V-I-W Stadium Suites, Stade national de Quidditch, Gour de Tazenat, Puy-de-Dôme, Massif Central
"Vinko is distracted," came Georgi's offhand remark, obnoxiously munching on a huge pretzel he purchased from a passing enchanted cart, handing it enough Knuts to cover all their snacks in its side bin. A bell-like beep was its acknowledgment before it rattled away and disappeared through the wall.
He faced forward and gazed unblinkingly at the flawlessly manicured field, totally conscious of Mira's annoyed glower at his temple. Eventually, she turned her attention to her own treats he 'forgot' to get, floating them to her with a harsh swing of her wand.
"If you weren't so lazy and a glutton you'd get everything just fine" Mira muttered under her breath, distractedly adjusting the knobs of her omnioculars rapidly while leaving her wide, bubbling chalice on a shiny, floating disk at her side – it kept anything on it to the guest's preferred temperature. Right now, her drink is at that exact level of cold she enjoyed that would normally hurt her teeth but will melt quickly in a disappointing watery slush if it was filled with ice instead.
The perks at these seats, even for the visiting team, Mira mused. Not to mention how comfortably plush they are for a good nap if a match goes on longer than expected. A group of older people nearby wearing browns and blacks are already taking advantage of them, waking up every now and again from their snoozing when the cheering became especially rowdy.
"You think so?" she asked out loud, hurriedly untangling the cord of her device from the straps of her bag with one hand while tossing a few chips in her mouth with the other.
"Well, aside from the bleeding, lopsided flying, and coach's screaming from below, I can confidently say I know so," her best friend stated matter-of-factly, with eyes now focused on the stands near them in interest, leaning forward with a subtle quirk of his mouth.
"I was being sarcastic, tikvenik. Now be quiet. I need a better look."
Blinking, Mira gave herself a moment before adjusting to the slowed down replay of three minutes ago through the lens of her charmed field glasses.
It's the day of the match, finally, and things had turned out great for them at the beginning. Everything was as expected: the home team was cocky during the presentation, like strutting flamingos in their shallow pond as they circled the stadium. They were so busy flaunting and preening themselves for the crowd that it took them a while before noticing the number of shots the Snipes scored after the whistle blow. It didn't help that their Vinko caught them off guard, acting like a support Chaser than a Seeker, bullying the Quafflepuncher's Keeper to an unprepared defensive. Before the enemy Beaters reached them, the Snipes were able to force the Keeper's limbs through the goal hoops several times, earning him fouls aplenty; a classic flacking – just as they've intended.
The game went on for hours after that, with the home team switching up to an absolute defense while the Snipes continued their aggressive assault, with such elusive maneuvering on their brooms, and scoring at a rapid pace that it's a wonder that the score tower could keep up – then again it's bewitched for that exact purpose. No human can be trained well enough to see through the naked eye all the action happening all at once.
The referees are no exception, Mira guessed, remembering one poor, black-and-white clad soul fall flat on his back within the hedge maze, knocked out accidentally by a wayward Bludger. The Quafflepuncher's Beater was pulled out by their Captain for timeout.
As the bright light of day turn dim in the afternoon, only the most persistent fans cheered ceaselessly – the thunderous sound of Gosho's bells aiding their supporters' roar. The pressure of winning the league was felt throughout the stadium, with the crowd demanding more fouls, bruises, and broken bones as tensions rose high, with drinks and food gone airborne in delight or dismay.
A little alcohol went a long way in this crowd, that's for sure.
By early evening, when Captain Vulchanov gestured for Viktor to catch the Snitch, the Quafflepunchers took note and crowded the Snipes players. The home team Chasers turned aggressive while passing the Quaffle, soft facades dropping as they unexpectedly took out their Beater in a brutal, yet brilliantly timed hit at his spine that left everyone breathless.
No one had seen it coming. The borderline violent turnabout at play had everyone at the edge of their seats as they watched the Quafflepunchers dominate the field and quickly brought the score to a near tie.
