"I find it hard to believe that you were flat on your face less than a week ago," Pyotr told Viktor as the Beater looked him over. "I mean, you literally couldn't fly in a straight line and yet here you are, the very picture of health. Kras and Mia must've taken very good care of you."

Viktor looked at him through slitted eyes. "Are you being weird? Why are you being weird? Leave them out of whatever strange ideas you've got floating through your head."

"Are you harassing Viktor already?" Alexei joined the two of them at the edge of the frankly cavernous ballroom, a stein of beer already in hand. "You can't start that stuff without me and Vasily. You know better than that."

"Nobody is harassing anyone about anything." Viktor glared at Pyotr. "Right?"

Pyotr tugged on the cuff of his formal robes casually, all nonchalance. "I was just commenting that Mia and Kras must have taken excellent care of Viktor for him to be in such good shape."

"Yeah." Alexei nodded seriously. "You almost fell off your broom several times."

"Will you both just—" he huffed, "can you just—I never fell off my broom!"

"We never said you did," Pyotr said consolingly. "We just said you almost did. Twice."

"Actually, I saw three times," Alexei put in.

Feeling the heat of a flush crawling up his neck and into his face, Viktor growled, "Will both of you just shut up? There was no falling. Ever."

"Fair enough," Pyotr shrugged. "This leaves us with more time to talk about the absolutely riveting topic of you and Mia." At the resulting look on Viktor's face, his smirk broke into an outright grin. "The English Rose, I believe she was called," he said, sotto voice.

Alexei wiggled his eyebrows. "Did she nurse you through your sickness? I'll just bet she kissed you better."

"Actually," Viktor glared at them both, "Demetrius stayed up all night 'nursing me better', so if you're going to make jokes about anyone kissing it better it would be him."

The look of disgust on their faces was enough to make him smirk.

Making a face, Alexei said, "Thanks for that image. But in all seriousness," he leaned forward, "are you two paired off now? You and Mia? You see, I had a be—"

"Beautiful idea!" Pyotr hurriedly interjected. "Yes, a beautiful idea indeed, Alexei. About the dance competition? Azucena sent me an owl mocking me about how poorly we showed last time and I told her we were going to crush them so badly they wished they'd never ever set sight upon this floor." He gestured at the huge expanse of white marble, which was dotted with groups of people talking as the band warmed up.

Pyotr's gesture drew Viktor's attention to his surroundings even as Alexei and Pyotr continued with increasingly outlandish ideas about how they could rig the entire dance competition that the teams were somehow, for some strange reason, in dead earnest about. The ballroom was incredible, a huge room built into the edge of the bottom of a cliff that opened into a quiet lagoon. Inside, people from all over the world mingled in a huge variety of formal dress, a mixture of languages spilling and tumbling over each other as they easily conversed using the short-acting translation charm they have been given upon arriving.

The far side was composed of floor-to-ceiling windows that had been Vanished to allow the room to open up directly onto the beach, the red and oranges of the evening sky bleeding onto the all white ceilings and walls like streaks of paint on a watercolour. Alexei, who had joined them after checking out the exterior part of the ballroom, had informed them there were three separate fountains outside, one of which was spouting champagne while the other two spouted water. He had also mentioned that there were several sets of brooms should anyone want to start a pickup game, which had been popular in balls past, especially once everyone had had some time to unwind and have a few drinks.

Truly, it was nothing like anything Viktor had ever experienced.

"Hey, I'm gonna go get another drink." Alexei, who had grown distracted from his conversation with Pyotr, looked around as he tried to find someone to help him. "Viktor, Pyotr, anything for you?" Viktor shook his head even as Pyotr requested some elf wine, and a moment later Alexei was off on his hunt.

Pyotr, who had turned back to face Viktor, suddenly got that kind of stupid look on his face that Viktor normally associated with the Beater only when he was thinking about Clara. "Oh look," he said, his tone distracted. "Clara, Mia, and Krasmira came together."

Seeing Hermione made Viktor feel like he'd been hit by a Bludger. His entire body flushed cold and then hot as the air was knocked out of him.

