TW: Very brief, non-explicit discussion of domestic violence toward a child that occurs off screen.
AN: I have so very much enjoyed being on this journey with you all, my small but mighty audience. Thank you for making such a dark year that much brighter for me with your reactions and interactions with me. They never fail to make me smile. Here's to a new year, hopefully filled with more joy, more fic, and more fun :)
She'd almost gotten sacked.
She'd almost gotten sacked.
Sacked from her first job, her only job so far, and she'd almost gotten sacked.
She was an absolute failure.
But how was she supposed to know that talking to someone was grounds for dismissal? She hadn't understood that, still didn't particularly understand it, really, but it didn't mean that she hadn't almost gotten the boot for it.
She should have been more careful at the Ball. Daddy had once gotten really angry once about something printed in the paper, and Mother had told him that all they did was print rubbish that sold to the masses. Daddy had slammed his cup down on the table, his normally easy-going expression replaced with something twisted and mean, and snarled that it didn't really matter if it was true or not because everyone who read the damn thing took it as fact.
Hermione had never really understood the power behind the publically printed word until now, and she heartily sympathized with Daddy now that she'd had firsthand experience.
The clock on the wall struck the hour, and dread curled in her stomach. It was time to go to work.
What if she got there and Islov had convinced Krasmira to fire her? He'd almost done it yesterday. And she knew, no matter what the team said or how supportive they were, that they didn't have the ultimate say over who stayed or went. It was comforting, of course, to hear that they thought she added something to the team, but something like that wouldn't sway someone like Islov, who was focussed on results.
But didn't Islov have a point, really? The team had taken the time to ask her to lunch to cheer her up. Wasn't that almost definitionally distracting them from their jobs?
Hermione bit her lip. She had to stop being distracting. She'd do whatever it took to make sure that her behaviour was above reproach. She'd be the most – the utmost – the consummate professional. Nobody would ever so much as think about her conduct again because she'd be the best apprentice ever. The perfect apprentice.
Her hands balled at her sides as she checked the clock again. Ten after seven. Well. There was no use for it. She'd have to go and face it, whatever it was.
Krasmira took one look at her face when she arrived and sighed. "It's just like the beginning of the summer."
Hermione bit her lip again, tasting copper as her teeth broke the skin. "I'm sorry about yesterday, Mistress, really, I am."
"Sorry for what?" Krasmira folded her arms. "For going to the Ball? For having a good time? For having the audacity to smile as you danced with your friend and for talking with his elder brother? What, Hermione? What are you sorry for?"
In the face of Krasmira's exasperation, she was taken aback. "I...for creating such a problem that Islov almost sacked me? I caused so many problems yesterday," she fretted. "First Islov, then distracting the team, and then Islov was mad at Viktor—"
"None of that was your fault," Krasmira cut in. "People will react to your actions. How they react is their prerogative, not yours. You can't control what other people say, think, or do. You can only control what you do."
"So...I should be perfect."
Krasmira's sigh was even longer this time as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "No," she said with awful patience, "that is not what I was saying. Look at me, Hermione. No," she snapped when Hermione wasn't quite able to manage it, "look at me."
Unable to refuse a direct command, Hermione slowly dragged her eyes up from the floor to meet the Healer's striking amber eyes. Making sure Hermione was watching, Krasmira enunciated every single word as she said, "You are not. Going. To. Get. Sacked. The only person who can sack you is me, and I'm telling you that you're not going anywhere. You're my apprentice. You belong to me. Can I be any clearer?"
If Hermione's lip wobbled a bit before she firmed it up, nobody commented on it. "Yes." She nodded. "Yes, Mistress. I understand."
Krasmira's reassurance meant a lot to her. While she still felt like she needed to be on her best behaviour, the Healer's stern lecture did take some of the edge off. Hermione hadn't been perfect, but she hadn't been cast out. She had made a mistake, and she had...survived. Krasmira still wanted her, and so did her...friends. Her friends.
Her eyes dampened at the thought. She had friends, and she had a Mistress. They cared for her.
