktor wants ice cream?" she squeaked, ears pricked and eyes bright. "Mippy can get ice cream, yes she can. Mippy will serve ice cream after Master Viktor eats his vegetables." She looked mutinously up at Viktor, and he nodded meekly.
"Of course, Mippy. And you don't need to get ice cream." Bending his head towards Hermione, he murmured, "Islov would kill me if he knew."
Laughter bubbled up within her, and she said seriously, "Must avoid that, shall we?"
Meanwhile, Mippy was shaking her head furiously. "Mippy must bring the ice cream. Young Miss is sad! Young miss must have the ice cream."
"Thank you Mippy," Viktor told her gravely. "I am sure Mia appreciates it."
"Please don't trouble yourself over it if it is hard to find," she hastened to reassure Mippy. She would really feel terrible if Mippy spent a lot of time looking for something she had said off the cuff as a joke.
Mippy's ears drooped. "You doubt that Mippy can find ice cream, Miss Mia?"
Horrified, she scrambled to say, "No, no, I didn't mean that at all! I'm sure you'll do an excellent job."
Just like that Mippy's ears were back up and she nodded decisively. "Mippy and Posy will serve dinner at the kitchen table, please." With a pop, she was gone.
Hermione stared at the space where she had been, amused, and Viktor lifted a brow. Dryly, he said, "Mustn't be late for Mippy's dinner now, shall we? I can't wait to eat my vegetables, after all."
The aforementioned dinner, as it turned out, was delicious. Privately, Hermione thought the ice cream, which had been obtained from places unknown, was better.