The thing was, Viktor liked Hermione just how she looked on a normal day. She had brown hair that had lightened in the sun, and it sometimes shone with hints of red when the light hit it just right. Her eyes, a combination of shades of amber with streaks of gold like wheat, were expressive, and he often knew how she was feeling just by looking into them. He loved her hands too, because while small, they were always moving and doing something interesting, whether it was gesturing as she spoke, flipping pages of a book, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, or mixing up potions.

Every part of her spoke to him in some small way, and he found himself appreciating different aspects of her—how she looked, how she moved, what she did and how she did it—every day. The Hermione in front of him was simply another side of her that he hadn't seen before, one that made his mouth dry and his heart stutter. She was absolutely radiant.

Her hair, lustrous under the light, hung in straight sheets almost to her waist with parts of it pinned back to her head. It shone against the soft fabric of her dress, which reminded him of the night sky right after dusk had set but before true darkness had set in. The cut was simple, yet somehow daring. It left her arms completely bare, her lightly tanned skin spanning all the way to her neck where the dress fastened around it before cascading down to the floor in a long, endless flow that swirled around her as she moved. Something about it changed as she came toward him, and he realized that the colour was incrementally shifting into a deeper shade of midnight blue even as the top lightened with a hint of red. It was, he understood suddenly, a snapshot of true dusk.

As soon as she saw him all the way across the floor, Hermione smiled at him, her lips, which were painted a soft pink, tilting up as the edges and deepening the curves. It was that smile, a smile he felt he knew better than his own somehow, that made something shift into place in him with an almost audible click.

Hermione Granger was it for him.

Viktor had always been driven by passion for his people, and passion for his sport. Those two things had, above all, propelled him to want to be the best at what he was doing. However, since he had met Hermione, she engendered the same response as well. She made him want to be the best version of himself—to be the best at what he did, true, so it would impress her, but to also be a better person: kinder, more compassionate, smarter and harder working, so that when she looked at him, she saw someone that she would not want to look away from. Someone worthy to stand next to her and support her and someone she would want to stand next to and support.

Hermione was his snitch: golden, enticing, and just out of reach until he worked hard enough to catch it.

And catch it he would, he resolved.

The next time there was something like this, she would not walk in alone or with friends like Clara. No, the next time she walked in it would be on his arm, and her hand would burn like fire where it touched his, and she would smile up at him with that glittering look in her eyes she sometimes got, and nobody would be able to take him away from her. Not Islov, not Quickfoot, not Kosta, not his father, not anyone.

"Stop drooling." Next time to him, Pyotr discreetly elbowed him and gave him a droll look. "People are going to notice."

Casually, he slid his foot over and stepped on Pyotr's loafer. The Beater yelped and moved away, glaring. "Ow! What the hell?"

"If you're going to judge me for drooling, you had best stop with your moony calf eyes." He lifted a brow meaningfully.

His friend, who was famous for his womanizing ways, sighed, shoulders slumping. "Is it really so obvious?"

"As obvious as I am, apparently."

Pyotr ran a hand over his face. "We are in so much trouble."

He watched the crowd watch Hermione and Clara and—Merlin's balls, that was Krasmira next to them, clad in an absolutely daring dress of blood red silk. He swallowed, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the sight, although it seemed from the looks of other men in the crowd that he was the only one.

He cleared his throat, his mind temporarily distracted from his Hermione at the sight of the Healer. "Pyotr. Tell me I'm not seeing things. Is that—is that really Kras?"

Pyotr tore his gaze away from Clara, who was resplendent in some kind of silken forest green ensemble, and followed Viktor's gaze. "Govno," he breathed a moment later. "I feel—I feel...I don't know how I feel right now, but I don't like it." He looked at Viktor. "I am going to pretend she is wearing her usual outfit and never look below her face again. I just—I can't. That's Kras."

He nodded quickly. "As far as I'm concerned, she's wearing black robes buttoned up to her chin."

The crisis averted, they went back to mooning over their respective women, and Viktor watched as Hermione looked around, her eyes curious and a bit nervous. When she saw he was still watching her, her hand came up in a small wave and her smile brightened. Involuntarily, he felt himself smile as he raised a hand back.

