A long time ago, the Krum family had purchased a small, remote island off the coast of Greece that was warded to high heaven. The property was unbeknown to almost everyone but the family itself and a small group of retainers that had been sworn to secrecy. The island was peaceful, with lush green foliage, cliffs, and hills. There was even, Viktor told Hermione as they entered the ten bedroom cottage, a waterfall within walking distance.
"That's nice," she replied distractedly, her attention totally focussed elsewhere as she rummaged in a large, floating medical bag. Pulling out several potions, she set them to float by her as she snapped the black bag closed. "Which room is Milena's?"
Her complete disinterest in where she was normally would have amused Viktor, but he was still too raw and smarting from the day's events to find much humour in anything. "She typically uses one on the second floor that overlooks the courtyard."
"Show me?"
Obligingly, he took her up to the room, her potions floating behind her like little ducks. She assessed the space, her gaze critical, and set about transfiguring a few times, she asked for his help since she hadn't yet learned the spells necessary, and he assisted in changing the room to her specifications. It wasn't much and took only a few minutes. Approvingly, she nodded and directed the potions to a small table.
"I'll go tell Demetrius that it's okay to bring her in," she told him. At his expression, she touched his arm, the soft pressure of her hand reassuring. "It's going to be okay, Viktor. I promise. Demetrius has been managing your mother's care for years now, and he's with her all the time should something happen. She just needs some extra time to recover."
He managed a nod, though his gaze lingered on the plethora of potions sitting innocuously on the side table. Extra time did not require such an increase of potions and care, did it?
Running a hand through his hair, he looked around the room, wanting to do something more impactful than standing around transfiguring things. He couldn't help directly — this was far removed from his wheelhouse — and he hated how helpless it made him feel. Maybe Grigor was right. Maybe he should be doing something more useful than playing Quidditch, because what good was riding a broomstick when his mother needed help that he was unable to provide?
Of course he had known that she was ill. Of course he had worried, sometimes rather obsessively, over her care and her well-being, as any dutiful son would do. Of course he had realised, in that abstract, far off way, that she was declining in a slow, unobtrusive manner. But to see that happen in real time—to hear her collapse, like a puppet whose strings had been cut...that was not something he would forget for a very, very long time. And to be unable to do anything to prevent it? That feeling was what lingered, even now, within him.
"This is all quite unnecessary. Really, Demetrius, won't you listen to me?" His mother's voice floated down the hallway as it preceded her, and he bit back an unexpected smile at the rancour in her voice. She did so hate being coddled.
"Just who, exactly, is the certified Healer here?" came Demetrius' familiar, mild voice. Moments later, the two of them came into view, the wizard guiding a floating wheelchair holding Milena in front of him.
His mother, paler than he had ever seen her, was as close to pouting as she was capable, her lips pressed together while her arms were crossed over her chest. When she saw him, though, some of the tension eased from her body and she held a hand out towards him. He hastened towards her immediately, grasping it between his own two hands as he questioned, "How are you feeling?"
"I'm perfectly fine, although if you were to hear it from these two you'd think I was on the brink of immediate expiration." Milena sniffed.
Above her, Demetrius' placid expression never changed. "We're just ensuring that you have the quality of care that you need, Milena."
"Tch. As if you would ever let me have less than the best." She made as if to get out of the wheelchair on her own and Demetrius immediately stepped forward to offer his hand to use as leverage. Ignoring it, she used Viktor's instead, and he carefully pushed up against her hold as she stood.
"There," she announced with great satisfaction. "You can see I am perfectly fine. Mopsy, where are you?"
Viktor, who was supporting most of her weight as she leaned against him, shared a long-suffering look with Demetrius.
"Perhaps Mopsy can wait a bit?" he suggested.
The house elf in question appeared in a crack, attired in smart sapphire pants and a white shirt. "Mistress called for Mopsy?"
"Yes Mopsy. Bring a tea tray for four when you have a moment, please," his mother instructed, as if she were hosting an impromptu gathering instead of trying not to fall over on the bed.