Krasmira put her to work preparing for the pre-match wellness checks, and the morning passed quickly. During lunch, Hermione caught up a copy of the paper, which had been left in the dining hall, and skimmed the article again, her eyes snagging on the moving photo of her and Viktor dancing together, his head thrown back in laughter as she grinned up at him.
If she had seen only that image, she thought, perhaps the idea that they were somehow romantically engaged wouldn't seem so preposterous. However, the reality of it was that they were most certainly not a couple, and Skeeter's false accusations and presumptions had gotten Hermione in a lot of trouble.
Honestly, that Skeeter woman should be sued for libel or something, she thought viciously as she returned to the Healing Hall to prepare for the pre-match wellness checks. It was unconscionable that the woman was allowed to write, let alone publish such slanderous, gossipy print founded completely on her own wild ideas.
"Is everything ready?" Krasmira asked as she emerged from her office, the players' files floating beside her in a neat stack.
Still fuming, Hermione banged down a potion and nudged it into its proper place on the cart next to all the other potions they typically might need. "I think so."
"Excellent. Let's do a quick run through of the roster and review any potential issues that we want to follow up on."
Hermione nodded and they spent the next thirty minutes discussing the health of all the players. Recent injuries were discussed more at length, and Hermione dutifully took notes in their charts so they would remember to do a more in depth examination of certain things with the players.
Before she knew it, the players were coming in by position. First was Zograf, the Keeper, who Krasmira gave him a rather stern dressing down about his alcohol consumption once again. The older wizard listened without expression before leaving, and Krasmira sighed.
"We can only do our best," she said, looking after the Keeper with a hint of concern on her face. "Sometimes they don't listen to us, and you've got to learn to be okay with that. Ultimately, it's their decision how they treat their bodies."
Hermione nodded sombrely but didn't have much time to linger on it as the Chasers came in one after the other. They went by quickly, all three of them in relatively good health, and so did Ivan Volkov, Pyotr's counterpart. It was when Pyotr came in, looking a bit off, that Krasmira moved closer, her mouth pursed.
"The shoulder, then?" she asked after a cursory examination.
The jovial man who had swung her around the room and talked to her so candidly about Clara was subdued, his expression pinched. "It's just acting up," he said dismissively, beginning to pull his shirt back on as he rose from his seat on the edge of the hospital bed. "It's fine."
"Sit. Down." Krasmira's tone brooked no nonsense, and Pyotr reluctantly sat back down. For a long moment the two of them looked at each other, something passing between them that she didn't understand. Finally, Krasmira asked, "Do you want Hermione to leave?"
Hermione blinked. Not once in the months that she had been here had Krasmira asked that, no matter the injury. Thinking back on Pyotr's chart, she tried to remember what the cause of his shoulder injury had been. It was something old, she remembered, not fresh, but she couldn't recall the details.
"No," Pyotr replied at last. "It's Mia. She wouldn't."
The Healer nodded while Hermione was left wondering what Pyrotr had meant. What wouldn't she do?
"Hermione." Krasmira's voice was softer but all the more intimidating for it. "Remember your oath as a Healer to keep things confidential."
Mutely, she nodded. Moments later, Krasmira locked the doors to the Hall and made the window to the field opaque as Pyotr laid down on the bed.
"There are other treatments we can try," she offered.
Pyotr shook his head. "They stopped working as well. I need to be in prime condition for the match."
For the first time, Krasmira looked hesitant. "Are you certain you wish to do this? It'll likely leave you exhausted, and I'm not certain if it'll work. It's still experimental."
"It's good that this doesn't happen often." Pyotr's smile was almost painful to look at. "The last time you tried it, I felt much better and for a longer period of time."
Krasmira tapped her fingers against her arm, deep in thought. "If you're sure…"
"I'm sure."
"Very well. I'll go get the potions."
After a long look at Pyotr and Hermione, Krasmira swept off, leaving the two of them alone.
"Pyotr," Hermione said hesitantly, "I don't mean to be...insensitive, but, well...what's happening?"
The Chaser gave a bark of laughter. "That's right. You don't have any idea, do you?"
She shook her head.