And that's the crux of the home team's success in recent years, Mira surmised with begrudging respect. The reason why they've been champions for so long: they let themselves be underestimated – a team comprised of mostly women, clad in bright pink uniforms, shiny hair, and beguiling eyes. The strength of their fury, their resolve…
Their absolute focus to win.
Things spiraled for the worse when Viktor was focus fired by the enemy Beaters, and some underhanded headwind maneuvers from their Seeker, who seem determined to show her own support for her team – the chase for the elusive Snitch temporarily forgotten.
It seems the home team took the chatter about their Vinko's prowess more seriously than they thought.
Dodging and swerving for long suspenseful minutes, Viktor held up as best as he could, doing heart-pounding shifts and gut-retching dives that would make any normal wizard queasy.
But then…
He did an odd jerk down of his broom and went directly into the path of one of the Bludgers. A loud groan of pain was heard, drowned immediately by an enormous gasp from all around.
So Mira furrowed her brow, concentrating on the moving images of that exact scene. She studied the playback, again and again, ignoring the dull pull of her skin as she pressed the ring of the eyepiece further into her face, a vain attempt to see…whatever it is she needs to see.
Her eyes roamed about, trying to find something peculiar enough to make Viktor lose his focus –
…whizzing brooms…flapping robes…
…winds howling; bushes cut down by sharp gusts…
…the snap of leather…transfer of hands…
…ducking and parrying…
…an echoing ring from the score tower…
A click – the whirl of magic and gears working within the lens.
…a passing of red; screaming…
…punched flesh and clothe; a yowl…
…a blur of brown and shocking pink…
…a bell tolls…
…cursing and veering…
…a pause…a direct gaze…
…a head tilt; a heavy frown…
Mira turned another knob and zoomed in, with her own head tilted.
…wind whistling… the sharp smack of a bat…
…ringing metal…an impact, imminent…
…a flash of wiry hazel and chestnut …
…an alarmed expression…
…shrieking…
…a snap decision…
…a bell tolls…
Mira's head shot up, body moving forward, straining to stare down at the nearby stands in disbelief. A clang of metal against rail sounded as her omnioculars banged on them; the cord attached to her wrist the only reason it hasn't dropped directly unto a bystander below.
After a quick sweep over of the crowd, Mira gradually sat back down, comprehending she won't be seeing anyone significant with everyone else standing in protest and chanting for foul. Blinking slowly, still in disbelief, she turned her head up, finding the dazed member of their trio instantly in the sky, who was floating haphazardly and trying to rotate his battered shoulder back in place.
Did he intentionally…?
"Oh look, the English princess looks like she's going to cry. You think she broke a nail?"
Mira smacked Georgi's shoulder hard without much thought, still staring at Viktor in growing awe. "Don't be tactless. I doubt she's the only one feeling anxious right now. Vinko's parents will definitely hear his injury in the radio – shame they couldn't physically be here, but Lélya Alexandra will definitely find a way. Anyone would be worried, Gosho."
"A! But what a way to go. His princess will surely be impressed," Georgi joked, thinking of the mugul 'fairy tales' he's been reading.
"Really. Which part seems more noble then: plummeting to his doom because of a game or dying in her presence without knowing his intentions?!" Mira almost shouted her exasperated sarcasm, crunching ominously on her hard candy with a hard glare.
Georgi lost his smile instantly, rubbing his chin in thought. Does the 'Grimm' in the authors' names have a negative connotation? He'd better check with Dietrich. He doesn't remember if those stories had happy endings. "You're right. With either event, it will make them star-crossed lovers, don't you think?"
Mira thinned her lips, hands wrapped tightly around her omnioculars to prevent herself from strangling her seatmate prematurely.
-{-}-
Relaxing back in his seat after observing the young, curly-haired witch being comforted by the people surrounding her – are those the Veela sisters Vinko mentioned? And is that the mother? He's holding out on me…again! – , Georgi turned his head enough to see Mira's rapidly growing ire. He chuckled, patting her on the shoulders in comfort, mindful that his fingers are well within biting range. "Relax, Mimi. You know better than her, so you shouldn't be as troubled. As hazardous as these games tend to be, there are still safety measures in place.