"Mopsy," Hermione interjected, "if you would perhaps wait fifteen or so minutes, we must get the Mistress settled."
Milena's lips pursed, but she did not object, which told Viktor far more than anything else about her state. Gratefully, he minutely inclined his head towards Hermione, who gave him a small smile in return.
Gently, he told his mother, "Let's get you in bed for some rest."
"I don't want to rest," she responded irritably. "I want to have tea."
Deftly, Demetrius slipped over to her other side and took her by the elbow, guiding her towards the bed. "It's not a binary choice, Milena. Now get in the bed and we'll have Mopsy deliver the tea so that we can have it together. Does that satisfy you?"
"Very well." She heaved a put upon sigh, looking as though she were doing them a huge favour.
He tucked the sheets in around her. "Ornery creature."
"Meddlesome man." Her prickly tone had eased and slid towards something more indulgent.
After getting her settled, Demetrius enlisted Hermione in helping him retrieve a few more things from the hospital before closing the connection. He promised to be back in a few minutes, throwing over his shoulder that they would "most certainly be back for tea."
Milena's fulminating look eased at that, and she laid back quiescently. "He's such a good man," she said fondly, looking at the door head just left through before fastening her gaze on him. "Viktor, won't you come closer for a minute?" She motioned to him commandingly, and he pulled up a chair so he could sit by her side.
"Do you need anything?" he asked solicitously.
She rolled her eyes. "Stop looking at though I'm on my deathbed Everything is fine. Demetrius is just being over protective as usual."
"You need to listen to him," he told her witheringly, the image of her pale and still on the hospital bed vivid in his mind. "He's been the family Healer for aeons, even before you were ill. Besides," he gathered her hands into his, "you scared the absolute life out of me. Really. Please listen to him, if only for me."
Sighing, she reached out to touch his cheek, her expression apologetic. "I know I'm not being a good sport about this, and I am sorry for it. Demetrius knows I get rather, well, cranky when things like this happen, but I just can't help it. Honestly, I think part of it is due to the potions I have to take to bring all the internal inflammation down. Sometimes I get foggy and other times I get mad. Medicine can be rather inconvenient, though it does serve a purpose."
He nodded, though he wasn't quite sure what to say, and she gave a little laugh. "Now that I've scared them both out of the room with my insistence about the tea, I wanted to talk to you for just a moment. We haven't got long, but Viktor…"
She grew serious. "Don't let what you saw in the hospital deter you. I know that your father and I have a terrible relationship, but that's not all that's out there. Don't think that that's the fate you're destined for. Truly, love can be a beautiful, powerful thing." Her smile was wistful and a bit longing. Viktor was struck by the thought that she had loved, and loved deeply. "Don't make the same mistake I did and go along with things because it was expedient, or because someone told you to, and don't, for the love of Merlin, let that girl slip through your fingers."
He jerked away from her as if she had caught fire, and his terrible mother laughed delightedly. "I'm not—I don't—"
"Ah, Vitya," she said fondly, mirth soaking her tone, "don't even try to lie to me. You're terrible at it. Just wretched, really."
His ears burned. "Thank you, Mother," he said stiffly. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
"Don't get your trousers in a twist," she scolded him, "and listen to me. That girl is perfect for you, and I don't want you to let her slip away. So what if she's English? So what if she's going back to Hogwarts in a few weeks? All of that is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things if you decide she's worth fighting for."
He crossed his arms. "I don't think this is a good time for this discussion. I'm not in the right mindset for it."
"Tch." Milena waved his protest away. "Is it ever a good time? Just think about it, Viktor. Truly. I don't want you to let a good thing pass you by because you're caught up in negative thoughts."
"We're back!" Demetrius announced their return, and he and Hermione both carried several miniaturized trunks between them. "Be careful where you set that down," he instructed the younger witch. "The instruments are fragile."