Sitting up, Pyotr rested his arms on his legs, his hands dangling in between them. He leaned forward and then winced, readjusting so that he leaned only on his right arm. "Things in Bulgaria are a little different than what you're accustomed to, I imagine," he started. "We never fully eschewed the Dark Arts as you all do. They're respected and used just as any other field of study is, though we do place stricter guidelines on using them since wielding them with ill intent can cause permanent, lasting damage with nasty side effects."
"Right." She nodded. "Madam Lazarov and I have been researching potential remedies to lasting damage from spells, though we haven't yet gotten to talking about available remedies themselves."
Pyotr sat back, startled, before he shook his head. "Of course you're involved. I don't know why you wouldn't be. You're her apprentice, after all."
"That's right. So would I be wrong to assume that your injury is damage from a Dark spell?"
The Beater nodded. "My uncle," he said frankly. "I was six and loud and boisterous. One night, I suppose I was too much of that, and, well." He shrugged. "The rest is history."
"That's...that's criminal!" She exclaimed, horrified. "You were a child!"
Pyotr shrugged his good shoulder. "It's what happened."
"And you've been in pain like this all your life for—for what? Just being noisy at the wrong time?"
"Don't make it out to be all that. It only hurts sometimes. Well, most of the time," he amended. "But I usually have full range of motion, and the pain is something I've learned to block out. It's background most of the time, really." At her expression, his own grew dark. "Don't look at me like you pity me. I don't need it, and I don't appreciate it. This injury is what it is and I've lived with it all my life. I've seen much, much worse. I'm lucky."
Still aghast, Hermione tried to reassure him, "I don't pity you. It's just that—well, I'm glad that we're trying to find ways to resolve this, that's all."
Pyotr's expression was inscrutable, and Hermione hoped she hadn't been so wrongfooted that her burgeoning friendship with him had died a sudden death.
"All right." Krasmira strode back in, two phials held in one hand. "You know the drill. This one first," she held up a misty purple phial, "and then this one." She shook a seagreen phial.
Wordlessly, Pyotr took the purple phial, uncapped it, and drank it down. Moments later, he grimaced and lay down, his entire body a long line of discomfort.
Krasmira, who had cast a vitals spell, nodded her head at Hermione. "Cast the vitals spell," she instructed her. "I need my wand free and I want the live version." The vitals spell, once they detached it from their wand to let it hang in the air or stick to the wall, lagged ever so slightly.
Moments later, Hermione had cast it the side of Pyotr, her concentration partially dedicated to maintaining the spell as she watched Krasmira silently cast a spell that spread across the entire hall.
At Hermione's inquiring look, Krasmira succinctly said, "Silencio."
Her confusion at why that was necessary was answered after Pyotr, now sweating, gamely swallowed the second potion. Not half a minute later, his body arched and then locked, his face a rictus of agony.
That was when the screaming started.
o-O-o
When it was all over, Pyotr was asleep, Hermione was silently crying, and Krasmira's jaw was clenched so hard she could see the muscles twitching.
"Isn't there anything else?" She asked somewhat desperately. "Something better?"
"Nothing." Krasmira ran a hand over her face. "There's nothing better. Even that combination, which is of my own devising, barely helps."
"Why would he be willing to suffer that?" she asked after Krasmira had quietly closed the curtains around the Beater's limp form. "Is it truly that bad? Worse than...that? Than what he just experienced?"
Looking drawn, Krasmira replied, "Some Dark spells are particularly malicious. When they're cast, they cause the most damage at the contact point, such as Pyotr's shoulder. Some spells stop there, acting as a normal wound. Others don't. They can attach themselves to your body and spread throughout like a sickness, or they can target certain systems to wreak havoc on. In Pyotr's case, the spell used affected his shoulder and his skeletal structure. When it flares, as Dark spells are wont to do, every bone in his body—every single bone—is in pain. Frankly, I'm not sure how he's able to walk, let alone compete when it's like this."
"I would have had no idea."
"I think that's the point." Krasmira put a hand on her shoulder and lightly squeezed it. "Cases like Pyotr's are why it's critical that the medical community continues to search for cures. While I've made substantial headway, as have others, it is hard to make further progress because my magic is inherently Light. I would think that you, Hermione, are more likely to make progress than I."
