(Disillusioned) Gour de Tazenat, Puy-de-Dôme, Massif Central
"Ho. How charming~," murmured a mezzo-sopranic voice; a sly smile finding its way across a beguiling face.
Disillusioned and still, blending like an owl against tree bark, an enchanting onlooker watched as a dark-haired adolescent held onto the little Granger's hand after his introduction, saying something in an accented timbre that made the younger girl visibly bristle, like a matagot kitten being denied fresh chicken. Little Granger tried to put her other hand on her hip – a gesture suggesting she's getting ready to give a sound refute – but her basket got in the way, almost losing her footing if not for the steady anchor of the boy's other arm on her shoulder. He merely replied with raised eyebrows, possibly suppressing a smug smile – somewhat patronizing, but not unkind.
The chaton certainly looks fierce when threatened, the observer mused.
A few minutes of silent glaring later, the shorter of the two 'combatants' seemed to relent, letting the boy carry her basket with ease and a satisfied smile.
His obvious noble mien lessened the apprehension the watcher felt when she first arrived on the scene. The spell the boy used is better than any charm she has seen by far. He – or rather his friend – might be more talented than she would have expected from someone who did not study at the Académie.
Then again, she's rather biased. Beauxbatons is, and will always be, the best.
But it seems I need not worry after all, the observer reflected, looking back at the scene before her with an inaudible hum, a gentler smile gracing her face. Her slender wand arm – previously held out at the ready – was now down and relaxed, her weapon pointed away, harmless. I'll just tell Elle her British friend will be along in a while~
With an elegant sweep of silver-blonde tresses and swish of her trusty Rosewood, Fleur Delacour twirled in place, stepping quietly around her tree before sashaying away from the little nook at the edge of her family's mountain property.
It's a good thing dear papa had discussed the lineup of the match coming up in a fortnight, especially the accolades the youngest member of the visiting team is accumulating – both about his prowess in the air as well as his infamous dislike of ill-mannered behavior from his fans. Else, she wouldn't have considered leaving the two alone.
Besides, the French witch reasoned, the little Granger needs some well-deserved male attention once in a while. Her family's needle witch did wonders on the non-magique fabric her little sister had purchased.
-{-}-
Hermione took deep, measured breaths, trying to ease into the equanimity her teacher trained her to employ when she's in uncertain territory. It served her well in the past, aiding her to decide on using Penelope Clearwater's hand mirror before she and the older student succumbed to petrification, despite the hammering of her heart when she felt the terrifying sensation of her limbs locking into place and the shadows closing in on her vision instantaneously.
She snapped her eyes open to stare defiantly at the persistent fellow, holding her things hostage because of some misplaced chivalry, while ignoring the warm fluttering in her chest. It's just her heart racing in anger – that's all. She's also disregarding the fact he hasn't. Let go. Of. Her. Hand.
It's not as if it's unpleasant. It's actually interesting he has callouses on his palm – not just on his fingers where a quill would rest. How rough the knuckle of his index finger feels – as if he hits it, more than once. How absolutely tiny her hand looks in his grasp – but how gently he cradles it. How much it tickles when his thumb moved over her skin –
She blinked and furrowed her brow. She's getting distracted…which might be his aim all along!
Or – the more likely reason – he's trying to intimidate her.
She can see how much he's scrutinizing her, gaze travelling all over her face and hair – Gabrielle certainly enjoyed taming it into submission – , her wandless fist, her uncomfortably tight-fitting dress, and white-woven summer flats, all with a polite smile on his face.
Ever since the Quirrell, and Lockhart 'incidents', she's been reluctant to put faith in anyone's first impression – or even second impression – anymore until she gets all the facts straight. And Hermione may not be as boy crazy as the other girls in her dormitory, she knows enough from her observations in muggle primary school and at Hogwarts what a typical male would do when they're attracted to someone – scaring her half to death and staring at her with laser-like focus does not classify as 'attracted'.
Take Percy for example. Although neither Ginny nor herself have personally seen what Percy did in order to convince Clearwater to be his girlfriend, the noise from the common room grape vine supplied he just asked her over their shared triumph in a group assignment – notwithstanding Hermione's notion of dating which she always thought required delicacy – and the rest, is history.
