Even though three days had passed since the Festival of Blessings, Viktor still felt drained from its lingering effects.

It likely didn't help that he was juggling so many things, each of which required his complete attention to properly tend to, and that he had so many things coming at him.

What was he supposed to do about the realisation that Svetlana was clearly up to something with Quickfoot? Should he wait to tell Kosta until he figured out what precisely they were doing? Or did Kosta already know?

And what about his studies? Hermione's suggestion that he contact Professor Flitwick to establish a correspondence (regardless of whether he went to Hogwarts or not) was sound, but sending a letter of introduction to a wizard as well-regarded in academic circles as Filius Flitwick was something that Viktor wanted to spend proper time—time it seemed he did not have—doing.

The thought of Hogwarts made him think of the missive Karkaroff had sent him this morning detailing the trials he would have to go through to make it on the ship. Of course, Karkaroff conveyed his expectations of Viktor's performance in said trials quite well, too.

It wasn't the only missive that had brought him some amount of grief. The one Demetrius had sent this morning was perhaps the thing that weighed on him most of all, though it was the one he could do the least about. It seemed that Maika was having another episode. They seemed to be getting more frequent, and Viktor refused to consider what that meant.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Viktor rued the day that Milena sat him down and explained to him the most basic outline of her illness—the family curse that had been cast upon her great-great grandmother, to be precise—that she had. It could steal her away from him far before he should be having to say his goodbyes if they could not manage to find a solution. While both Demetrius and Milena assured them they were doing all they could to find a cure, they remained frustratingly vague about the curse's details, enough so that Viktor couldn't help

This all weighed heavily on his mind even as the world continued to turn and the semi-finals loomed only a week away. Bulgaria had not won the Cup in almost two centuries, and the fact they were so close meant the pressure was flying ever higher.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, there was too much going on. How was he supposed to juggle everything and all the roles he was supposed to play? Viktor, the son and brother. Viktor Krum, the second son of the Krums. Viktor, the seventh year Durmstrang student. Viktor Krum, the Quidditch player.

At least there was one relationship with utterly no expectations upon him. His and Hermione's relationship was something simple and pure. She always welcomed him when she saw him and was glad for his presence. She didn't ask for anything that he couldn't give, and she always met him where he was at.

Getting to know her and seeing her flourish within the context of a sport that he loved was one of the most rewarding experiences that he had had in his recent memory. When he was able to witness her doing what she loved, her face bright and mind inquisitive...she truly shone then.

Viktor exhaled slowly at the image of Hermione in her burgundy Healing robes, with her hair braided back and secured with a strip of cloth, smiling at him from across their spot at the river. She was so beautiful when she let herself relax and simply be, her face free of clouds and worry. That was becoming less and less frequent as time progressed, however. Things were clearly weighing on her, and he couldn't blame her. Like him, she was under immense pressures, although from different quarters.

In this case, he wished that she would lean on him and ask him for help. This was one responsibility that he wouldn't mind helping shoulder, not when she helped him with his. But she refused, and she didn't talk to him about what made her have bags under her eyes or made her shoulders sag when she thought nobody was looking.

Eyeing the clock, Viktor groaned at the late hour. Tomorrow would be difficult enough as it was, even with sufficient sleep, but he felt too restless and agitated to sleep.

As he always did when he encountered these nights, he found himself on his broom hoping to fly himself into exhaustion. He was there already physically, but he hoped the familiar air against his skin under the backdrop of the stars would be enough to calm his mind.

Unfortunately, there were no stars to be seen. In fact, halfway through his flight it began to mist, and a further ten minutes after that it began to rain. Cursing, Viktor made his way home as he got steadily soaked through.

It would be just his luck, he thought fatalistically, if this was the thing that pushed him over the edge into sickness. He wasn't particularly prone to illness, however, so he was sure that such a pesky thing like a little rain wouldn't get him. He'd done this a hundred times before with no ill effects.

He'd be perfectly fine.

o-O-o

It became patently obvious the next day that Viktor was not fine. In fact, he was more than not fine.

Viktor was ill.

Mippy, who had been waiting with a hot beverage and a disapproving look for him when he came in the back door last night, cast a gimlet look his way even as she placed a large plate of breakfast in front of him.

"Young Master had best be taking care of himself," she admonished, her hands fisting in her apron.

"I know, Mippy," he replied through a head full of cotton. "It was an honest mistake."