And look! Captain Vulchanov is making my point. He's calling for a timeout now."
As they both turned their gaze back to the field, sipping their drinks in different levels of calm, Georgi ruminated back on the look of realization on Hermione Jean Granger's face.
I hope you know now, printsesa, Georgi thought with unusual solemnity.
Of how much you mean to our Viktor.
-{-}-
-.-.-
Dear Miss Granger,
The last of spring's cool breeze gave way, and summer has fully embraced us with its heat. I hope you and your family are well.
-.-.-
"Hermione! Are you alright?"
-.-.-
Thank you for your last letter. My heart filled with warmth at the thought you considered consulting me on matters most important to you.
-.-.-
"Buttercup? Say something please."
-.-.-
I am certain I understand your character well enough to know you received various advice already, especially from your new friends, as I am certain you have done extensive research on your own before you reached out to me.
-.-.-
"I-I'm fine. Just startled, dad. Nothing to worry about. Everything's fine."
-.-.-
So I will add only this: always keep eight-tenths full.
-.-.-
"He's going to be alright…right, Fleur?" The younger witch's mind was too full of worry to try and speak in French.
Hermione felt a long smooth hand squeeze hers. "Of course, chérie, of course. These things do 'appen. There are usually 'ealers on standby. They are in those green tents."
"The Beaters aren't supposed to aim the Bludger at us. They're so dumb."
"Elle! No insults against our team. Wait until we get home~"
-.-.-
Moderate not just how much you eat, but how much time you spend. (Although from what I'm hearing, you should eat more. Your books will not sustain your form.)
-.-.-
"How long do these games actually last, Monsieur Lucien?"
"Hmm…the last game they played in was against the Sweetwater All-Stars. An international friendly you see. Very stubborn, those Américain. Anyway, that took about five days. It was positively glorieux!"
"You almost fell sick that time, my light. The weather was very bad," interjected Madam Apolline thoughtfully.
"Did I hear right? Getting sick? Five bloody days?!"
"Will! Not in front of the girls."
"Sorry, love."
-.-.-
Do not let the excitement of learning get the better of you, like how you should not let your hunger dictate how much you eat.
You must care for yourself, just as much as you care for everyone around you.
-.-.-
"Hermione, do you want to turn in early? If you're getting sleepy – "
"No!" Cynthia raised a brow that the unusual exclamation from her usually calm girl.
"Sorry, mum. I'm alright. Really."
Cynthia watched, intrigued, as her little girl went through a series of conflicting emotions, rubbing at her left wrist, more out of anxiety than the cold.
"…even if all I do is watch I just… I said he won't need it but…I still want..."
Cynthia smiled, nodding in understanding, tugging at her daughter's dark scarf teasingly before running her fingers through adorably windswept waves. "It's the boy that went in front of that cannon ball, isn't it?" she whispered, a slight lilt to her voice.
Hermione froze, snapping her head quickly to stare at her mother.
Cynthia giggled. "Don't give me that look, young lady. You keep forgetting: this mother always knows. Introduce us someday. I'll handle your father."
Hermione sputtered, voice pitched high in alarm, sporting a blush that covered the entirety of her face. "I-I beg your pardon? That's not – where on earth – no that's just…just– it's not like that!"
Her mother belly-laughed and hugged her tight to her side. Hermione hid her face against her shoulder, feeling her mother's hand soothe her metaphorically ruffled feathers.
They looked up in surprise as unanimous screaming boomed within the stadium, with fireworks lighting up the clear night sky. A bang rang out from the score tower, as well as sparks from the goal posts. The echoing voices of the French announcers near the Ministry Box filled them in, in clear disbelief.
"The Bulgarians won? – Flamme immortelle ! – Pierre, you saw that, no? – The Bulgarians won! The Striking Snipes won! – Incroyable !"
-.-.-
Your adventures? Yes, of course I know. Your parents and I don't just gossip for nothing. That includes your father. What a funny man he is.