From what Ginny gossiped – during the times when she's lucid and not under the influence of that confounding diary – there was a glaring casualness about the third eldest Weasley's way of dating Clearwater: walking together in the hallways while talking – or should she say patrolling since they're Prefects? – , friendly bets over who'd win the Inter-House Quidditch Cup – honestly, where would Percy get the Galleons if Gryffindor lost? – , and maintaining professional distance during breaks at the Great Hall – they're model students after all, how could she expect anything less?
When the time came for those in the hospital wing were 'woken' up, Percy was one of the first to scramble towards the Ravenclaw student's bed and hugged her fiercely, being sweet about his relief of her recovery and beamed with uninhibited affection, which almost cost him his badge if not for Professor McGonagall's intervention against Professor Snape's withering censure.
All in all, Hermione is certain holding hands for this long at first meeting isn't a common occurrence between non-couples or acquaintances – if she could even call this stranger that. He did present his name already after all.
Furthermore, from what she could pick up in rubbish dramas on the telly – she really has to curb her morbid curiosity for those things – there isn't any need for a great show of formality in relationships anymore. With how fast-paced everything has become, complicated forms of niceties are considered outdated; positively archaic…
Maybe she should've skipped reading those Austen books to past the time.
To be fair, her parents' decision to bring her up with proper manners did help suppress some of her impulsive tendencies. There were instances, several in fact, during primary where she gave into the temptation to dish out her bullies with their comeuppance – especially when she discovered her magic – at a much earlier age than her parents thought.
She still felt guilty over it, but not guilty enough to regret them.
Her wrist started to itch, but the hand holding hers helped her resist rubbing at it.
In other times, whenever she feels the need to retaliate fire with fire, her dad's calming, reasonable voice would always pop up in her head:
A person may be judged according to her behavior towards other people, buttercup. Choose your own response, because yours is the only one you have any control over. Never stoop to their level, honey. Be better.
So now she dowsed the great urge to just snatch her hand back from the – surprisingly comfortable – hold it's in and balled up her other hand tighter, waiting for the teenager to speak as she thought more on her situation.
Maybe this is one of those odd, cultural differences? Are Bulgarians more physical with their greetings?
When Hermione's attention turned back up to this…Mr. Krumov – honestly, why is he so frustratingly tall? As if his overall size isn't intimidating enough – he snapped his head up and looked over her head, furrowing dark brows to focus on something at a distance, making her curious enough to look over her shoulder – unconsciously careful to keep her hand from being displaced.
Aside from the rustle of trees and quiet bird calls, there was no one in sight – unless the person was in an invisibility cloak. Very unlikely, she's sure – she turned back at the same time he did and was surprised to be the recipient of the tall boy's awestruck expression, vaguely aware that he dropped her basket none too gently in the process.
When he still hadn't stopped studying her face with bright, wide eyes, as if she was a prized work of art, Hermione finally drew her hand back, and self-consciously rub her left wrist. She turned her head away, trying to cover up the warm color on her face, internally cursing at the fact that her hair was wrangled up effectively by her tenacious new friend.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed the teenager made a fist of his hand – that seem to reach out for hers as she retreated – before he reconsidered and grasp around the handle of her forgotten basket instead. His other hand moved to search around the surface of the wickerwork. "I am sorry. Hope, nothing broke?" he asked sheepishly, rotating the basket to check for any dents or scrapes while carefully avoiding her gaze.
Blush receding, Hermione raised a muddled brow. Teenage boys are so…strange. I wonder if Harry and Ron will turn like this, she pondered.
After a quick scan, Hermione shook her head. "No. I put a charm on it. See the shimmer on the top? The impact of a drop is cushioned if it's closed properly."
He cleared his throat before he spoke again. "Like brooms. The, how you say – creators? The one that, make brooms? It standard to put soft, not-visible pad. For rider comfort. Also to cush-ion."
"You mean broom manufacturers?" Hermione guessed with a tilt of her head. "Yes, I remember now. The Cushioning Charm, created by a Mr. Smethwyck around the 1800s. As a player, it's practical to consider your comfort as you fly around for long periods of time," she concluded with a nod.
The young wizard's anxious expression turned curiously relieved, smiling tentatively. "You like brooms?"
Hermione shook her head emphatically. "Merlin, no! We had mandatory broom lessons in our first year. Not an experience I'd wish to repeat."
This made him pause. "How you know if you no like?"