The smile fell off his face, though, as he spied who was standing on her other side. It was Quickfoot. The wizard looked resplendent in extremely well-fitting robes that showed his lean form off, the deep blue setting off the tawny highlights in his hair and complementing his eyes. The wizard stared at him from beneath hooded eyes, and though his wand never appeared in his hand, Viktor felt as though one were being pointed right at him.

A beat later Quickfoot looked away, and the moment passed.

"Well!" Pyotr said brightly next to him. "I'm going to go dance with our lovely little Mia since you seem to have no plans of your own aside from staring at her pathetically, and I'm too chicken to do so with Clara. I'll call it a win in my book. Cheers!"

Before Viktor could so much as begin to formulate a response, Pyotr had swept off and was bowing over Hermione's hand, a dazzling smile on his face. Introductions were made and many compliments were handed out—at Pyotr's words, Hermione turned a shade of pink he could see from across the floor, and she darted a look at him only to turn away fast as a snitch when their eyes met.

Moments later Pyotr had taken her out on the floor, his elegant form slightly bent over as to accommodate her height, and they were off, his long, tailored robes spinning around them and her long hair swinging out behind her as they turned and moved in sync. Absently, he noted she seemed more confident in her moves and resolved to mention to Maika that their practice had indeed paid off.

He was forced to divert his attention shortly thereafter as players came up to talk to him and congratulate him on advancing to the semi-finals, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to her again and again. Most of the time she was laughing or smiling as she listened to others, the team having migrated to her at various points in twos and threes.

At one point a tall, austere man with long platinum hair and a boy with similar but shorter hair approached her. She stiffened visibly enough that he knew she knew them—and that she wasn't pleased to see them. Their exchange lasted only a few minutes before the man shallowly inclined his head as he said something to the boy and they departed.

Seeing Hermione stare after them with a pensive expression, Viktor detached himself from the ongoing conversation and approached her, hoping to see what had put that look on her face. Tonight, he vowed, there should be no darkness in her eyes, which had become increasingly normal. Tonight, he would put the light there.

As he drew up to her, his mouth grew dry. She was so pretty, and her hair...it was glorious. A cascade of browns and caramels that his hands itched to touch as it flowed down her back in a silken sheet.

"Mia." He clicked his heels and bowed over her hand, which he had drawn into his own at some point without notice. He looked up into wide eyes. "You look...beautiful. Truly, I can't describe your radiance."

Her eyes, which had been lightly lined, went even wider, and then she blushed deeply, the pink spreading across her cheeks. "I, erm, well, thank you. You look quite dashing yourself," she replied, her eyes darting to meet his before lowering to the floor.

His compliments dispensed, he suddenly found himself at a loss of what to say, and it seemed she did as well, for there was a silence that drew out long enough to be uncomfortable.

Mentally, he kicked himself. Viktor had faced down many a foe, and Hermione, stunning as she was, hardly qualified. She was just the girl he had spent much of the summer with, only in different clothes.

Suddenly he felt much more at ease, his tongue untwisting as his stomach unclenched, and he asked, "Would you like to dance? Maika would be so disappointed if she heard that we hadn't." He smirked.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. Dryly, she responded, "We would really be quite terrible if we put all our dancing practice to waste, wouldn't we?"

"Absolutely horrible," he agreed.

He drew her out to the floor with the hand he had yet to let go of and placed it on his shoulder, his own coming to rest on her waist as he grabbed her other hand. "Shall we?"

"Don't hate me if I step on your feet," she warned. "I really still can't quite get the hang of this." Ruefully, she added, "Pyotr laughed at me."

He bent over slightly and looked into her eyes. "I'm not Pyotr. Just trust me and listen to my body. I won't let you fall." It was a promise, and one he meant about far more than just dancing.

As soon as they started, she predictably stiffened up, her body moving woodenly. Gathering her closer, he murmured, "Trust me, Mia."

Her hand gripped his shoulder tighter, but a moment later she relaxed, her body melting into his hold, and they were off. He lost track of the time as they flew around the room in sweeping circles, the world narrowing in until it was only them.

"Have you had a good time so far?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm a little surprised, honestly. I really hate social gatherings, you see. I tend to avoid them like the plague because I'm not particularly skilled at making small talk, and I get nervous around people I don't know very well. I almost didn't come."