-.-.-
"What do you think, Will?"
Hermione's dad looked skeptical, gaze bouncing from wife to daughter to the Delacour sisters and back again in contemplation. Eventually, he sighed, "I'll do a few calls. It ended later than I expected anyway. At least it didn't drag on for days. That's going to be difficult to explain to the travel agency."
Hermione bit her lips, a vain attempt to smother her growing smile. Her dad just huffed before giving a small smile towards the other young witches.
"Stick with her, you two – er, keep together with her, yes? But don't be too long. Do not stay late in night. Your parents and I'll prepare a quick pick-me-up for everyone before bed," her dad finished, looking at the silvery-blondes, making sure his message – in both languages – was understood perfectly.
"Oui, monsieur!"
-.-.-
In life, the best and most difficult times will lie ahead, whether due to circumstances or by your own hands. Please take one step a day towards your goals, and never be discouraged.
-.-.-
(Restricted) MagiWard Area, Stade national de Quidditch, Gour de Tazenat, Puy-de-Dôme, Massif Central
Viktor turned his head away with gritted teeth, enduring the remaining mediwizard's 'handling' of his person. The distracted man made clumsy pushes and pulls on the Seeker's bandages, and realigned his busted nose in such a way that caused great pain to throb throughout his head. The remnants of the healer's unusual spell work almost made him scream out his agony – almost – so he clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white.
Years of Combat, Dueling, and Dark Arts classes managed to increase his pain threshold significantly – as well as his pride in his endurance. No student or graduate from the Institute can ever be labeled as weak – High Master Munter made sure of it.
It doesn't help that months of Public Relation lessons insisted he maintain a strong yet calm demeanor among fans at all times less he earns a reputation he doesn't need this early on in his career – not that he plans to have one later in life, or any kind of reputation. He can be called boring for all he cares. He'd prefer to avoid scandal of any kind to preserve the little privacy he'll have from now on.
The faint sound of buzzing coming from the slight weight in his pocket reminded him heavily of that fact.
He can still remember the surreal amount of howling and whooping as he touched down next to a goal post fountain, with the stadium's charmed façade reflecting the spectacular sight of the celebratory fireworks – Georgi's bells added an especially terrorizing glee to their side of the stands that will no doubt make any kukeri troupe proud.
He would have appreciated their hard-earned victory more – seven hundred twenty to four hundred twenty! Captain Vulchanov was very particular with the scoring – if it weren't for the dizziness that finally caught up to him as he took a step towards the field tents.
He just had enough time to remove his bloodied equipment and uniform within the protected space, ignoring the spike of lasciviousness from the clutch of mediwitches at the corner, when he felt the great weight of his team's group tackle behind him.
While his mates praised his good timing, and precision in the air – and teased something about his chivalry? – he barely heard any of it. He was a little more preoccupied in feebly maintaining his mental barrier, which faintly cracked from the influx of rapturous emotions, and the blistering pressure added on his injuries.
Viktor winced, concentrating on squirming his way out from under the sweaty dogpile while weakly expressing his gratitude to everyone. He was caught by surprise when his arms were suddenly pulled right from under him and into a crushing embrace.
Trainer Valkov ugly-cried terribly, exclaiming his own elation into Viktor's ear, babbling about inspiration, and hard work – adding suffocation and partial hearing loss to the growing list of harm on his body.
Eventually, they all realized his predicament when a pack of mediwizards entered and reprimanded them at their patient's rough treatment. The confusing mix of exuberance, surprise, and sharp distress assaulted Viktor's senses, shattering the remains of his shielding. The last image he lingered on as darkness encroached is a pair of worried, brown eyes amongst a sea of 'others', and petite fingers buried within the warm confines of her scarf.
His scarf, he thought dopily, well aware the smile that stretched across his face as he passed out was a tad too large for someone with his injuries – he could always say he's euphoric about their victory too.
The next time he came to, he caught the familiar smells of burning dittany, bruise removal paste, and blood replenishing potions, which he drank obediently when prompted. When he felt he had enough strength to open his eyes, he was greeted by an enthusiastically chatty male swathed in the forest green robes of a healer.
