Looking back on the whole ordeal, Hermione shouldn't have been surprised that Rita Skeeter could somehow create the perfect storm of events to perfectly and completely humiliate her.
It all started at breakfast one innocuous, rainy January morning. Hermione had been eating with Viktor at the Slytherin table—a betrayal Ron still hadn't forgiven her for—and Viktor had just left to go do some early morning flying. He'd invited her to come with him, but they'd both known that the invitation had been a pleasantry and nothing more. Viktor's early morning flights weren't the kind of thing she could join him for on his broom (after all, she didn't have a death wish) and she had had more than enough of pretending to watch Harry practice on his broom to last her a lifetime. Besides, Viktor would have felt awful for completely and utterly ignoring her. And she'd have felt poorly for completely and utterly ignoring him.
And so it was that Viktor had just abandoned her at the Slytherin table, surrounded by people who casually liked her (the Durmstrang students) and who utterly loathed her very existence (Malfoy and his roving gang of idiots). She'd just been getting ready to leave as well, despite the early hour, when the mail arrived. While she certainly didn't feel like hanging around the table any longer, she did want to snag her mail and her Daily Prophet before she left. After all, who knew what Malfoy would do if given unfettered access to her personal letters?
In retrospect, it would have been much better than what actually happened.
She'd made the mistake of opening her mum's letter first. While she was reading about her nanna's latest refusal to move in with them, seemingly everyone else in the entire Great Hall was reading the front page of the Daily Prophet.
The loud guffaw and barking laughter of Pansy Parkinson drew her attention. She wished it hadn't, for every eye in the hall seemed to be fixed upon her in some twisted look of depraved amusement. Daphne Greengrass, too polite to do nothing, but too Slytherin to be obvious about it, caught her gaze before pointedly looking at the Daily Prophet in Pansy's hands. When she seemed certain Hermione had caught on, she deliberately returned to her tea and toast, her good deed for the day accomplished.
Hermione unrolled her own copy of the paper and nearly dropped it in shock.
On the very front page was a picture of the Champions' tent from the First Task. In it, she was squeezing Harry tight around the middle, her face buried in his chest and his arm wrapped around her shoulder. He looked so nervous, but gently dropped a kiss to the top of her head. On the very edge of the scene was Viktor, his shoulders slumped forward and his face equal parts pained and hopeful. In the photograph, he seemed to waffle between marching over to them and leaving the frame entirely before the moment replayed over and over again.
Tangled Love Triangle Threatens Triwizard Tournament
By Rita Skeeter
Dear readers, it is with no joy that this reporter brings you the following heartache: Harry Potter, Triwizard Champion and famed Boy Who Lived, has seemingly lost yet another loved one in his life. Famously deprived of all love and affection since the infamous murder of his parents, it's been no secret that Harry Potter's Hogwarts sweetheart has always been Muggleborn Hermione Granger.
But it seems poor Harry Potter is forever doomed for sorrow. In this latest emotional blow, it appears that the ambitious Miss Granger is no longer satisfied with the love of just one famous wizard. Her sights have now been set on none other than Bulgarian Quidditch sensation and competing Triwizard Champion Viktor Krum. Despite being fellow Champions, Krum, obviously smitten with the conniving Miss Granger, seems ready to cast aside all attempts at sportsmanlike behavior if it means he gets the girl.
"I can't believe she'd do that to Harry," says Hogwarts professor and former groundskeeper Hagrid, a favored friend of Harry Potter. "And with a boy from Durmstrang to boot." The remainder of Professor Hagrid's opinion of the Bulgarian bonbon was, unfortunately, unfit to print.
But how did Miss Granger, by all accounts a talented but exceedingly plain witch, win the hearts of two such famous wizards?
"Oh, she's quite ugly isn't she? I don't think she could've done it on her own," says Pansy Parkinson, fellow fourth-year student at Hogwarts. When asked to elaborate, the lovely Miss Parkinson admitted that "She's really clever. She could whip up a love potion or two in no time. I definitely wouldn't put it past her."
And there it is, dear reader. One can't help but feel sorry for Harry Potter, to be cast aside so easily for the newest schoolboy celebrity. This author can only hope that Hogwarts' Headmaster Albus Dumbledore takes these accusations seriously and that next time, young Harry Potter finds himself luckier in love.
What.
Utter.
Drivel.
Hermione's brain seemed to go entirely blank. She couldn't think of anything, anything at all, except that she needed to GET OUT. Get away. Get anywhere but here.
Shoving her letters and the offending Daily Prophet into her bag, she fled the Great Hall to a chorus of raucous laughter, her cheeks flaming and her eyes threatening tears.
Her feet took her, as they usually did, up to the library. If Madam Pince noticed her watery eyes, she didn't mention it. She did, however, give Hermione the most pinched look of disdain she could ever remember seeing in her life.
