When Hermione Granger, or "Broomstick Girl", as she had called herself, had suggested facing their fears together, he had truly felt taken aback given the fact that they hardly knew each other, but she had pointed out that their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other quite well, and she wasn't wrong.
The idea of facing his boggart had made his mouth dry and his palms sweat, but he remembered how she had gotten on the broom even when she had so clearly loathed it and had been so afraid. If she could do something she was scared of, then why couldn't he?
Furthermore, it gave him the opportunity to spend more time with her, the girl with crazy hair and determination running through her veins. (If pressed, he might admit that this, rather than personal growth, was his main motivation for agreeing to her proposition.)
Facing the boggart had been just as frightening as he had expected. The last time he had dealt with one, he had been a small boy of nine who stumbled upon it in one of the lesser used rooms in the manor. His fears had been different, then, but he had been alone, and the boggart had tortured him relentlessly for quite some time before someone had found him and banished it.
Watching her banish it back into the cabinet had shown him that it was a weak, pitiable creature that fed off others' insecurities and fears. He could easily face what his mind had built up into something much more fearsome than reality. Additionally, having her there beside him as an active reminder that he wasn't alone that time had been a much bigger help than he had anticipated.
Something he found himself dwelling on was the fact that Hermione's boggart was so similar to his own. It made Viktor feel better, somehow. He was not quite as lesser, and not quite as cowardly, to fear his father, he felt, when she so clearly feared her own parents as well. They all had vulnerable spots, and it just so happened that theirs were similar.
The next morning, after a brief dip in the lake, he was struck by inspiration and hastily scribbled out a quick note to be delivered to her. He was excited for breakfast, regardless of the fact that he would have to listen to the Malfoy boy's grandstanding yet again, and felt himself fairly thrumming with excitement for the post to arrive.
Again and again, his eyes slid to her as she sat in her seat. She was animatedly discussing something with the red headed girl sitting next to her, although her friend looked half asleep. From her geticulations, it looked like she was describing some kind of magical transformation. It was either that, or a very bad pantomime about a bad encounter with a pot. Whatever it was, her hair was still wild, her eyes were bright, and she looked extremely fetching as she went on.
As soon as the post came, his stomach tumbled over itself and he couldn't even pretend to be eating any longer. Even as he mechanically spooned in another mouthful of porridge, his eyes were fastened to her place. Her eyebrows rose as an owl deposited a letter in front of her, and he watched as she carefully opened it and just as carefully uncreased it. For a moment, her eyes scanned the letter, and then her mouth dropped open slightly and she looked up at him.
Trying not to be obvious, he waggled his eyebrows and gave her a thumbs up. Her mouth pressed together in response, and for a moment he thought she was mad. A bare instant later, however, her cheeks creased in a huge smile and her shoulders began to shake in laughter. The red head sitting next to her suddenly looked much more alert, asking her what was so funny, but Hermione shook her head and put his note away.
He felt the familiar fizzy delight of success traveling through his veins and knew, without a doubt, that he wanted to make her laugh that way again.
He was still riding high that afternoon as he tramped outside with his broom shrunk into the inside pocket of his robes, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. If she was able to make it, she would meet him by the edge of the lake close to the trees, a spot somewhat out of view of the castle and the boat. If she were going to face her fears, he figured, it would be nice to do so out of the view of the general public.
Leaning against the trunk of a tree, he crossed his arms and settled in to wait, hoping she would come.
Time passed, and then more time passed, and as the sun began to sink behind the horizon he finally became convinced that she would not come. His shoulders sank, and he headed back along the edge of the lake towards the ship.
As he rounded the far curve, he saw a lone form heading towards him, familiar Hogwarts robes sweeping out behind them as they approached at a fast clip. His heart leapt in his chest and his pace quickened. Was it her? Had she come?
"I'm so sorry," she apologized breathlessly as soon as she was in earshot. "I was delayed—I wouldn't have missed it—"
"Do not vorry," he cut in. "It's okay." Glancing up at the receding sun, he asked, "Do you still vish to fly today?"
She bit her lip, looking longingly toward the castle before turning back to him. "If I don't do it today, I'm not sure I'll ever do it."
He laughed. "You haff already done it before. I saw."
"That was more of a fluke that occurred in a fit of adolescent fury than anything else." Her shoulders slumped. "I was on the broom hurtling through the air before my sanity caught up with me, and by then I was completely out of control. Truly, Viktor, I'm not sure I can get on a broom when I'm in my right mind."