Viktor allowed a sigh, hiding his exasperation. Apparently, the young man had recently finished his masters in the Healing Arts and wanted to specialize in Sports Therapeutics and Remedials. A noble profession to be sure but Viktor thought it would be some time before any rookie would get the chance to administer their learned treatment plans on actual patients.
Then again, experience is the best teacher. And he's fairly young himself to turn professional. Guess he can't really complain. Too much. But it took every ounce of his remaining self-control to keep his poise, ignoring the burning, starry eyed stare from his healer-slash-fan.
After a few more meditative breathes, it seems the gods finally felt pity for him. "Alright, Mr. Krumov. Keep that shoulder off for another two days and the Musculoose Brew will do the rest," came the bubbly advice. "Congratulations again by the way! Your plays were fantastic! Oh if only mama could see me now – "
"Thank you for attentive service. I am grateful, but I rest now. Have good night."
Not dismayed by the abrupt dismissal, the mediwizard beamed, and nodded. But as he reached out for his medicinal box, he swung back suddenly, a question in his eyes and a sheepish smile, fiddling with a small leaf of parchment in his free hand. Viktor understood immediately and gave a small but tired smile, wordlessly accepting the quill the man used to take notes.
Good thing my dominant hand is still working, Viktor mused, as he roughly did his signature.
Breathing out his relief, the young Seeker looked around at the now empty space, double checking for any hidden giggling or feelings of mischief. He fell back down on the surprisingly plush cot, shoulders slumping as he pulled out a very crumpled handkerchief.
He grimaced. A substantial amount of dry blood stained the light rose fabric, covering the last of its original owner's scent as well as ruined patches of it in a wrinkly mess. He must have unconsciously placed the Snitch next to his treasure in the same pocket.
This now adds to the list of disappointments that kept swirling in his head even before he raised the golden ball in a closed fist at the stadium, its little wings rapidly flapping in between his fingers.
As comforted as he was by their victory, representing his country in the best possible light, and elevating his team mates to new career opportunities…
It just seemed…empty, personally.
His thoughts ran back to his cowardice at the marketplace. He protected Hermione all throughout their time together, helping her avoid bumping into anyone else while she's busy perusing the wares, and internally snickering at those that couldn't avoid his big feet. In the end, he only had enough courage to sneak his purchase into hers before disappearing with a hasty farewell, a proverbial tail tucked in between his legs.
Surely she felt offended at not being given a proper by-your-leave. He didn't feel like a gentleman doing so either.
But if she remained understanding after that, then his absence in the days leading up to today would surely have tested it immensely. It must have. He knew he should have at least sent Gosho or Mimi to her – preferably Mimi – but he didn't want to seem presumptuous to have either friend go to the Delacour property. They were not given the opportunity to be introduced to the Master, and Mistress of the House beforehand, despite an introduction with one of their daughters. It's just not right.
He could have easily blamed his couch and Trainer Valkov's last minute training schedule, taking up a whole day instead of a few hours, but he could have done more to make time. They're just doing what they can, and he should have done so too – even if he fell in an exhausted heap after each intense session.
And finally, his hesitance. He just can't seem to voice out why he can't sense her emotions, no matter how much he wants to explain. He knows she's bright. He knows she can understand. He knows she's kind – oh so very kind.
But –
..'don't tell'… 'shield'… ''keep safe'…'you'll get hurt'…'be careful'…'remain silent'… 'save yourself'… 'protect'… 'safeguard'…
… 'not a word, Viktor. Not a word. Please. Please…'…
The words, the mantra, remain his constant companions growing up. Over and over, constantly on repeat.
An order, made out of love. Sometimes a stifling love, but he understands, being an only child; an only son.
And now, a command he'll need to follow as his fame grows, as his exposure grows – if he lets it. And that's the final issue: even if he was given the miraculous chance to be with his custodia, he's not sure if she wants him to continue Quidditch as a career, if the worry he saw in her eyes was any indication.