On the librarian's desk was a copy of the Daily Prophet.
With a savage scowl, Hermione barreled past the mean old spinster and stomped further into the library, desperate to find a good corner in which to mull over the absolute imbecile that was Rita Skeeter.
In that moment, what she wished for most was a door to slam right in Madam Pince's face.
=/=/=
The day did not improve from there.
Because of course it didn't.
Hermione wasn't lucky enough to catch a break.
She'd barely had time to collect herself and build up a tolerable amount of righteous indignation—how dare that bitch say such things about her, about Viktor!—before she had to wipe her face and rush up to the third floor for her least favorite class of the day: Defense Against the Dark Arts.
And of course it was her luck that she arrived just a little bit later than she wanted, loudly stomping and huffing her way into the classroom to find that nearly everyone else was already there.
And staring at her.
And giggling.
And smirking.
She could see at least three Daily Prophets spread out on desks, and another ten sticking out of people's bags.
She hated everyone.
Everyone.
Including Harry and Ron. Harry was looking at her with poorly disguised sympathy: the kind that suggested he didn't think she could handle this, but surely with his superior experience of being smeared through that rag masquerading as a newspaper, he could guide her through this tough time. Insufferable. He hadn't even opened his mouth and she knew he'd be insufferable.
Ron on the other hand was looking at her in ill-concealed amusement. The little flick of his eye towards his bag, then towards Harry, before it landed again on her told her everything she needed to know about Ron's insipid thought process. He found this hilarious, thought she was being taken down just the right number of pegs, but was trying to be circumspect about it because Harry had likely given him a talking to when he crowed too loud at the breakfast table.
Well, she'd show the both of them. This didn't bother her one bit. She was cool, calm, and collected.
She slammed her bag down on her desk and gave Ron her harshest glare.
"Did you have something you wanted to say?" she hissed at him.
Cool, calm, and collected her arse. She could be serene and unbothered tomorrow.
"Nope," Ron said with a little grin. It was the happiest he'd been in her presence since before the Yule Ball, and she hated him just a little more than ever for it.
"You ok, Hermione?" Harry asked, his voice lowering until it was almost a whisper.
"Fine. It's just a load of drivel. No one will ever believe that gossiping idiot, anyway. Everything she writes is just thinly-veiled lies."
"Right," Harry responded, a bit wary of her, as if she were one of Hagrid's wild beasts who might strike out at any moment.
Or shoot fire out her arse.
That mental picture would have helped calm her down on any other day, but instead it just reminded her of Hagrid. Bloody Hagrid.
"I can't believe Hagrid would have said something like that about me."
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"I mean, it wasn't about you exactly, was it? It was just about Krum. You know how Hagrid is about the Durmstrang kids."
She scoffed. "Oh yes, because that makes it so much better. Hagrid's fine with me, he's just prejudiced against my boyfriend, the dark wizard. Because he's Bulgarian. Definitely better."
Harry's pained expression nearly stopped her. But really, she wasn't worried about Harry's feelings right now; not when her own were swirling through her like a tempest, blowing away every rational and tempered reaction she could have had.
She'd have continued on if she hadn't heard Queen Parkinson loudly reigning over the simpering Slytherins on the other side of the room.
She'd never wanted to punch someone in the face more.
And that included when she socked Malfoy last year. Which was still one of her fondest memories.
"Potter I can understand. He's so pathetic that she's the best he could do. But Krum? Like I said: a love potion's the only way that could have happened."
"Oh, definitely. If he wanted a foreign witch, he could have done SO much better," Millicent Bulstrode piped in loudly, making sure to stare straight at Pansy to make sure everyone knew exactly who deserved a wizard like Krum.
"I know! Those teeth! And that hair! And a filthy little Mudblood to boot! He's either blind, bewitched, or as stupid as they say."
Oh, that was it.
That.
Was.
It.
Insult her? Fine. She knew what the Slytherins all thought of her. But to say something like that about Viktor?!
Hermione stood so quickly her chair clattered against the floor behind her.
Her wand was in her hand, but she couldn't remember grabbing it.
The flash of fear in Pansy Parkinson's eyes was obvious, even if she quickly tried to cover it up with a simpering smile and false bravado.
Hermione wasn't entirely certain what happened then, but the next thing she knew, she was flat on her back and her face felt like it was on fire.
Harry was shouting. Ron had his wand drawn. Malfoy was laughing so hard he was bent double. And Pansy was too, until a tell-tale thump resounded in the door of the classroom.
And all noise stopped.
Except for whimpering.
Which, she realized, was coming from her.
Her face really hurt.
"You. Longbottom. Escort Ms. Granger to the hospital wing." She watched his peg leg stomp past her. "Cast another dark jinx in my class again, Ms. Parkinson, and you'll be dreaming of the good ol' days when all you got was a detention. I'll see you tonight after dinner."