"I read about it for class. I retain what I read, even for just the sake of knowing." She shrugged.
He tilted his head, weighing her basket for emphasis. "You like reading many books then? Like how you bring many now?"
Hermione raised a sardonic eyebrow, hearing a condescending lilt to his tone. Here we go. "Why not? They are a good source of information." She should have known he'd be like the rest of the boys, head full of Quidditch and ungrateful for all the knowledge you could get in written form – his initial appeal, his rolling Rs and gentlemanly greeting aside. She would have started a tirade on her precious tomes if not for the tiny twitches at the corner of his lips and laughing eyes.
She spun her body completely back to him, arms akimbo, and a confused frown on her lips. "You're so…! I don't understand why you've been altering between several different emotions since we've 'met'," she air quoted.
"I am not understanding yours too." He said excitedly, with a more pronounced smile.
Hermione rubbed fingers on her temple, getting fed up and feeling a headache coming on, understanding now how their Potions Master feels when faced with ineptitude. She shook her head and marched forward, disregarding caution, holding out her hand with her palm up. "That's it. Give me back the basket. I'm going to hold my end of the bargain and leave you be, since you already answered my questions."
He smile dropped immediately, face looking unusually alarmed. He quickly held out his unoccupied hand and held onto her basket with the other closer to his chest. "Please! I only try to…not make you scared. By…joking? Play…teasing. Yes, I tease you."
"So you'd rather make me mad instead?" Hermione said dryly.
"Ee...Ne. No. I do not mean to do that." He answered faintly.
After a time of looking at her face, her hand, and her basket, he heaved a dejected sigh, broad shoulders slumping with her basket now dangling off his fingertips. "If…if you need go, I not keep you. I am sorry to trouble you."
A small part of Hermione twinged in guilt, feeling like she kicked baby Norbert – a dangerous creature it may be but it's never a good feeling to downtrodden an innocent. His downturned eyes had her rubbing her face with both hands, groaning noiselessly into them.
If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.
Mrs. Lebedeva has definitely become her voice of reason.
Drawing a cleansing breath, she straightened herself and continued forward, bypassing the handle the young athlete was offering, and went to open the top instead, pulling out her blanket again. She went through the motions of laying it down as flat and neat as possible under her tree.
Hermione can feel intense eyes staring at the back of her head as she worked. She then took a comfortable seat, pulling her legs underneath her daintily while adjusting the ends of her dress. She looked up and stared back at too dark eyes before she gestured with her chin at a spot at the edge of the blanket, as both a call for truce and an invitation. "We would have gone nowhere if we left things off on the wrong foot, Mr. Krumov. I had hoped that my judge of character would be far better now than a few years ago. You don't really seem like a bad person so…have a seat. Please."
-{-}-
Viktor shook his head, trying to clear the haze over his mind since his introduction to the enigmatic enchantress, and walked with stiff movements on the indicated spot, attempting to seem calm when he is definitely not.
Ever since he comprehended he has found his Custodia in the least likely place, and at such an earlier stage in his life than he expected, he has trouble thinking straight, completely forgetting Georgi's long winded suggestions if he ever came across her someday.
This feeling within him is simply indescribable, liberating even, as he's not bombarded with any emotions at all from the fierce girl, who held her head up with subtle authority yet with less animosity against him – he cannot blame her; his dazed thoughts had sadly not helped him make a good first, or rather second, impression.
And yet…she has granted him a third chance to make amends – which proves she possesses a compassionate heart.
He must have been an upstanding creature in his past life to be this fortunate – never mind his privileged upbringing, having really good friends, achieving good marks at school, and now his fame for various feats in the air for his team and country. All he can think of now is the tingling remnants of the ghostly heat in his hand and the various stories past down in his family when meeting with the one that is said to be his rock, his stability, his strength in life.
And if he's really really really fortunate in this life – his home.
But looking at the lovely vision in front of him, with bronze eyes, wary yet patient, he can feel doubt churning uncomfortably in his stomach, becoming insecure of himself for the first time in his life.
It's true many have found him ordinary-looking compared to other distinguished sportsmen – avoiding the cameras quite successfully as a reserve player has been pivotal to this. But what he lacks in the much complimented boy-band style of today – he would have been mystified by this if not for Mimi's and Gosho's running commentary on the other young and not so young male players – he compensates with his growing musculature and improving skill in the field.