"Really? Then what made you change your mind?"

"Clara," she laughed. "She wouldn't give up on me—she even took me dress shopping and helped me get ready. I don't know what I would have done without her, honestly."

He would have to buy Clara a bottle of her favorite wine for doing that.

Continuing, she added, "Everyone has been so delightful. Except, well…."

"What is it?"

She paused, her expression that thoughtful one he had seen earlier. "There's this boy from school, Draco Malfoy. He's awful. Really, Viktor, he's terrible. He always gets what he wants, and whenever he doesn't, he runs to his father—he's on the school board, you see—and complains." She laughed suddenly, her face lighting up, and confided, "I punched him, actually."

He couldn't keep the disbelief off his face. "You what?"

Impishly, she repeated, "I punched him! He was being an absolute git about this thing—there was a hippogryff, and—well, it doesn't really matter for this story, but suffice to say, my temper got the best of me and I hauled off and punched him in the face."

He roared with laughter, and several people turned to look at them. Somewhere in the distance, several camera flashes went off. Ignoring the attention, he chuckled. "Ah, Mia, you never cease to amaze me. You, punching someone. I would never have thought—actually," he reconsidered, "after the way we started out this summer, perhaps I could see it. Actually, I can see it very well. But a punch! Not even a spell. I bet it took him completely by surprise."

She nodded emphatically. "So imagine my surprise when he was not only here, but here with his father, who also hates me—and they sought me out to say hello! I was expecting some nastiness, especially on Draco's part, given some things he's said to me about being a muggleborn and all—he's a Pureblood—but it was strangely polite and I don't know what to make of it. It was really quite bizarre, truthfully."

Idly, he stored the information away in his mind. He was distantly aware of the Malfoys, given that they had several businesses that meshed with the Krum's own businesses or were tangentially related. Perhaps he could speak to Kosta about the extent of their interactions and see precisely what leverage they had over them.

Not to mention what he could do to the boy when he encountered him at Hogwarts come fall. There was something to be said about being famous and a powerful wizard in his own rights. He had his own arsenal to deploy. "You'll tell me if he bothers you this evening, and I will set him straight."

She squeezed his hand, her face soft. "You're always looking out for me."

Giving in to the urge that had possessed him since he first saw her, he stroked her hair from her neck down to her back. It was just as silky soft as he had thought.

"Of course I am." It was only natural.

Shortly thereafter they took a break, and Hermione was drawn away from him by Alexei, who came to claim a dance with a look on his face that dared Viktor to say anything (which would, of course, incriminate himself and his feelings). He was not feeling nearly so brave and so kept mum, watching Alexei outrageously dip Hermione before they had even begun. She shrieked and swatted at him after he had safely placed her on her feet, and he grinned.

"Enjoying your evening, I see." Krasmira had come up next to him, the blood red silk clinging to her body and revealing curves he had not previously ever considered or would want to consider in the future.

He tugged at the fall of his robes and stared resolutely at her face. "I am," he admitted without hesitation. "Are you?"

She shrugged. "I always find gatherings like this objectively interesting but subjectively tedious. They're interesting to watch, since so much typically happens, but often I find myself bored."

He….didn't quite know what to say in response to that. "I'm sorry?" He managed at last.

Tilting her head, she surveyed him. "I wouldn't be sorry. It's been quite delightful to watch you and Mia circle around each other, both figuratively and literally, all evening."

He felt himself flush a dull red and shifted uncomfortably. He'd only just figured things out himself this evening! Couldn't a man have a moment to dwell on his feelings before having to air them publicly? "Well—I—she's...she's really very incredible."

Krasmira lifted a perfectly manicured brow. "Indeed she is. I've not met a girl like her in a long, long time. Her brain and willpower is truly formidable, but it's her spirit that I like most. She is truly unique."

Feeling suddenly unaccountably nervous, Viktor licked his lips. "Do you think...has she told you—"

"Krasmira, luv." Smoothly, the Irish Seeker, Aidan Lynch, casually stepped up next to the witch, his auburn hair somehow matching the green and yellow plaid of his kilt. "Fancy seeing you here."