A scowl appeared on her face to accompany her narrowed eyes, and he resisted the urge to fidget. "It had better been a big mistake, or Mippy will be most displeased. Mippy will tell Mistress you has been misbehaving!"

He winced. "Please don't. It really was a mistake. Besides, I have a feeling I'll be punished enough."

It was true. Already, he could feel heat radiating from him in a way he knew boded ill, but he grabbed his broom and went to the stadium regardless. His subsequent attempt to practice as normal yielded rather pathetic results, and Islov sent him to Krasmira with a somewhat disgusted look after he almost fell off his broom doing a wide turn.

The Healer seemed to share Islov's sentiments. "Vitya, you know as well as I do that you should not have been practicing." She loomed over him as he stood wearily by the Healing Hall's entrance. "Now come here and sit down—quietly—while I figure out what you've done to yourself."

He merely sniffled as he complied, head hanging over in an exhausted slump even as he girded himself to go back out. Just because he wasn't feeling well wasn't an excuse for not coming in. If he wasn't incapacitated, as far as he was concerned, he was playable.

Of course, it was a bit hard to play when a sharp turn made his head throb and he saw stars when he sped into a sharp ascent towards the bright sun. He was lucky not to have fallen off, if he were being strictly honest with himself.

"I'm well enough to play," he replied stubbornly, though his subsequent cough at the end prompted a baleful look from Krasmira.

"I'm well enough to play," she mimicked, putting her hands on her hips. "Such a typical athlete, I tell you." She sniffed disdainfully. "Now sit here and drink this, and then this." Handing him two phials, she watched him as he obediently downed first one, then the other. He grimaced at the combined taste.

"Apprentice Granger," Krasmira called Hermione over from where she was dubiously looking at a phial of potion on a cart, "come here if you please."

Carefully, Hermione set the potion down and walked over, her open robes trailing behind her. "Mistress?"

"As you can see, Viktor has somehow come to the pitch despite being ill. Of course, he managed to develop bronchial inflammation in addition to what I think will be a rather nasty case of Pixie Pox—"

"Pixie Pox?" he asked, alarmed. Where in Merlin's name did he pick that up? Damn, he was going to be out for days if he had caught that.

Krasmira fixed him with a look. "Yes, Pixie Pox and bronchial inflammation, Mr Krum, because it appears you are nothing but an overachiever. Now, Mia, what two potions did I just administer to him and why?"

Hermione looked over at him appraisingly with what he was beginning to think of as her Healer Hermione look, her mouth pursed in thought. "I would guess a Standard Healing Draught as well as Licsowksi's Rapid Drying Draught. The Standard Healing Draught would act as a base on which the Rapid Drying Draught can better perform its job to dry the liquid forming in his lungs."

Krasmira nodded approvingly. "I can see your reasoning, and you were partially correct. I administered the Rapid Drying Draught, but I paired it with an Accelerated Healing Potion due to the fact that it would address both the inflammation and mild fluid present in the lungs as well as the classic symptoms of Pixie Pox, which I doubt Viktor has yet noticed."

She pointed at his arm, where a strange patch of rough, iridescent skin shone. "That rash is likely to develop in parts all over his body over the next few days and will become very uncomfortable. I am hoping that the potion would have a chance to quickly counteract the inflammation that is present throughout his system."

Hermione was nodding and writing something in a small notebook she had pulled out of her robes, her quill flying across the pages. "That makes much better sense. Was it the severity that warranted the Accelerated Potion versus the Standard Healing Draught?"

Sensing them about to dive down into one of their more academic discussions, Viktor made to rise from the bed. An almost negligent flick of Krasmira's wand prevented him from doing so, and his look of surprise in her direction was greeted with thin lips and militant eyes. "And just where, exactly, do you think you're going?"

He tried to parse the question. "Back to practice?" Where else would he be going?

Hermione frowned, absently sticking the quill into her hair where it hung neatly over her ear. "Viktor, you can't just go back to practice," she chided. "You're sick and need your rest."

"You've dosed me with two potions and I'm feeling better already. It doesn't make sense to just laze around," he argued.

Hermione sniffed, the action eerily similar to the one Krasmira had done just minutes earlier. "You aren't lazing around," she retorted. "You're recovering. There's a difference. Now take your shoes off and lie down."

When he didn't immediately obey, she looked down her nose, warning, "Don't make me do it for you, because I will."