In a related note, the misfortune that awaits any tragicus when he or she is not careful has always been a looming shadow within the depths of his mind. Even that day, under their tree, when he tried to translate in the simplest terms of his condition to her, his voice instinctually turned soft, conscious of anyone that might eavesdrop.
But despite knowing all of this, knowing the importance, knowing the risks – the destroyed handkerchief in his hands felt like the physical representation of all his regrets.
So immersed was he by his melancholic thoughts that he failed to notice the quiet swish of the tent flap, the slow, careful padding of feet on cut grass, and the silent presence now sat near his bed.
A soft cough caught his attention.
"Hi."
-{-}-
Hermione rubbed at her wrist, feeling uneasy from Viktor's positively gob smacked expression, understandably not expecting her visit – or her company in general.
An awkward air surrounded them; minutes flew by without either one speaking. When she couldn't maintain eye contact anymore, she looked down, and finally noticed the bandages that decorated heavily over his shoulders and chest, the strong smell of something herbal in the air, and the purple bruising right across his still healing nose – it certainly looks painful but he doesn't seem to mind.
She knitted her brows and frowned, smoothing the sheet in front of her nervously, deciding, "Nevermind. You clearly need your rest. I'm not supposed to be here so…I just thought I…" she trailed off, shaking her head. She went to get up from the chair next to the cot when his hand shot out, and grabbed her forearm.
She raised her head up, eyes slowly following the line of Viktor's hand attached to his arm – who adjusted his grip more gently now – and up to his dark, yet awestruck eyes.
"You are here," he said in a hush voice, as if telling her a secret.
Hermione huffed, giving him a wry smile, eyeing a loose thread of the relatively lush bedding as she sat back down. "Right well, you can blame the sisters. Fleur is doing a great job with distracting security – annoyingly radiant that one, really – and I think some of the mediwizards too. Gabrielle's covering the female front. Turns out, she brings out the maternal side of witches. I would have thought they would only affect men."
"Da. Veela young are naughty. They make you look other way while they cause trouble. Fully grown ones are, how you say, over…over-power? Over-whelm? They overwhelm man's senses completely. Very easy. We careful when we bring them for mascot presentation," Viktor explained, absentmindedly. She can feel his eyes roaming over her face, giving her that peculiar look again like she's a priceless work of art.
Hermione tilted her head, intrigued, choosing to focus on another new fact than the faster pounding in her veins. "Fascinating. They originated from Bulgaria, right? And mascot presentation? I didn't see that."
"You stay for whole match? Day to night?" he interrupted with slight urgency, his hand now in a relaxed clasp around hers. He sat up smoothly, as if waking up from a quick nap, facing her fully, and eye contact intent.
Hermione raised a brow, confused, but nodded her head nevertheless. "Yes? But like I said, I didn't see any mascots."
"Ne, mascot presentation is for bigger game. Like World Cup. Better security," he whispered distractedly. He cleared his throat and continued in his normal timber, "I thought…I thought you leave. After the – after my…" he stopped, gingerly touching his shoulder, head tilted down in embarrassment.
Hermione frowned; giving in to her impulse to reprimand at the reminder of his injury. "Of course I stayed! How would I know if you're still alive otherwise?"
Viktor turned back and stared, mouth agape. Hermione blew a sharp breathe at her unruly bangs, anticipating a complaint. Well she won't have it until she'd had her say. "You were reckless, you know that? Incredibly brave, I'll admit, but reckless. Monsieur Delacour said that if any of the balls are near enough to hit any spectator, anyone at all, they'd drop like a sack of potatoes – unless they hit another person below. We're seated way up high, as you know, and…no matter. That's beside the point. The point was, you were needlessly putting yourself at risk. I know there are so called 'calculated risks' but that didn't look like one. Absolutely not.
And another thing, why didn't you get yourself checked out immediately at this tent? I think that was your Captain that called for timeout…? Monsieur Delacour said you're not out of the game if you get yourself a quick fix. But no. You had to carry on, flying as if you weren't hit by those – those bludge…balls. Things. Those flying fiends of death.