"Because of my Dark Affinity?"
"Just so," she nodded. "What I would like to do, if you'd permit, is to continue showing you my research and explaining it to you so that when you return to Hogwarts, you may continue researching and working with it if you felt so inclined."
Her response was immediate and unthinking. "I do."
"I suspected as much. We've already covered a lot of ground examining current literature and efforts in progress, but I would like to review it all again and discuss how you can apply yourself to the task. Obviously you will lack much of the practical knowledge that will allow you to make substantive progress, but I wonder at how your affinity could factor into the active creation and application of current remedies." She tilted her head and looked into the distance, obviously thinking. "Well. I suppose we'll see where things stand at the end of the summer."
Hermione nodded, determined that she would try her hardest to figure something out that would solve the issue at its core rather than leave people suffering in agony just for a temporary fix. There had to be something she could do.
The rest of the day passed in fits and starts. Pyotr woke around lunch, his entire body relaxed in a way Hermione realized she had never seen before. She had assumed that the tension she saw running through him was one borne of the magnetic energy he carried with him, but when she noticed its absence after he woke she realised that it had never been his charisma that lined his body. It had been his pain.
After extracting a promise from Krasmira that she would permit him to play if he had recovered past a certain threshold in the morning, Pyotr departed back to the field and the rest of the team filed in for their own checks, all of them mercifully uneventful.
By the time Hermione was ready to head home for the evening, she was exhausted emotionally, physically, and mentally. "I need a nap," she muttered as she stepped into the floo.
But a nap wasn't in order, it seemed, as she was greeted by the sight of Sirius leaning against the counter eating what appeared to be a toastie of some sort.
"Sirius!" she exclaimed in surprise, moving toward him. "I didn't know you were here."
At the sound of her voice, he looked over at her. "Here I am indeed," he returned dryly. A ray of sun caught in his gilded hair, and she realized with a start that he was still disguised as Magellan.
"Why are you Magellan right now?" she asked him, waving her hand up and down to indicate his upscale attire and altered appearance.
Through another bite, he replied, "I'm about to be off for a bit. I was going to leave you a note, but this works just as well."
"When will you be back tonight?"
"Tonight?" He shook his head. "I'll be gone for several days."
Her heart jolted in alarm. "You can't be leaving that long. We've got the match tomorrow, remember?"
He frowned as he wiped his hands on a serviette. "There's no way I'll be back. I was planning on being gone for several days. I'm about to do something extremely important."
"And what I'm doing isn't?" she shot back.
"Of course it is," he placated. "All I'm saying is that what I'm doing is arguably more so. After all, my mission is what we were sent here for."
She stared at him like he had lost his mind. "So you think saving lives and healing people is just….what? Irrelevant?"
Sighing, he pushed off the counter. "Why does everything have to be some sort of competition? We're both doing important things. But Hermione, you have to remember our original goal: find Peter Pettigrew and bring him to justice."
She scoffed. "As if I would forget. Don't talk to me like I've suddenly gone mental, Sirius. I've always tried to support you and have done everything you've asked, even when you won't answer my questions. I almost never ask you for help with anything, and you agreed weeks ago to take me to the match. You know that I can't get a portkey since I'm underaged. It's literally Bulgarian law. And it's not even for something frivolous. Please, Sirius. This is important."
He was implacable. "I can't take you tonight. I'm sorry, love." Pulling out a pocket watch, he looked at the time. "Actually, I've got to be going soon, or I'll miss the meet up."
Pushed beyond her limits, she shouted, "Aren't you listening? This isn't just a quidditch match. "It's my job on the line here!"
A job she'd almost been sacked from, through no fault of her own. Her stomach knotted. Not showing up would surely do her in.
"And I'm sure you'll be able to take care of yourself just as you did when I had to ask you to leave the house that night," he replied evenly, completely unruffled.
She growled, her eyes flashing. "You know," she retorted angrily, "things like this make it really easy to hate you."
Something flashed through his eyes—perhaps guilt? Regret?—but it disappeared as fast as it had come. "I have my own mission here, Hermione, in case you've forgotten. That's why we're both here. Remember, Dumbledore asked you to come here to help me, not to be an apprentice Healer. That was just to sweeten the pot, so to say."