She nodded, dutifully setting down the black trunk with exaggerated care. Her face was slightly pink with exertion, and Viktor thought the exertion brought out the sparkle in her eyes.
"I could definitely use that tea you've been so adamant about right about now," Demetrius told Milena, wiping his brow as it to rid it of sweat. He gave Viktor a surreptitious wink and he barely refrained from rolling his eyes.
"Don't think I didn't see that," Milena said drolly. Demetrius, about to parry with some acerbic remark, paused at the pale look on her face and instead walked over to one of the trunks, enlarging it and pulling out a fragile beaker of some kind of gelatinous, lavender liquid.
"Arms up," he instructed, dipping his hand into the jar. "Viktor, Mia, if you wouldn't mind stepping outside for a moment?"
"Really, Demetrius, not that one."
"Don't give me that tone. You know I'm going to win this argument every single time, so I don't know why you're so persistent." Though his tone was brusque, the look in his eye was tender enough that Viktor suddenly felt he needed to look away. It was something private, something sweet, something...loving.
Hermione tugged on his arm, then, and he stepped outside to allow Demetrius to apply the ointment.
"Are you okay?" she looked at him worriedly. "You're looking a bit...odd."
He was certainly feeling a bit odd. Was that look...was that what he thought it was? Could it be that Demetrius, the wizard he had known since he was a babe, might have feelings for his mother? Surely not.
But that look and the gentle care he gave her indicated otherwise. As he thought about the way they interacted over the years, he became more and more convinced that he was correct. It wasn't obvious, but it was there when you looked for it. He was always so considerate, so kind, so attentive...all underneath his somewhat bossy, brusque Healer's persona he hid behind.
Viktor felt torn between being ill and feeling faint and finally settled on vaguely nauseated. He couldn't handle any more emotional surprises today. Really, he couldn't.
"You can come back in!" Demetrius called out. Viktor motioned for Hermione to precede him. When she went, although not before one more fleetingly anxious glance at him, he followed behind her.
"Demetrius, can I speak with you for a moment?" he asked, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
Giving him a curious look, the Healer nodded and followed him down the long hallway to an open, sundrenched landing that had two cushy chairs and a small coffee table between them.
Without preamble, Viktor told him, "I saw how you looked at Maika."
Demetrius' expression faded into something quizzical. "And how exactly would that be?"
He inhaled sharply, his emotions roiling within him. "Like you—like you love her. That's how."
The older man glanced away for a moment, his mouth tightening. Setting his shoulders, he met Viktor's gaze. "I do."
The straightforward admission stunned him. "You...do?"
He nodded. "I do. I have loved her for a long, long time," he said simply. "Your mother is...your mother is brighter than the sun to me. She is effervescent. Once I saw her, it was hard to look away."
"And you're okay with that?" he burst out, unable to contain himself. "You're okay with the fact that she's married—to someone that hates her, no less!—and that she'll never be yours? That she'll...that she'll likely die before you have a chance to say anything?" A thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes. "Unless you've gone ahead and said it anyways?"
"I would never." The wizard drew back, affronted, and Viktor relaxed. "Milena doesn't deserve one more ounce of suffering than she is already enduring. To have my affections thrust upon her benefits nobody. Not me, not her, not you, and not Kosta. I have loved her for a long time, Viktor, before you were born, even, and I suspect I will keep loving her until the day I die."
Unsaid was that Milena was far more likely to die before Demetrius would.
"I don't understand," he told the other wizard wretchedly. "I don't understand at all."
Carefully, Demetrius put a hand on his shoulder. "Love is free, Viktor. I don't have any expectations that it would be reciprocated, or that anything will change. I love her despite everything. I'm okay with the way things are, and I hope you find some peace within yourself about this situation."
"All I have learned today," Viktor said suddenly, his hands clenched at his sides, "is that love hurts, even in its absence. Father doesn't love Maika, yet he still manages to wound her. You love Maika, and even that hurts because you can't even be with her."