You're the Seeker. I know the pressure on you to win is massive – my best friend's a Seeker for our school, did I tell you? He gets heckled constantly by our House's Captain to 'move move, move', 'practice, practice, practice', 'win, win, win'. And that's just for a school event. You, on the other hand, are on a completely different level. Hence, your injuries are on a completely different level – What if…what if one small injury jeopardizes your whole career? Or what if, down the line, after several years, one wrong muscle pull gets you permanently injured? You have to be more mindful of yourself.
Furthermore why – why are you smiling at me like that? Do you think I'm being funny?!" she interrupted herself mid-rant, scowling, but losing steam quickly when he started to laugh, shoulders shaking hard, amusement and surprise twinkling merrily in his eyes. Then he squeezed their fingers together more firmly, making her heart skip a beat.
"Ne. Ne. I am just…I am just thinking you are incredible witch, Hermione Jean Granger," he stated softly, ending with a sigh and small smile. Shivers went up her spine at his emphasis on her vowels in that peculiar way of his, as well as from the tender gaze he directed at her.
Hermione was saved from sputtering a clumsy response by the sparkle from a huge butterfly at the end of Viktor's cot, nine-inch wings flapping in a deliberate manner. She checked her watch before looking up in apology.
"It's Gabrielle's familiar. We need to get back before our parents worry."
Viktor smiled sadly. "I understand. Please careful on way home. I also mean when you go back in own country."
"Yeah…" Hermione responded, voice turning quiet for a few moments.
Channeling her Gryffindor daring, she took a deep breath, raised up her chin, and smiled. "Thank you, Viktor Ivanov Krumov. You've made my time here very…pleasant. It was most enjoyable. And – and I learned a lot. And uhm…I…"
"Yes?" He encouraged, voice pitched higher than his normal register, with something akin to hope entering his gaze.
-.-.-
But most important of all, enjoy life. Enjoy living it. Choose to be happy. Choose your happiness.
-.-.-
Resolute, she took out a clean handkerchief from her pocket, placing it carefully in between their hands. She felt a blush warming up her face at the realization their fingers had loosely intertwined without her feeling it.
"It's for when you need another," she emphasized mildly, looking over at the ruined one near his lap, covered obviously with blood.
"Oh," came his neutral response, face now carefully indifferent.
Hermione couldn't smother her giggle even when she tried, slowly squeezing her fingers while watching for his reaction.
And he did not disappoint. Viktor's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline at the muffled crunch of paper, staring more fixatedly at their fingers.
The glittering butterfly flew up then, a slight breeze blowing over their faces. "That's my cue," Hermione said, watching as it silently went out through the small gap of the tent. She turned her head back around, still smiling as she stood. "Good night, Viktor. You take care of yourself on your own way back, alright? Give my regards to Georgi and Mira."
He shook his head. "Give mine to Delacours as well. They good people."
"Yours too. Your friends are good people too I mean."
"Da. I know." He hesitated for a moment, thinking over something, before an unsettlingly roguish expression passed over his face. "Close eyes, please."
Her eyebrows couldn't get any higher than they are now at his request. "And why would I do that?"
"You surrounded by good people. I surrounded by good people. So, trust I be good, yes? Close eyes, please."
Hermione playfully put on a skeptical face before closing her eyes warily, her other hand at the ready to smack him if he gets any cheeky ideas.
Hermione heard him mutter something under his breath and saw a dim glow through her eyelids. She held her breathe as she felt Viktor roll her fingers gently to wrap around something before feeling a warm pressure on the back of her hand.
He had the gall to chuckle before he let go of her hand. The sudden loss prompted her to open her eyes. She widened them comically at the glint of gold shining on her palm. "It right if you keep something mine, when I keep something yours.
Good night, Hermione. Have sweetest dreams."
Hermione just nodded stiffly, rendered utterly speechless, before she scampered out into the night.
-.-.-
You'll be surprised by what life has in store for you.