"And it's not important to you that it's important to me?" she flashed back. "I don't understand what's happened to you, Sirius. At the beginning of the summer, we were on the same page. I even thought we were friends, or perhaps becoming friends. But now? Now you can't be fussed to help me the one or two times I ask you to. Now, you're disappearing, and you're spending time with people I don't know, and you're meeting them without your disguise. Which, in case you didn't know, also has the potential to endanger me, considering I'm living with a fugitive!" Her voice had risen steadily until she was shouting the last word.
His expression softened. "I know how it must seem, Kitten—"
"Don't you 'kitten' me, Sirius Black."
"—But there are some things that I have to do that are time-sensitive and critical, and tomorrow is one of them. I'm sorry you feel this way, really, I am, but I can't tell you everything, and honestly, you probably don't want to know it. You're just going to have to trust me."
She huffed. "How can I trust you when you don't tell me anything? I don't know where you're going, or what you're doing, or even what the status is on finding Peter." Folding her arms, she glared at him. "You once said we were a team, Sirius, but you treat me as an afterthought."
Sirius sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "It's safer for you this way, to be honest, but I can tell you that I am very close to getting access to Pettigrew in a way that will let me deal with him once and for all, and get my name cleared if I play my cards right."
Her breath caught in her throat at the idea of Harry's parents' murderer being brought to justice. "Really?" she asked.
A slow, anticipatory smile split his face, his eyes glinting. "Really. If I go tomorrow to meet with the people I've been working with, I think I'll be able to get him in the next few weeks before the World Cup. Then we can both return to Britain, and I can be exonerated, and it will all work out, but I've got to go tonight."
She bit her lip, feeling incredibly torn. "Can't you go the day after tomorrow? I need you to go with me. Please, Sirius. This is really important."
"And what I'm doing is just as important," he countered. "This is a pivotal moment that I can use to corner him." His expression looked predatory, his eyes hungry and mouth cruel.
The image of Professor Lupin and Sirius holding Peter at wandpoint in the Shrieking Shack with the express purposes of killing him filled her mind. "You're not going to kill him, are you? This is about bringing him back to England for a trial, right? That's what Harry wanted."
There was a beat of silence, and then the blonde-haired wizard inclined his head, that dark and murderous air hidden behind a solemn facade. "As best as I can," he promised. "I can't control everything, but I'll try my hardest."
Feeling slightly mollified, she blew out a breath. "I can't say I appreciate you putting me in the lurch like this—again‚ I might add—but I suppose I can understand."
He smiled, his cornflower blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "We're a team," he told her. "I know it doesn't seem like that, but I truly believe it. I wouldn't be able to do what I needed to without your help."
She watched as he quickly summoned a bag from upstairs, shrunk it, and placed it in a pocket. "I'll be back in a few days."
"I guess I'll see you then." She stuffed her hands in her pockets as he resettled his robes to hang straight.
He smirked. "Guess so."
He turned on his heels, the crack of apparation rending the air, and then he was gone. Again.
A wordless exclamation of frustration escaped her as she paced the room, angry at herself. "I can't believe I just let him do that," she groaned. He's gone and I'm just sitting here knowing almost nothing and left in a bind yet again."
To top it all off, she still didn't have any idea on how to get to the match the next day. That issue was far more immediate and pressing than whatever was, or wasn't, going on with Sirius and Peter Pettigrew. She couldn't do anything about that situation, but hopefully she could do something about this one.
As she blew out a long breath, her eye caught on the letter that Viktor had sent her earlier in the week. Since he had come over that one time after running into each other at the Square, he had been making noises about returning the favor and hosting her at some point. To that purpose, he'd sent over that letter, extending the invitation for her to come over anytime this week after practice was over.
She cast a look at the old clock in the kitchen. Half seven. Was that too late? Would it be an inconvenience? Honestly, she really could use his advice, but it seemed rather selfish to simply go over there and intrude on his evening, especially given that the match was the next day. At the same time, though, she was hard-pressed not to go over there since she so badly needed to talk to someone….
