This is a very short chapter. It was actually 3 pages longer in word format... but I broke part of it off, wrote it better (it was a little lacking in the interest department), and made it into the next chapter with a new character whom I think you'll adore. Sooooo, long story short, expect the next chapter up tonight. :D

Also, a great thanks to my beta reader, elyaeru, who runs ink . accio . nu where I post a great deal of my Malfoy Fanfics. :D

"Viktor! It's freezing!" she said, still standing on the stone steps of Hogwarts Castle. Her gloved hands rested on her hips and her cheeks were already pink from the cold.

"This? This is nothing." He tilted his head back and let the snowflakes land on his face. "You should visit Russia in the vinter. You haff never felt cold until you haff spent December in our neck of the voods."

"You're crazy." She hopped off the steps and tracked through the snow towards him. "You want me to come out and have a snowball fight with your friends… in the middle of this?"

"It's beautiful veather. A little snow never hurt anyvone… vell, not snow like this." He looked up at the sky and then back at her. "You look cold. Vould you like my scarf?"

"Won't you be cold?" She looked apprehensive as he took off his scarf.

"Haff you been listening, Hermy-own? I vill be qvite fine," he laughed as he wrapped the Vratsa Vultures scarf around her pretty throat. "You look nice in Bulgarian colors. Perhaps you shall haff to come to vone of my games and vear our colors?"

She smiled hugely and admired the scarf. "It smells like your cologne. I like it."

"Vell, you may have it on one condition." She looked up at him as he smiled back at her. "You vill haff to vear it and you vill haff to think of me vhen you do."

He landed his broom outside his large manor. It was beginning to snow already. It was only mid-November and already the white bits of cloud were falling on the dark stone of the house and onto his striking raven hair. He knitted his brows as he walked back into the house and stuck his Dragonbolt broom in the broom closet off the entryway. A letter was sitting on the marble table by the door where the owls were trained to leave the mail and he grabbed it hungrily. The familiar pen on the front told him it was exactly who he wanted it to be. He had written Hermione a week ago and invited her and the children to come out and visit him for a week after Christmas; he could only hope she would answer positively.

He unfolded the letter.

Dear Viktor,

I only have a minute to reply but I wanted to get this back to you before you made plans--the kids and I would love to come and visit on the 27th of December. Hugo is very excited to see the game with the coach and Rosie is as well (she's become as taken with Quidditch as her brother is!). I'm just as thrilled, of course. I've never been to Eastern Europe. Do you think we would be able to go into Sofia and see the library that you told me about so many years ago? We'll discuss Portkeys later on, I expect.

Much love,

Hermione

He smirked as he folded the parchment back into its original form and set it back on the table. He had been writing Hermione back and forth every other week since they had parted that day in Hogsmeade, and he felt like he had really regained his friend. They would be coming to see the Vratsa Vultures play their annual game against the Abakan Ashwinders in the snow-coated stadium at Vratsa and spend some time exploring Bulgaria. Perhaps he would also take them to see a ballet in Sofia? Hermione would see her library, and he would see his Hermione.

He had been the only one living in his house since his father passed away fifteen years ago, and the house showed this fact greatly. It was clean, of course, as he had a house-elf (Hermione wouldn't be too happy to hear this, but Benislav was a family elf and very well taken care of) but it looked lonely. Within the month, he had hired a decorator, painters, and constructors to come and make the place as warm and inviting as he felt it should be. This wasn't because Hermione and her kids were coming necessarily, but he had been inspired to get this work done that he had been putting off. The stone façade of the house had been scrubbed and scoured, the walls had been painted a shade of crimson to replace the fading black and green wallpaper, and the guest rooms had been redecorated to reflect the sort of modern feel he had desired rather than his mother's old floral sheets' musty appeal.

The house looked fantastic and it felt a great deal more welcoming. He leaned back in his recliner by the fire in the drawing room and read the letter Hermione had sent him last, telling him how excited she was to come out and see him. He closed his eyes and pondered the situation. Hermione had seemed very closed off when they had written each other during her fifth year and even right after the war. Now that her husband had been killed she had been very fast to recover their correspondence. He hadn't wanted to think about it much, but she was likely keeping him as close as he was because she needed to reach out to someone. He was flattered, but at the same time he felt saddened because she hadn't spoken to him before.

The gray light filtering through the heavy velvet drapes was dimming as Christmas morning approached by the hour. They would be there in three days time and he would put the matter behind him.