He's been doing so well that he's being considered to be transferred to the main roster permanently – and not as a last resort, like when their main Seeker could not survive the last set a month ago – , which will accelerate his chances of being chosen over for the national team. Good thing Trainer Valkov and Captain Vulchanov have been one of his biggest supporters in this endeavor, so there's not much hostility coming from his own team about this, not even from the main Seeker herself.
He'll have to remember to send out an express falcon deliver a few choice herbs from the conservatory to speed up her recovery.
However, this brings to mind a tricky situation: should he still continue this occupation when the very being he's been searching for is already here? When the reason he went through all the trouble of fame and fortune which he doesn't really want nor need is standing at attention with a perplexed expression on her lovely face?
…he's gotten it bad too quickly, hasn't he?
According to old scriptures and oral stories, a connection such as theirs – if officially proven – is not unlike what muguls would assume as mated souls: two halves from a whole, forever apart and wandering the earthly plane, condemned by the gods to an existence where their power as man will not upset the balance and harmony of the cosmos.
In the wizarding world though, it's not so clean cut and easily explained. The closest he could understand from the almost illegible jottings is that the relationship of the motus custodia with his or her tragicus can be as enemies – the worst kind of connection – , as supportive friends – whether they're aware of it or not – , as passing lovers – most of the time, star-crossed – , or the most ideal one: as a bonded pair with mutual interest in each other.
What contradicts the concept of soulmates though is the fact that the tragicus is at the mercy of the custodia. Never an equal, like the Ancient Greeks had supposed.
There have been conflicting accounts of this phenomenon. Some, unverified, that imply abuses and slavery, tragedy and calamity. But there were a small percentage of them ending happily and prosperously, not only to the pair but to the society they dwell in.
This could be his hormones talking as well as his idealistic outlook but he very much would like to please this new person enough to get to that favorable 'ever after'.
…he needs to stop listening to Georgi whenever he quotes from those romance novels and 'fairy' tales. He's starting to build an unrealistic standard for his custodia – if she is the one.
But first and foremost, he has to get her name.
"If it okay, call me Viktor. Mr. Krumov is my father," he said, hoping to sound confident.
"Veec – Viktor? Doesn't that mean 'the victorious one'?"
"I hope so. It will be useful for match to have such significance, I am thinking. And you? May I know your name?"
"Oh! How rude of me. I completely forgot myself. My name is Hermione Jean Granger. Pleasure to meet you.
I guess…I guess if it's difficult to say, you can call me Jean. Or Granger. I don't mind," she said quickly, but with a slight cringe, cueing him otherwise.
"Hermione is beautiful name. I call you that. Please."
She seems to look mildly impressed. "That's…that's actually amazing that you've got it on the first try. Not many people do."
Viktor can feel his smile becoming more natural, proud to know that he is exceptional in her eyes. "Bulgaria is next to Greece. My home city has many influences from Greek culture, especially the – stories? Legend? It has 'Mm" sound in the word. "
"Mythology?"
"That. Mythology. Hermione is born Spartan child, yes? Female child of royalty."
"Daughter. And yes, my parents would joke I have a similar situation with that princess."
Similar…situation? Is she already betrothed?!
"Many…suitors for your hand then?" he inquired indifferently, masking his apprehension the best he can by playing with the handle of her basket.
The younger witch startled herself with a short laugh, a becoming hue of light rose appearing on the apple of her cheeks. "That's one way of interpreting it. I meant the part where trouble always follows me in my wake."
Oh.
Wait…!
Viktor furrowed his brows. "I do not understand."
"Mmm. I can imagine you don't. It might be too long of a story. And since you don't seem to be in danger from the 'strange' girls chasing you anymore, I'm surprised you're willing to chat."
"Trying to make me go away now? Am I bad company to be friend?" he teased lightly.
Hermione jerked her head back. "You…want to be friends?"
"Why not? I feel…safe, around you. You no crazy girl," he explained, trying not to spill all he wanted to say in an uncontrollable word vomit. He knows not to scare another person with too much familiarity, especially at first meeting – ignoring the fact he has already done so with the prolonged hand holding.
Her hand fit so well in his.
"…oh."
She looked put-out; disappointed.
Viktor watched as she shrugged her shoulders after a moment, with a smile not reaching her eyes, and demeanor turning guarded once again. She picked herself up and gestured she's going to pick up her blanket.