"It's true that love is painful," Demetrius acknowledged, "but Viktor, love is also rewarding. I feel better just for being in Milena's presence. She brings joy to my life simply by existing. Love isn't always harmful, as you've seen. It can be beautiful, too."
He shook his head. "I just don't see it. I really don't."
"One day, you will." Demetrius stepped back and looked towards Milena's rooms, smiling wryly. "I've got to go check on her. I am, after all, not here for a social visit." He began to move back towards the way they had come from but stopped, turning back around. "Viktor?"
"Yes?"
"Please don't tell anyone about this conversation. I would be...very distraught if certain people were to hear about it."
"I won't. I swear on it."
Satisfied, the Healer nodded, disappearing into his Mother's room. The door quietly shut behind him, and Viktor was left alone on the landing.
If Demetrius were right, he thought angrily, then why was everything so painful? Why was it that everywhere he looked things were unhappy and were people bound for misery? Love, in whatever form it took, cast a long shadow.
Filled with the raging fire of his emotions, Viktor retreated to his room, where he quietly shut the door. Standing in the wide, open space, his shoulders heaved as he tried to contain himself, until, with one explosive movement, he turned and hit the wall as hard as he could.
"Fuck!" He cursed as pain radiated through his knuckles and into his wrist. Slinking over to the bed, he cradled his hand as he sat down. "Fuck." Like that had helped at all, he thought, miserable and furious all at once.
He hadn't had such an outburst in years, choosing instead to channel his fiery temperament into flying and physical exhaustion. As Maika told him, violence was typically not the solution to anything, unless it was a matter of defense or protection. And yet, here he was, regressing to a little seven year old boy having a temper tantrum because he had witnessed, yet again, the misery that romantic relationships had wrought on the people around him.
It was truly astounding, he thought, how different his mother and father were. It was like night and day, and it was patently obvious that they were two people not meant to be together. He was glad, almost savagely so, that they lived such separate lives, for every time the two came into orbit, only pain and damage were left in their wake. And yet here they were, still bound together in this parody of a marriage for reasons he struggled to understand while Demetrius was left to take what leftovers Milena had to spare as she remained unaware of the true depths of his emotions for her.
Marriage, it was clear to him, was hardly more than a chain with which people were bound, the links forged not out of love but out of duty or some other external benefit. His parents, of course, were a prime example, but Kosta didn't love Svetlana either. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, both his parents and his brother remained married to people they either could not stand or that they barely tolerated.
He could not stretch his imagination enough to imagine a world in which he could do the same. It would be a cold, lifeless world if he became trapped like they were. Trapped by their own volition, even! Trapped because of pride, like his mother, or more mercenary means like his father, and, he suspected, his brother.
What was worse was that he didn't even know if he would even be allowed to marry as he pleased. It would be up to his father to approve or dismiss his choice. That implied that Viktor was even allowed a choice, which he highly doubted. Even if Grigor Krum died, then Kosta, his brother, would be the new head, and then he would have to approve the marriage as the new head of house.
It was during times like these that he so strongly resented his upbringing and his very identity.
Massaging the back of his neck, he thought through his options. A lifeless marriage to some scheming witch like Svetlana where he had to fulfill his familial duty seemed like a possibility he would have to endure. Would his wife be like Svetlana, using him to climb the ranks, or would she be like his own father, dismissive and cold to the bitter end?
Bile rose in his throat at the thought, and in that instant, Viktor swore to never marry unless he wanted to. The only person in control of his life would be him, and he would never have a marriage like the ones he saw around him. No, he would have one filled with goodness and light. It would be with someone who accepted him for himself, who loved him and challenged him and made him grow, and he would be damned if someone tried to take his choice to find that person away from him.
His mind raced, furiously trying to figure out a way to ensure that he, and he alone, would be able to take charge of his destiny. If he just presented it as a done deal, perhaps? Hm. Maybe, but he was so young, too young to truly even want to get married, and even if he had been courting Hermione for several years, she was far too young as well, so that was off the books. What else, what else…
He stilled as a thought occurred to him. What if he made it so there was no possible way for him to be married unless he agreed to it? Unless he, himself, was wholeheartedly committed to the one he bound himself to? What if he made a promise—no. What if he made an oath?