Slowly, the Healer shifted her head so she could look up at him balefully. "Where else would I be, Mr Lynch?"

Lifting a brow, Lynch responded, "Ah, Mr Lynch now, is it? That's an interesting change after what you were calling me in March."

At that, Viktor felt his jaw drop.

Idly, Krasmira looked at her fingernails. "Yes, well, that was...hm...unadvisable on my part."

Lynch remained unoffended. "What I want to know," he continued, "is why you didn't even stay for a good brekkie. Had to leave rather quickly, did you?"

"I had work."

"It was Sunday, luv. Even practices don't happen on Sunday." He took a step closer and gently uncrossed her arms, his hands sliding down until they captured her own. "I thought we had...something. That night before—don't you remember? We sat by the lake and talked for hours." His voice dropped to a low burr. "And then that night…And then nothing! You left before I even had a chance to wake up and try to convince you to stay."

For the first time in his entire life, he saw Kramsira begin to lose her composure. She looked away from Lynch, her jaw working. "Aidan, it's not...it wasn't like that."

Somehow, he moved even closer, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her cheek. "Wasn't it? Remember how you held me close under the sheets, all warm and pressed up against me? I do."

Viktor cleared his throat, feeling very much like he was intruding on something he did not particularly wish to know about. Krasmira and Aidan Lynch! It didn't even bear thinking about. Of course, Quidditch was an unbearably incestuous sport across teams, and even within teams at times, but he did not want to overhear whatever else Aidan was about to say to woo his apparent lady-love back.

"I'm going to go get something to drink," he told the couple, pointing at the drink station furthest away from him. "Lynch, Krasmira."

As if noticing him for the first time, Lynch looked up. "Ah, Krum," he said pleasantly, as if he wasn't progressively wrapping himself around the Bulgarian Healer right in front of his eyes. "Good to see you lad! I'll see you on the pitch soon, eh? I'm determined to win, so be careful not to get in my way."

Above Krasmira's head he raised an eyebrow, and Viktor nodded as he got the underlying message. Don't bother coming back.

"I don't fraternize with bullies," he heard Krasmira say loftily as he walked away, and he lost the tail end of Aidan's reply as he responded, "How was that bullying? If ever a man..."

Well. He huffed a laugh despite himself. If he had ever had an idea of Krasmira as some kind of chaste nun, he had most certainly lost it tonight between her dress and the reluctantly received advances of one Aidan Lynch.

Across the room, Clara was standing next to Hermione, and she caught his attention with a discreet hand signal as his eyes lingered on her companion. Bugging out her eyes and jabbing a finger in Krasmira's direction, she mouthed, What?

He made a face and shrugged. Hell if he knew.

Finally, he made it safely to the drinks table and grabbed a tumbler of whisky, sipping it and feeling it slide down his throat with a mild burn. For a few minutes, he was blessedly left on his own to observe and see the room, which was teeming with the teams and the select few who had purchased an invitation, interact.

Although he observed the ebb and flow of conversations, he was more focused on what was happening internally. There was a tension within him that was unknown to him. He felt exhilarated yet terrified of the feelings that Hermione engendered within him. They weren't familiar, weren't comfortable. It felt as though, when he looked at her, as if he were about to face a dragon, but at the same time as if his dearest wish was within his grasp. She made things come into focus, made his mind clear and his heart sing, yet he wrestled with those feelings.

How long had he felt this way and ignored it? The burn in his stomach and the lightness in his head were not symptoms of some sudden infatuation, but rather a slow burn that had chosen to ignite. How could he have missed the signs? And now, to feel so unsettled about someone so deeply ingrained in his life, right when he was about to play career defining matches...to have his emotions soar and plummet based on a glimpse of her expression across the room and his palms go clammy at the idea of tucking her in close to him again?

The timing could not be less than ideal.

And then...after the summer was over, she would go back from whence she had come. Back to Britain, with its tepid weather and bland food, and where the colour and heat of summer would be banked. How would she receive him when he came after her with the Durmstrang contingent? Would she be different than she was now after she was back amongst her family and friends?

Could he take the risk of saying something when he didn't know how she felt? Could his heart withstand a rejection? Was he brave enough?

He didn't know.