An idea occurred to her, and she strode over to the fireplace, the note in her hand. "Grigoriev Nikolaeva Cottage!" The family cottage where he lived, he explained, had been named after his parents' middle names so as to help stave off any unwanted fans from trying to enter his house by floo. Even if others did manage to guess it, the floo was closed and typically had to be opened manually by Viktor, with the exception of a few locations such as Krum Manor.
A distant tone sounded through the connection, and moments later, Mippy's face showed up. "Missy Mia!" The elf squeaked happily. "Can Mippy help you?"
"Hi Mippy," she politely returned. "Is Viktor home? Could I speak with him?"
"The Young Master is out flying," Mippy responded, "but he told Mippy that if Missy Mia called or asked to visit that Mippy let you in."
She processed that for a moment. Did Viktor trust her that much that he would just let her into his home without him there? That seemed...rather incredible, honestly, and indicated a great deal of trust. It was a rather staggering gesture, one that meant quite a lot given that conversation she and Sirius had just had about the lack of trust between them.
"Is that too much of an imposition?" she asked Mippy cautiously. "I wouldn't want to intrude on his time."
Immediately, Mippy shook her head. "Young Master would be happy if Missy Mia came over. He smiles more."
The simple statement made heat flare across her cheeks, and she stammered, "I—well—he makes me smile too."
Both of Mippy's ears perked up as she nodded sagely. "Mippy knows. Mippy watches."
As Hermione tried to wrap her head around that embarrassing statement, Mippy told her that she was opening the floo and to come through.
The fireplace she came out of was the same one she had come through when Viktor had been ill. It was located in a front parlour, a rather public space, that abutted the living room. As she straightened up, she brushed her clothes off and looked around. Now that she wasn't focusing on Viktor as a patient and was instead a visitor, she took the time to examine her surroundings.
The room was rather impersonal, with the appropriate furniture and wall hangings to decorate the space. She didn't see much of him present in the space itself, although the living room, which she saw through an open doorway, seemed to be more to his taste.
"Come with Mippy!" the elf commanded before trotting off in front of her towards the other room. Obediently, she followed, and Mippy soon had her ensconced in a deep, comfortable chair with a mug of tea cupped in her hands.
As she had predicted, the room was much more personal, and she saw photos of Viktor splashed across the wall in various situations. In the photos by the parlour, he was laughing or horsing around with some boys in what she assumed to be Durmstrang's uniform; in the portrait by the fireplace, he was standing solemnly with his mother, Kosta, and a tall, imposing man she assumed to be his father; by the french doors leading to the outside, there were some photos of him racing by on his broom, a few more of him with the Bulgarian National team as she knew it and some of him with another team, much younger in age, of boys in Durmstrang quidditch uniforms; by the kitchen, another, final set of small photos stacked vertically showed him interacting with various people that she assumed were important to him.
He had a rich life, and it showed. She also noted that he had designed the room all to be calm and relaxing, which stood in stark contrast to the stiff formality of the parlour room. Perhaps public Viktor and private Viktor were just as strictly defined, she thought, where you either got one or the other, with no in between.
Lost in thought, she sipped at her tea as she listened to the patter of the light rain outside hitting the windows. Viktor had best get back soon, she thought absently, or he would run the risk of falling ill again.
Almost as if on cue, his familiar silhouette streaked over some trees in the distance, his figure growing larger and slower as he approached the house. Nimbly, he leapt from the broom, catching it up in one hand as he strode toward the house. He really was just that big, she thought, but he was lean, too, not an iota of fat in sight.
The door swung open and Viktor strode in, stopping short at the sight of her.
"Hello," she awkwardly greeted him, unsure of what else to say. "Mippy let me in when I floo called. I can leave, of course, but I...I wanted to see you. I've had a huge row with Magellan, and I...wanted your advice? I don't mean to be inconvenient."
Viktor carefully set his broom against the wall and sat on the arm of her chair, his thigh pressed warm and solid against her as he looked down into her eyes. "Mia," he said seriously, "you are never inconvenient."
At his words, her heart gave a strange flutter as her mouth ran dry. Never inconvenient? She had always been inconvenient to someone in one shape or another.