A wizarding oath.
"Yes," he breathed. "That should do it."
It was a quick moment's work to unsheath his wand and think of what he'd like to say. Pointing it at himself, he clearly stated, "I, Viktor Grigoriev Nikolaeva Krum, do so swear upon my magic that I shall never be entered into a marriage bond with a person that I do not wholeheartedly choose. So mote it be."
A bright golden light flared from his wand tip before it went dark.
Something within him shifted before settling down, and he gulped a deep breath as the ramifications of what he had just done in the heat of the moment swept over him.
Zhiva. Goddess have mercy, what had he done?
Surely it was fine, he reasoned with himself, even if it had been a spur of the moment decision. Even though his emotions were all over the place, this was something that he believed in completely and utterly, and it was something he could use as leverage in the future if Grigori were to try and press him into a marriage he could not tolerate. Nobody Grigori tried to align with would want a member of their family to marry a squib, after all, and that was precisely what Viktor would become if he wasn't wholeheartedly committed to the marriage.
"Viktor?" Hermione's muffled voice came through the door as she gave a timid knock. "Viktor, are you in there? I heard a noise. Are you okay?"
A small, private smile crossed his lips, and he fluidly rose to his feet and crossed the room, opening the door and leaning against the doorway.
"Mia," he breathed, feeling lighter just from being around her. "I'm glad you're still here."
She looked at him like he was a little bit crazy. "I wouldn't have left without saying goodbye, you know. Really, though, is everything all right?"
His eyes flicked down to his hand, which was dangling at his side, and back up. "I'm fine."
Her brow arched as she met his eyes. "You're a terrible liar, you know," she told him blunty. Gently, she grabbed his hand with her own and examined it with a critical eye. "This is what you call 'fine'?" Blowing out a long-suffering breath, she rolled her eyes. "Seriously. I'll never understand boys."
"It's not anything that you need to worry over," he insisted. All he got in response to that was a quelling look from Hermione as she pulled her wand out and did a diagnostic.
At the results, she levelled him with a look before tapping his knuckles with her wand tip. "Episky."
"Ow!" He yanked his hand back protectively as he felt his bones shift back together with an almost audible snap and the resulting pain ratched through him. "A little warning would have been nice!"
Her expression was unrepentant. "Stupid deeds don't get any mollycoddling. Now, when and why did you fracture three of your knuckles?"
"I don't want to talk about it," he said sullenly.
Hermione pursed her lips. "While that's all well and good, I really don't think avoiding it is going to do anything to improve the situation, whatever it is. Clearly you've already had a go at fighting it out—with the wall, I'm guessing?—and that didn't go well either. I'm here," she spread her hands, "and I'm willing to listen. Let me help you like you've so often helped me."
It was his turn to sigh. Rubbing the back of his neck, he suggested, "Why don't why have something to drink in the kitchen—" which was far away from prying ears, "—and I'll tell you."
A short while later, they were comfortably ensconced at a small table tucked away in the back of the sprawling kitchen, each comfortably holding a cup of tea between their hands while a plate of biscuits lay between them on the table top. Haltingly, he told her of the things he had seen and felt during the last day: his father's words, his mother's words, Demetrius' words...so many words that caused so many emotions to roil around within him.
"How can it be this way?" he despaired. "Everywhere I look, love has lost. My father, who loathes my mother because she is a Light witch; my mother, who loathes my father because he's a right bastard; my brother, who married Svetlana for an alliance; Svetlana, who married Kosta for social status; and then there's Demetrius. He's the only one out of them all who actually loves, and loves deeply. And he's in love with Maika."
Hermione couldn't quite stifle her gasp at the last. "He does?"
Viktor grimaced as he realised he had done the very thing he had promised not to do. But...well. It was Hermione. He could tell her anything.