"That's why I'm here," he said encouragingly. "Ve vill conquer this together."
He led her back to the spot he had picked out earlier in the day, chattering all the while about the history of brooms and how they worked. He had the feeling that knowing something about the way they worked would be of value to her. She had been extremely prepared for facing the boggart, after all, and he had heard ad nauseum from the Malfoy boy about her high marks as he groused about her beating him.
Sure enough, she relaxed as she took in the mechanical workings of broom, and soon enough she was engrossed in their conversation. So engrossed, in fact, that he had enlarged his broom and was standing by it by the time she realized what he had done.
"Are you ready?" he asked, patting his broom. "Haff you brought your broom?"
Her expression was pinched. "I have done, yes." She pulled out a miniaturized broom and enlarged it with a somewhat mournful face.
Struggling to keep from laughing at her positively funereal visage, he guided his broom closer to hers. "I know that you know the actual basics, such as up for summoning it off the ground, but I vanted to spend some time talking about proper mounting technique." Easily, he explained the particulars, such as making sure she had one foot properly placed on the foothold and at least one hand on the grip before she attempted doing it.
Feeling her watchful gaze on his form as he demonstrated how to mount and dismount, he felt the tips of his ears burning. Her gaze was so incisive and intense that it would have made a lesser boy quiver. Instead, all he felt were the burning embers of interest coiled in his belly as his interest in her made itself known to him. Would she kiss with the same focus?
His heart thumped hard in his chest at the thought, but he was distracted as she yelped when the broom moved under her hand.
"I really don't think I can do this," she said, her voice trembling a little. "Honestly, last week was a fluke. I'm complete rubbish."
Dismounting his broom, he made his way over to her and gripped its hand, his firm touch making it quiescent. "Do not let fear control you. You are a powerful vitch. Show the broom that you are the one in charge, not it."
She bit her lip but gripped the handle again, her foot lodging securely against the stirrup. With one motion, she mounted the broom and sat on the cushion of air fashioned as a seat. Under his hand, the broom jolted and juddered a little, but he merely tightened his hold and it settled down.
"I've gotten it!" she said excitedly, her eyes glittering with excitement. The light of the deepening sunset glinted off her curls, and he caught his breath. She was luminescent.
"Excellent. The next thing will be flying."
And just like that, her victory fell off her face. Reassuringly, he patted her shoulder. "Don't vorry," he told her. "I vill be next to you the entire time. Ve haff all the time in the world. Ve vill go slowly and with great caution."
Slowly, he instructed her on the correct flying posture, including how to hold the broom assertively but without creating a chokehold that interrupted the flow of her magic into the broom. After all, that had been her primary problem in maintaining control when he had first seen her disastrous attempt at flying and so necessitated the most attention.
As he coached her through things, he realized that there was something immensely satisfying about watching her truly prodigious mind grasp on the concepts he presented to her. At first, she was hesitant and unsure, but as he led and as she followed, the spark he had seen so often in her eyes had returned and she slowly became more engaged, until finally…
"Viktor, am I flying?" She gaped down at the ground, which was a comfortable five metres below them.
He stifled a laugh. "You haff been flying for the last ten minutes."
Perplexed, she tilted her head. "That's impossible. I couldn't have...really?"
He nodded. "And nothing terrible has happened, da?"
"I...I never really believed that this was possible." Almost reverently, she stroked the broom handle before looking at him. "I've always failed at flying, which I felt was one of the most basic aspects of being a witch. Everyone could fly. Even Harry, who was just like me—a muggleborn who had never even heard of magic before—flew so easily. I felt like there was something wrong with me, you know? Just another sign that I….that I didn't fit in. That I wasn't a true witch."
At her confession, his heart clenched. He could imagine a younger version of her, bright-eyed and eager to learn the skill so widely used throughout the wizarding world. The idea of her trying to master something considered as an easy skill suitable to young witches and wizards and failing without understanding why made him upset, especially since she had likely failed in some spectacular fashion that caused her to be afraid of flying.
"You are certainly a true vitch," he assured her. "Being able to fly does not make you more a vitch than being able to brew potions, for example. You haff many skills that show your abilities. I haff," he added wryly, "heard much about them."
She pink flushed to the roots of her hair. "Really?"
He nodded. "Malfoy is very...vocal."
Rolling her eyes, she said, "I'm sure he is. He hates everything about me."