What did I just say?!
Instead of protesting out loud, Viktor also stood up and took out his wand from his arm holster, flicked it once, and the blanket folded in on itself until it fit snuggly in her basket.
He glanced up and felt perplexed by her rapt attention in between his wand and her basket. "That's very useful. Was that wordless magic?"
He wondered at her change in topic but he shook his head in affirmative. "Da. I mean yes. Mama taught me so it's easy to pack for family outing."
Hermione tilted her head before concluding, "I see. You shake your head when saying yes, and nod when saying no?"
He blinked. "Yes. In Bulgaria we do this."
The pretty witch nodded, seeming to be distracted by her thoughts. "I see. I keep mixing what your actions are telling me with what you're saying.
So…you're sure you want to be friends? I'm not…really a fan of Quidditch but I do cheer for my best friend, who's a player at school. And my family and I are only attending the upcoming match because we were invited and my father wanted to see how the wizarding sport differs from rugby, which is the closest equivalent of it on the ground."
He has so many questions.
Why did she looked disappointed? Did I imply I only want to be friends? Better remedy that.
Which school? Is it within Europe? Eurasia? Does he need to cross the Pacific to reach her? She isn't as brash as Americans so, hopefully not.
Not a fan? That explains a few things. But he's more curious of her aversion to brooms. And, wizarding sport? Why the emphasis? Is she…not wholly magical? That doesn't really matter but, maybe she needs reassurance?
Family? Father? Should he introduce himself soon or would that be too forward?
Rag-bee? Equivalent to Quidditch? He can only think of Quodpot in North America – which has more violent play than Quidditch will ever have. Honestly, why would anyone want to risk their equipment exploding in their face? And what sport is played on the ground? That doesn't seem like a challenge.
Viktor contained all his rushing thoughts and just said, "Of course! I happy to be a friend. People have right to their own interests. Different is good. If you go to match, watch me and cheer for team. As new friend, I can supply gooder seats –"
" – better."
" – better seats for you and family. It's no trouble."
"No no. I think we're alright. The Delacours said they reserved good seats; almost level to the…Ministry Box I think?"
"A. Yes, good seats. Name of friends sound French. They support home team then. Are you required to cheer?"
"Well, like I said, I'm not really that invested in the game, nor are my parents, no matter how grateful we are for the tickets. We'll be neutral and most probably just cheer in spirit."
"Hmm. I convince you another day. No such thing as too much support."
The little witch smiled shyly, making his pulse jump. "You want to meet again?"
"Very much, yes." Did he sound desperate just now?
"I…I guess I don't mind. I have questions myself if it's alright."
"It is, how you say, getting know? Be better friends after." And maybe more than friends? Soon?
She smiled wider with a bright twinkle in her eyes, body language finally turning relaxed and pliant – he felt so at peace with the state of the cosmos now.
"I spend my time in this place – it's part of the Delacour property by the way –. I'll ask permission first if it's alright to use it again and maybe meet…here? Before lunch again?
By the way, the stadium is northwest of here so try to do a circuit in case there are still any 'predators' prowling around for you." She giggled adorably.
Viktor straightened his back, surprised that he's gone farther from the stadium than he thought. "Maina! I am trespasser? I am sorry. I will leave now. It is lunch time, so we eat."
Hermione nodded in agreement. "I need to go back to the cabin. Good bye, Viktor. Best of luck on the way back and…and on the match."
Viktor can only watch as the little witch smiled quickly before turning with her basket in hand and floated away, soft steps crunching the grass almost silently.
He has a lot of planning to do, he mused, as he beamed wide at the bird that sang suddenly up on 'their' tree.
And send more letters in the process.
Author's Note: I may have had projected a few things here and there from real life, especially from the more romantic viewpoint of my SO towards our relationship. Plus, I was over the moon when he got to visit me. (edited some scenes and adjusted the dialogue)
I can just picture Viktor to be as internally biased as him xP ( I hope that didn't bother anyone.)
EDIT: 10/27/2020 Requested Translation / Explanation:
matagot - according to oral traditions of southern France, it is generally evil, but some may prove helpful, like the "magician cat" said to bring wealth into a home if it is well fed.
chaton - 'kitten' in French
non-magique - French equivalent to 'muggle'
Onwards!
Reine