"I'm not so sure about that," she replied at last, unsure what to say, "but thank you."
Lightly, he touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him. Firmly, and a little persistently, he repeated, "Never inconvenient. Not to me."
Heat rose to her cheeks and she looked down for a moment. When she brought her gaze back up, Viktor looked as if he were about to say something, wetting his lips, but seemed to ultimately decide against it, instead asking, "What brought you here? You said you wanted my advice?"
Her shoulders hunched at the reminder. Gnawing her lip, she tried to decide what to say that wouldn't give away secrets that weren't hers to give. "The thing is, Magellan and I had a horrible row," she finally decided on. "I've been feeling extremely frustrated with him for quite some time, and things kind of boiled over today."
Viktor frowned. "What did he do to make you more upset than usual this time?"
How to say this without being too explicit and yet still remaining honest? "There's something different about him these days. This darkness, this edge, this sense of….something." She drummed her fingers on her leg and stared at the fire for a moment. "There's something going on with him. Something I can't figure out. I'm worried about him. Worried he might be...might be changing. And not for the better."
He frowned. "What does that mean, 'changing'? Changing how? Do you mean—" his hands curled briefly at his side before he forcibly relaxed them "—going Dark and travelling down a path that he can't return from?"
A long, hard silence. "I don't know," she whispered at last. "And when I tried to confront him about his behaviours recently, he dismissed me. It's unfair. This whole time I've been working hard and trying to support him and he can't even spare the time to attend a quidditch match with me." She shook her head. "Instead, he's doing these things...secret things, where he won't tell me about them, or inviting strange people over that give me the shivers."
He looked alarmed. "What kind of people?"
"I don't know. Wizards?" she said helplessly. "They were perfectly respectable. But their eyes...it was something about their eyes. Or their auras. They all had this strange energy emanating off of them." Casting around for words, she at last explained, "Being in the same room as them felt like having your hair brushed the wrong way. It was unpleasant but not unbearable. But other than that feeling...I don't have much else to go on."
"You should always listen to your instincts," he told her, his hand gripping his mug rather tightly. He appeared as though he were poised to jump up and do something, but what, she didn't know.
"I know I should," she snapped, then sighed. "Sorry. It's been a long day. Look, I know you don't like him, but I know him. Well, at least I thought I knew him well enough. I'm having a very difficult time understanding him, and my instincts tell me one thing at one time and another at a different time. I don't know what to think about him. But he's been wronged in the past. Deeply wronged. And I don't want to be another one who jumps to conclusions and wrongly convicts him without proper investigation. I want to believe in him."
"I don't know that he deserves that belief," Viktor said immediately. "Think of the things he's done to you this summer. Are those the actions of someone who deserves the loyalty you give him so unwaveringly?"
"He's important to me, and he's my guardian. That means something."
"But if he's not fulfilling the duties that a guardian should, and if he is acting in ways that are disturbing to you, then I don't think you should feel obligated to defend him or to believe that he is the man that you thought he was."
"But he is," she insisted. Even as the words passed her lips, they felt somewhat hollow. Even if he had started out as someone that she thought she knew the core of, perhaps he had changed to become someone that she didn't know any longer. At the very least, he had become someone she found hard to understand.
"Is he?" Viktor pressed. "Is he really?"
She looked down at her lap. "I don't know," she said finally, "but I don't think we'll get anywhere going around in circles like this. Let's just...focus on the immediate problem and the Quidditch match, shall we? Considering I'm not able to get there currently at all, and since I'm on thin ground as it already is, I'm worried this will actually get me—get me sacked."
Her voice broke on the last. Traitorously, her eyes welled with tears, and she covered her face, embarrassed. "I don't know what to do," she confessed, her voice muffled. "Why is everything so hard? I'm trying my best, and it just doesn't seem good enough."
The sound of him putting his mug down came seconds before his hands gently gripped her wrists, pulling her hands away. "Come now, Mia," he murmured, voice soft. "Don't be so distraught. Here, look at me." His eyes, warm and dark, looked intently at her. "Getting you to the match tomorrow is an issue we can easily resolve. There are many people who you could stay and travel with," he reassured her. "You have friends, Mia, however hesitant you are to believe that. Me, Maika, Clara, Krasmira...even Pyotr and Alexei. We would help you. You just have to let us."