"Dictator," he muttered, feeling irritable if only because he felt like he was breathing with a five kilogram sack on his chest.

"Stubborn," she followed tartly, and bent down to take his shoes off. He was too tired to put up much of a fuss, and when she straightened up and put a finger to his chest, he laid down without much of an argument. The pillow felt heavenly against his head, and his eyes slid shut of their own accord.

There was a light brush of something against his forehead, the feeling cool and soothing as it swept his hair back. "Rest." Hermione's voice washed over him. "We'll be right here when you wake up."

Darkness took him, then, and he knew no more for quite some time, his mind peaceful and his dreams barren. When he at last stirred, he was tucked under the light top sheet and a glass of water had been placed on the bedside table. The room itself was noticeably darker, and a glance outside the window revealed the sun was beginning to set.

He sat up, suddenly, alarmed that he had missed the entire day's worth of practice, and had to pause as a wave of dizziness washed over him and his body ached in strange places. Unfortunately, that reaction told him all he needed to know about his health: He was still sick and would likely miss the next day if Krasmira had anything to say about it.

"Gluposti," he cursed.

"Viktor, what are you doing trying to get up?" Hermione's light voice, always comforting, sounded from somewhere far away, and soft footsteps heralded her approach. A moment later, she was standing next to him, her concerned gaze resting on him.

He sighed, the action making his chest feel tight. No, he was definitely still unwell. "I wanted to sit up," he told her, his tone sounding vaguely sulky. "I wasn't even trying to get up."

"Let me check you out again. I'm a bit concerned you're having difficulty with that. You should be feeling a bit better by now. The potions have had time to set in and do their work, and you've slept the day away."

Quickly, she felt his forehead, the touch impersonal and cool. "Hm, still a bit warm it seems..."

Her wand moved in a slow figure eight as she slowly began casting something over his chest. As she looked at the readings it generated, her lips turned down. "There's some infection in there, I think, still."

Biting her lip, she seemed a little unsure of what to do next. "I think I might know what to do next, but I don't want to risk it. I can either try and find Mistress Lazarov, who had to step out for a while, or I can call Demetrius and get his opinion."

There was no hesitation. "Demetrius."

It wasn't that he didn't trust Krasmira—rather, he trusted that she would fix him up perfectly if he were to fall every time he went out onto the pitch—but Demetrius had watched over his family for decades. He knew and understood Demetrius' methods and thought processes in ways he doubted he would ever do another healer.

Well, he reconsidered, perhaps Hermione in the future once she had more experience under her belt.

Nodding, Hermione asked, "How can I contact him? Do you have a floo address?"

"Yes." He told it to her and she wrote it down, going to the giant fireplace in the far corner that was connected only to a few limited places so as to restrict access to the Healing Hall from potential intruders.

Hermione looked at a set of directions pinned to the wall next to it, made some adjustments to the floo, then said the address before sticking her head in. "Demetrius?" she called to the Healer she had met briefly during the Festival of Blessings. "Are you there? It's Mia. I'm in need of your assistance."

He could hear Demetrius' low baritone respond indistinctly. Moments later Hermione stepped away so as to let Demetrius step through, the Healer carrying his small, familiar medical bag at his side. Briefly, he greeted Hermione, though his sharp grey eyes were focused on Viktor alone.

"Well, my boy," he greeted him, "what have you done to yourself this time, hm?" His wand, a familiar polished ebony, began tracing the same set of diagnostics over his chest that Hermione had done only minutes earlier.

Viktor huffed. "I haven't done anything."

"Except fly in the storm yesterday," Hermione put in tartly. "He had the beginning of bronchial inflammation, if you see here…" she pointed at a part of the spell overlaying his chest, and Demetrius nodded, "but it should have been solved by the potions we gave him earlier. I don't quite understand why it wasn't resolved, although I'm thinking it's because of a potential interaction with the Pixie Pox, perhaps? I'm unsure, and I know there's multiple paths forward so I didn't want to continue without further consultation."

"That's very wise of you," Demetrius praised her. "This is something a bit more advanced than you should have gotten to, I would think. The lungs are always very tricky to treat."

Hermione flushed in pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you. Healing is so delicate and there's no room for mistakes, so I didn't want to let my pride get ahead of me."

From his spot on the bed, Viktor dryly added, "I appreciate the caution. I, for one, would like to get well as soon as possible. I've got to get back to the pitch."