Privately, Viktor wondered if Malfoy's strange fixation on Hermione had less to do with hatred and more to do with bottled up attraction, but if the platinum-haired pureblood insisted on whinging about how Hermione had scored higher than him again in Charms instead of doing something about it, it wasn't Viktor's prerogative to change it.
In fact, he would prefer no competition whatsoever.
"From vhat I can, there's not much to hate about you," he murmured, flying in closer until their legs were in danger of touching. "You haff accomplished much, from vhat I have heard, and you are very beautiful. I find it hard to belieff that you are not spoken for."
Subtly, he angled them so they moved towards the lake, eager to show her how beautiful flying over the water at sunset could be. All the colours of the sky reflected on the surface like shards of coloured glass.
"Spoken for?" she repeated, a slight tilt of inquiry in her voice.
"Ah…" he searched for the word. "Ukhazhvam? I think it is courting?"
"Oh. Oh! You mean dating!" Slender fingers tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before returning to their hold on the broom. "No...nobody would want to date me."
He found that highly unlikely, but it was possible that all Hogwarts students were just that stupid to miss such a treasure in their midst. (Well, except Malfoy, but he was too caught up in his land of denial to say anything, so he didn't count.)
Pity for them.
"If someone were to want to date you, as you say, how vould they ask to do so? Vhat are the good places to do such things around here?"
Completely oblivious to his implied interest, Hermione blithely replied, "Oh, Hogsmeade! There's a village nearby that we can go to on the weekends sometimes, and often couples will go together. It's common for people to ask each other to go to Honeydukes as a first date. Often, they'll go to Madam Puddifoot's."
Noting her slight moue of distaste at the name, he asked, "You don't like it?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Not particularly. It's very...pink. And lacey."
Well, that sounded horrible, so that was out.
"So if not there, then where vould you go or like to do on such a date? Perhaps the bookstore?" he teased gently.
She slid him a look, although she did pause thoughtfully. "I would imagine it didn't matter much to me so long as I got to spend time with them, although the bookstore would be nice. And honestly, if we didn't go to Madam Puddifoot's, that would be quite fine with me."
He was surprised at her answer. Most girls would have a detailed plan or idea of what they would enjoy, but she seemed rather open to anything so long as she got to spend time with her would-be swain. It was nice that she was flexible, given that he would hate to be so public in his affections. While the press was an issue, he truly preferred more private venues overall.
His heart beat faster and his legs tightened against the broom in anticipation. "Vould you be interested in going on a date with me?" he asked. "Ve could have a picnic by the lake perhaps? Or view the stars together?"
She stared at him for so long he began to shift uncomfortably. Was his request so out of hand? "Ve haff conquered our fears together," he felt compelled to add, though his nerves made his English tangle a bit, "and I find your company very pleasing. You make me courageous. So I am courageous now and hope for the best, da? Please?"
"You really mean it? It's not some kind of...prank?"
He drew back in offense. "A prank? I assure you—"
"It's only that you're Viktor Krum," she hastened to add, "and I'm just frizzy know-it-all Hermione Granger."
In her words, he heard a wealth of injury accumulated over years of teasing. It made him soften in his reply. "It is no joke. I like you, and I am hoping that you could, maybe, like me?"
Her smile was slow in coming and shy, but it lit up her face. "I do. And I would like that very much Viktor. If the offer is still open."
"It is," he told her promptly.
"Then yes. I would like that very much."
He refrained from doing something extremely stupid like a loop de loop in celebration, choosing instead to channel his excitement through his smile. Her expression went a bit dazed at that, and he gloated inwardly.
Yes, she did, in fact, like him.
That gave him enough courage to (rather daringly) brush her hair back from her face when they dismounted from their brooms awhile later, and he relished her slight shiver as his fingertips skated across her skin.
Her shiver of delight was much the same a few weeks later when he cornered her in the dusty corner of the library and slowly, carefully cupped her face in his large hands before settling his mouth over hers.
"Viktor," she breathed, moments later, her slim fingers coming to clasp his wrists, "we're supposed to be finding books on dancing. I'm terrified I'll mess up."
He chuckled and nuzzled his nose against hers affectionately. "Don't be afraid. Ve haff conquered much vorse fears than that."
She gave him that small, private smile that he had started to think of as his—that slight quirk of her lips, her eyes soft and luminous—and carded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before shyly bestowing a kiss made sweeter by its briefness. "That's true. We are a rather good team, aren't we?"
He tangled their fingers together and kissed her knuckles before bringing her hand to rest on his heart. "Yes. Yes, ve are."