She bit her lip. It was hard to fathom the idea that they would consider her as a friend. After all, she had only been here for a brief period of time. The last time she had made friends, it had taken almost two months and a troll before they would so much as talk to her. "I'm not very good at letting people help me. I'm used to relying on myself."
"And you shouldn't have to! For Merlin's sake, Mia. Just ask for help and we will give it to you. Here, repeat after me. 'Viktor, will you help me get to the match tomorrow?'"
He looked at her expectantly. "Really?" she asked. He nodded, and she sighed before dutifully parroting, "Viktor, will you help me get to the match tomorrow?"
Viktor's eyes lit up. "Mia, I am so glad that you asked!" he exclaimed, as if he hadn't made her say the words. "Of course I will help you. Mippy!"
Mippy popped into view, this time wearing a soft rose dress that somehow didn't clash with the grey of her skin. "Master Viktor called Mippy?"
"Yes. Mippy, would you mind fetching me some parchment and a quill from upstairs?"
Mippy nodded. "Mippy does so at once!" She popped out of existence before popping back in a mere moment or two later. "The Young Master's desk is very organized," she explained to Hermione, who was amazed at her speed.
Viktor scrawled something quickly on the parchment, went to his familiar, and attached it to his leg. "Could you take this to Krasmira, please?" he requested, stroking its head with a few fingers.
"Krasmira?" Hermione exclaimed in dismay. "Surely not."
Underneath his touch, Raya preened for a moment before departing through a window Viktor opened for him.
Viktor simply turned and gave her a level look. "Trust me. All I said is that you'll meet her at the Stadium tomorrow to travel with her."
"I can't…do...that?" She trailed off, feeling uncertain. Hadn't it been stated somewhere she had to travel with her guardian due to her age?
Viktor tilted his head. "She's your Mistress, Mia. As far as the law is concerned, she is just as good as your magical guardian, if not better. Besides, if you think Krasmira is going to let something as petty as a statue about underage travel prohibit you from going to the match, you clearly haven't known her long enough."
"Clearly," she echoed faintly. There was a pause, and then she ventured, "Is it really so simple as that?"
He inclined his head. "As simple as that."
Releasing a long breath, she felt some of her anxiety slowly begin to dissipate. The solution had been so simple and straightforward, but she wouldn't have known to do that. Viktor had, and he had helped her. More importantly, he had wanted to help her.
A new feeling stirred within her, something foreign she didn't recognize.
"Viktor," she said quietly, "thank you. Really, thank you."
He looked at her for a moment before reaching out and enveloping her in his arms, her cheek pressed to his chest for an instant before he released her. "You're welcome."
Hermione was left feeling...strange. Had Viktor ever hugged her before? He had touched her many times on the arm or the back of her hand, and he had even stroked his hand down her hair at the Ball, but this was different.
Maybe they had reached a hugging point in their friendship? But the hug felt strange, somehow. When she hugged Harry, she didn't feel like she was being hugged by a bonfire that made her skin hot all over and her breath catch in her chest. With Viktor, it did.
Could she be getting ill? Was she catching something? She needed to sit away from Viktor. He couldn't afford to get sick again, especially since the match was tomorrow.
Perhaps she should go. Just in case.
Housekeeping
1. This fic has its ups and downs, as does any story. As a result, the story will have dark moments and dark arcs. I will try to do my best to tag these chapters.
A question for you all: Do you prefer tags at the top or at the bottom (so they will not spoil anything for those who would read anyways)?
2. There will not be an update next week. I am having to rewrite large swathes of the 30s due to my plotting for GoF and need the time to catch up, despite having written about 50K over the last month. Sigh. These two. Smh.
FAQ: Will this story be continuing into GoF territory?
tl;dr: Not only yes but hell yes.
Longer answer: I have been hammering out the GoF arc for several months now. We will have many, many chapters in GoF where we get to see our favourite duo getting up to many shenanigans at Hogwarts. For those of you who are missing our main crew, don't worry: their time is coming.