May the winds of tomorrow blow your way, always.
Miya Lebedeva, DCPsych
Proprietress, Deep Roots Studio
-.-.-
-{-}-
"The security wizards are strangely red in the face tonight, aren't they?" Mira observed, passing by a few, as she and Georgi walked into Viktor's designated field tent.
Georgi shrugged, too hungry to care. "They're French. They might have drunk their misery away. Anyway do you think Vinko is high on the fumes?"
"Say what now?"
"Vinko! We have clearance to get you. Get your butt out of bed."
They heard a dreamy sigh.
"Vinko?"
"…I'm brave…on different level..." came the odd reply. A very uncharacteristic giggle briefly left their friend's smiling lips.
Mira leaned her head near Georgi's shoulder, staring at their friend who's strangely lounging on the bed. "You might be on to something about the fumes," she whispered.
They both saw him kiss a small piece of parchment and stare at it with a stupid grin.
"A bucket full of water?" Georgi suggested, taking out his wand. "Might be enough to wake him up."
"Maybe just a glassful. We need to avoid his injuries," Mira refuted, taking out her own wand. Just in case.
Author's Note: That officially ends Summer of Year 1993. This is my longest chapter yet and its my new favorite~
EDIT: Next chapter will be about their school term, as a reward for the very long wait.
EDITED 11/28/2020 with Translation and Explanations:
Tikvenik (Тиквеник) - literally means 'pumpkin-head' in Bulgarian; It's like calling someone an airhead - having a big empty hollow heads
Lélya (Леля) - very broad term for 'aunt' in Bulgarian; also the name given by children to any female adult they don't know. Like how you call someone 'auntie'. Or 'tita', in my language. :3
mugul (Мъгъл) - this is actually what they use in Bulgarian translations of the books for 'muggle'. Although phonetically its M"g"l but uhh, I think most of us might have a little difficulty trying to pronounce that.
printsesa (принцеса) - 'princess' in Bulgarian
chérie (feminine form) - French endearment for a friend or lover. It can be similar in meaning to sweetie or dear
friendly - British word which means a match that does not form part of a serious competition.
kukeri (кукери) - are elaborately costumed Bulgarian men, and sometimes women, who perform traditional rituals intended to scare away evil spirits. The costumes cover most of the body and include decorated wooden masks of animals (sometimes double-faced) and large bells attached to the belt (Wikipedia). Georgi certainly had fun with those bells.
High Master Munter - Professor Harfang Munter was Durmstrang Institute's second High Master and 'who established Durmstrang's reputation for emphasising martial magic as an impressive part of its curriculum.' (HP Fandom Wiki)
If it wasn't clear before, Mrs. Lebedeva is Japanese. How she writes her formal letters reflect that (or semi-formal in this case). The format is always:
1) Addressee's Name
2) Set Expression (this is usually about the weather or seasonal changes. They love their seasonal changes)
3) Content
4) Set Expression (this is usually giving well wishes to the addressee's health or looking forward to see them)
5) Sender's Name
Eat until you are eight parts (out of ten) full (腹八分目, or hara hachi bu) - this is a common teaching in Japan (and China and India as well) about doing things (or eating food) in moderation.
Américain - 'American' in French.
glorieux - 'glorious' in French, masculine term
Flamme immortelle - 'immortal flame' in French, feminine term. Ok now this one is my attempt at being witty. Nicolas Flamel is a well beloved (I think) wizard in France, known for being the creator of the Philosopher's Stone and thereby has achieved immortality (supposedly). So it's a play on words about his last name and longevity. The English always used 'Merlin's Beard!' so...yeah. That's my contribution.
Incroyable - 'incredible' in French.
'Oui, monsieur' - 'Yes, sir' (or literally, 'Yes, mister') in French
'Stade national de Quidditch' - 'Quidditch National Stadium' in French; I may be wrong. I just Google Translated it xD
BONUS:
Musculoose Brew - Musculus ('muscle' in Latin) + Loose. It's a mixture that helps relax the muscles. I completely made this up xD
Onwards!
Reine