Cheerfully, Demetrius said, "That won't be happening for at least forty-eight hours." Viktor groaned and the Healer laughed. "That's what you get for flying in the rain after running yourself ragged. You know I told you that the Blessing would wear you down for a week or two, and here you are after only a few days trying to do everything like usual."

"Am I ever going to live this down?"

"No," they both chorused, and he turned his head into the pillow in disgust.

"It was one time," he groaned, "and I've flown in the rain many times before. I don't particularly understand why this time caused me to become so ill."

Demetrius closed his bag with a snap and stood. "I would say it's more luck than anything else. Now, let's get you back home and comfortable. I've got several more potions you'll have to take throughout the night. Is your guest room still open?"

Viktor motioned grandly with a hand, though the motion seemed more floppy and lackadaisical than magnanimous. "For you, my friend, it is always open."

Demetrius snorted and looked at Hermione. "Care to come through and help me get him sorted?"

"I should be able to," Hermione replied, looking around. "I've already settled everything for tomorrow. I'll just leave Mistress Krasmira a note telling her where I've gone if she returns."

"Excellent. Viktor, can you stand without assistance?"

He considered for a moment. Giving in reluctantly, he admitted, "Probably not."

Unfazed, Demetrius returned, "Then it's all the better that Mia comes with us. We will do as we did after the Festival of Blessings."

Both he and Hermione moved into position and Viktor slung his arms around them after slowly sitting up. "I'm sorry if I'm too heavy," he murmured, knowing he was hanging much like dead weight. The world was spinning, and he couldn't quite seem to figure out where the floo was any more.

Hermione sniffed as if he had said something particularly idiotic and cast a featherweight charm on him before they moved another step. He felt himself become lighter and more buoyant, and the exercise became much easier after that. Instead of lifting them, they were more guiding him where they wanted him to go.

Demetrius was speaking across him to Hermione as they navigated their way across the room. "The floo at his house isn't large enough for a stretcher," he was explaining, "else we would have been able to forego this altogether."

They somehow managed to get through in one piece, and in short order Demetrius had Viktor installed in his bed while Hermione looked on and tried to reassure an increasingly concerned Mippy. At last, in a bid to reassure the house elf, she asked her to fetch some soup, and the elf disappeared with a pop.

"You know she's going to tell your mother, right?" Demetrius asked while he uncorked a phial that he had drawn from his bag. "Drink this."

Dutifully, he swallowed the concoction, the combined taste of licorice and peppermint making him retch slightly at the end. "I know," he said after the resulting coughing fit subsided.

Moments later, his mother swept into the room in a billow of rust coloured robs, followed by Mippy. Viktor sighed. "Mia asked for soup, Mippy, not for Maika."

Defiantly, Mippy said, "Mistress needed to know. Mistress would be most displeased if Mippy did not tell her the Young Master was sick."

"Remember that kitchen implement you wanted for Christmas?" Viktor said threateningly. "It's not happening."

"Don't worry, Mippy," Milena reassured the elf, "I'll make sure Enzo gets it for you. Don't listen to my son. He's being difficult."

Struggling to sit up, Viktor told her, "You really shouldn't be here."

"I hate to say this," Demetrius added, "but I agree with him. Your immune system isn't strong enough to withstand something like this should you catch it."

His mother looked defiant, the paleness of her skin highlighting the pink in her cheeks. "If you think for even a second that I will stand by while my son is ill with not only one but two different things, you had best get your mind checked."

"Lady Krum," Hermione ventured hesitantly, "if you're truly immunocompromised, you shouldn't be here. Would it help ease your mind if we both promise to stay here tonight? Demetrius was going to already, but I wouldn't mind staying as well."

"Don't be silly, Mia," Viktor tried to dismiss. "Go home and rest. Demetrius will take care of me."

However, Milena had a considering and somewhat crafty look in her eye. "If I left you in my place,: she asked, "would you take care of him as I would?"

"I would do my utmost," Hermione swore, earnest as always.

Slowly, Milena nodded. "Very well. However," she warned, "I expect updates regularly through Mippy. If you are truly going to do as I would, you must fluff his pillow regularly and hover over him. Make sure he gets soup. He really likes that."

"Missy Mia already asked Mippy for soup!" Mippy squeaked.

"Did you now?" Milena arched a brow.

Hermione shrugged, a light flush creeping up her cheeks. "Everyone likes soup when they're sick."