"I saw him earlier today, you see. The way he held her while he was administering the potion…" He thought of Demetrius' gentle touch and longing eyes. "There is no mistake. I even asked him about it, and he admitted it outright." Looking up, he caught her eyes with his own. "I asked him, Mia, and he told me it was okay that they could never be together. That he was fine with things the way they were, and that he had dedicated his life to helping her and being with her, and that that was enough."
"Wow," she breathed. "I had no idea."
"Neither did I!" he burst out, his emotions roiling again. It was suddenly all too much, and he stared out the window at the clear blue sky, wishing that he could just escape it all, that he could just fly away and never return. But he couldn't escape this. He couldn't fly away. This time, the turmoil surrounding him had found its way inside, and no matter how far he flew or how far he ran, it would still be with him.
"Is that what I have to look forward to?" he asked her, unable to meet her eyes for fear of what he would see. "Is this what marriage? What love is?" Exhaling lowly, he confessed, "I don't want any part of this."
There was a long silence, and then her small hand crept across the table until it gently touched his wrist. "Viktor, I feel the same way."
His head snapped up. "You do?"
A small, sad smile quirked her lips as she shrugged. "My parents aren't exactly good role models, either. They love each other, I think, but it's an obsessive, self-centered kind of love that doesn't leave room for others. They had me..." Her breath hitched for a moment, and he had to lean forward to hear what she was saying as she continued, "They had me, but they tucked me away at home once it became clear I wouldn't fit nicely into their lifestyle. After all, I'm not what they want as a daughter."
Her eyes dropped as she traced the grain of the wood with her finger. "I'm a witch. Awkward. Unsocial. Not pretty enough by half. It's not that they said that in so many words, but it's clear. Why else would they put me away only to bring me out when it pleased them? I'm a disappointment to them in so many ways."
"They're idiots to think that," he argued. "You're kind and very well-liked and—"
She held up a hand to forestall his protest. "That's very kind of you to say that, but it's the truth. It just is. And yet I love them anyways, even though they don't love me as I so desperately wish. Even just their approval or their regard—Well. Enough of that. But it hurts, Viktor. It hurts so much to watch them with each other when they can't spare any love for me."
"Seeing that and experiencing that has shown me that I don't think that that kind of love is something I want because it doesn't leave room for anyone else. As the someone else in this example, I know just how much it hurts. Is my joy worth all the sorrow it would bring to those around them?" She shook her head. "No. No, I don't think I want to marry if that's what it entails."
In his chest, he felt his own stupid heart, ever hopeful, cut open a little more at the admission that the one girl he had ever had true, meaningful feelings for had sworn off relationships all together.
A moment later, she made a thoughtful face. "Although…"
"Although?"
"Although...I think...maybe, one day, if the right person came around, I could be persuaded, but there would probably have to be a lot of conditions."
Rules? He could deal with conditions, especially since he was likely to have some of his own.
His heart leapt exultantly at the idea that he could persuade her—would enjoy persuading her—and he told it to calm down. He didn't even know if he had a chance with her. She did seem to like him well enough, and she had come to him, of all people, for help when she needed it. And perhaps she found him attractive? He wasn't sure about that one, but he thought he was reasonably attractive enough. If she didn't find him attractive now, perhaps she could grow to find him handsome enough?
None of that mattered now, though. He needed to do a little research before he let himself grow any more excited. It wouldn't do to let his heart, already so bruised, get beat up any more.
"So, Mia," he asked casually, leaning back in his chair even as his entire being was strung tighter than a bow, "what, exactly, would make someone the 'right person'?"
Right. So. I'm sorry that this is a day late: I worked 15 hours yesterday and fell asleep on top of my computer trying to get this out. I'm glad I didn't post it half-edited, as I ended up making a couple of very important tweaks.
Please take a minute to let me know what you think — the last few chapters through the end are my very favourite parts, so I want to hear yours thoughts!