Milena made a considering face and stepped forward, stroking Viktor's forehead. Both Healers made a bitten-back sound of protest at the contact but his mother ignored them. "How are you feeling, my malka ptitsa?"

The endearment made Viktor smile, though it was wan. "I am fine, Maika," he tried to reassure her. "Just tired. I accidentally got caught up in the storm yesterday."

She shook her head. "You silly boy," she scolded. "How many times have I told you to check the weather before you fly? And with the Blessing happening only days earlier, too!"

Viktor didn't need to look at Demetrius to know the family's Healer had a very specific look on his face that Viktor would classify as a strong cousin to smug.

"I know, I know." He couldn't muster the energy to argue. "I am sorry for it. Really."

"You had better be." She straightened the collar of his shirt, which had at some point been transfigured into a comfortable, lightweight pyjama shirt, and stepped back. "Listen to Mia and Demetrius," she instructed him, "or I will be most displeased."

He winced. Milena displeased was a sight to behold. "I promise, Maika."

After making sure everything was arranged to her satisfaction, his mother stepped through the floo and returned back to the Manor. Demetrius looked at the fireplace, clearly weighing something, before making a decision. "I need to talk to Lady Krum for a moment. I'll return shortly."

Both he and Hermione nodded, and the older Healer was gone a moment later, leaving just the two of them.

"You really did it to yourself this time, didn't you?" Hermione asked wryly. "You've gone from hero of the hour with the ritual over the weekend back to idiotic boy in rather short order, haven't you?"

"I resent being made fun of when I can't even muster the brainpower to come up with an adequate defense." His tone lacked any heat, instead sounding exhausted.

Hermione made a sympathetic sound, her hand briefly touching his own. "You are fairly ill, you know," she said. "Even with the potions we gave you this morning, you're not recovered.

Almost absently, she tucked the sheets around him, murmuring, "Honestly, you're still rather too peaky for my taste. How does soup and some rest sound? I think getting some food into you will make you feel loads better, even if you're not hungry. You've not eaten all day."

A little caught up in how nice it felt to be cosseted by the witch he—well, the witch he...what?—he didn't answer, but it didn't matter either way.

Mippy popped back in as if one cue, a sturdy ceramic bowl clutched in between her hands. "Mippy has got the soup!" she squeaked.

"Give it here." He struggled to sit up, having slid down sometime in the last few minutes, and held out his hands for the food. Hermione watched him slowly eat it, her gaze watchful...and perhaps a bit wistful.

At length, she commented, "You have such a caring family. I mean, I know Mippy and Demetrius aren't really your family, but they way they act...and your mother." A definite wistful quality. "It's wonderful to see."

In between ladling spoonfuls of delicious soup into his mouth, he replied, "I wouldn't quite say that they aren't family. Mippy is bound to the family. She feeds on our family magic to stay alive, and in return serves us." At her startled look, he quirked a brow. "Didn't anyone tell you that? No? Well, house elves are bound most commonly to families or individuals, and more rarely, to places, if they have enough ambient magic. Mippy has served my family for centuries."

"As for Demetrius," he continued, "his family has been serving mine for generations as well. I suppose the best way to label it, if we must, is vassalage. We've been connected for hundreds of years in some capacity. I suppose I think of him almost as an uncle. He has been around for as long as I've been alive."

Hermione seemed thoughtful. "So house elves aren't...slaves, or ill treated?" He took a second to try and determine if she was trying to insult his family's treatment of their elves, and at the expression on his face, she hastened to add, "Not your elves! I just…I saw an elf before. He was clothed in a pillowcase that was falling apart, and he kept trying to hurt himself if he thought he had displeased others."

At once, Viktor shook his head. "I would rather lose my wand than hurt our elves. The magic around our bond should prevent us from hurting them, and vice versa. It sounds like there was either something foul with the bond, or perhaps the elf himself could have been ill. Either way, that behaviour is abnormal, and I would certainly report that."

She appeared somewhat mollified at his answer, which was just as well since his eyes were slipping shut of his own accord. He heard her take a seat nearby, and she murmured, "Get some rest. I'll be right here when you wake up, and so will Demetrius. We'll get you fixed up before you know it."

He yawned and settled deeper into the pillows, his mind drifting. "I know you will, Mia. I trust you. You're mine, after all."

Translations

Gluposti = crap

Malka ptitsa = little bird