As Neville gingerly helped her to her feet and very pointedly avoided looking at her, she watched Ron mouth "sorry," his face a little ashen.
=/=/=
"Oh dear. And how did this happen?"
Neville began a stumbling story of Gryffindor bravery defending the fair maiden Hermione against the dastardly Slytherins. Or something that might have sounded like that if Madam Pomfrey hadn't interrupted him.
"Never mind, Mr. Longbottom. Bring her over here. No not that bed, this one! The one I'm pointing to!" Madam Pomfrey tutted again, took one good look at Hermione's face, and marched towards the potions cabinet.
"Thank you, Mr. Longbottom, you're dismissed," she called over her shoulder.
With one last pained, apologetic, slightly sickened look at her, Neville abandoned her to the brusque hospital matron's care.
Hermione leaned back against the hospital bed. The stinging and burning in her face had spread down her neck. Fire began to lick across her collarbones and everything desperately itched. Gently unbuttoning the top of her uniform, her suspicions were confirmed when she spotted hundreds of boils starting to surface on her chest.
She didn't even want to think about what her face must look like.
Madam Pomfrey returned with a large vial of shimmering blue potion, already uncapped and emitting a tantalizing curl of faint pink smoke.
Boil Cure potion.
The recipe was in the first year Book of Potions.
Author: Zygment Budge.
Section: Magical Drafts and Potions.
Page: 26.
They'd brewed it first year.
Neville's had been awful.
He'd entirely forgotten to take his cauldron off the heat before adding his porcupine quills.
It was the first exploded cauldron she'd ever seen.
But certainly not the last.
Hers had been perfect, of course.
Her mind continued to supply her with everything she knew about the Boil Cure potion as she tipped the contents of the vial down her throat and swallowed. It was such a pretty color and had absolutely no excuse for tasting so incredibly vile.
"That's a dear. Would you like a scarf?"
"What?"
Her brain stuttered to a halt. Like a stalling engine.
Well, at least she wasn't listing the ingredients and preparation for the Boil Cure anymore.
"For your hair, dear. I can't grow it back until the boils are gone. Should be by the end of the day."
"What?!"
Madam Pomfrey tutted loudly and conjured her a mirror.
She was almost afraid to look, but far too afraid not to.
She was covered in boils. Everywhere. Big red, angry, weeping boils.
And she was bald.
Completely and utterly bald.
And covered in boils.
And bald.
She didn't even have any eyebrows, for lords sake!
Hermione had always prided herself on having very, very little vanity. But this was beyond the pale.
Oh lord, Viktor better not see her like this.
It would be humiliating.
"Oh."
"A scarf, dear? Or a turban?"
Now that was an image.
"Perhaps a scarf."
=/=/=
"Oh, don't look at me! I look like I'm one of those kids with cancer." She buried her face in her hands, overwhelmed with a sudden feeling of embarrassment.
"Kids with what?" Viktor asked, befuddled. She felt the bed sink beneath his weight, his warm thigh pressing against her. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he delicately grasped her wrists and peeled her hands back from her face, linking their fingers briefly before setting them down to rest in her lap.
When she had the courage to open her eyes, all she saw was Viktor looking down at her, his face filled with warm concern.
"I wish you'd waited another hour. Or two. At least then I'd have hair again."
"No. I am sorry I am not here earlier. Heard about you this morning, but Karkaroff would kill me if I skip classes."
"He frightens you, doesn't he?"
Viktor's face pinched and his brows drew together. It made him somehow look forbidding and infinitely more worried.
"He is…not himself. Has never been good man, but…" his voice trailed off, his eyes glazing over with thought. "But you are distracting me. What happened? You are OK?"
"It was nothing."
"Da. Definitely nothing. That is why you have no eye hair."
For the first time all day, Hermione laughed. If Viktor cared that she was laughing at him, he didn't show it. He simply cared that she was laughing at all.
"They're called eyebrows."
"Da. Eye brow." He repeated, stroking his thumb across the smooth skin where they were just that morning. "Was not talking about eye brow."
He pointed to his eye, gesturing in a small circle. "Was talking about eye hairs."
Oh no.
"Are you telling me that I have no eyelashes?"
She didn't even wait for him to decide if that was the English word he was looking for and quickly brought her fingers up to her face, rubbing her eye and discovering that, indeed, the hair loss jinx had taken all the hair on her head.
Would her humiliation never cease?
It was the wrong thought to put out into the universe, for no sooner had it crossed her mind than she heard the door to the Hospital Wing open and the animated, boisterous voices of Harry and Ron drift in from the hall.
They were talking animatedly about Quidditch something-or-others when Ron suddenly realized they had an audience.
"Oh look. It's her boyfriend. The bonbon." Ron whispered. But in the suddenly-silent Hospital Wing, he might as well have shouted.
Viktor stiffened beside her.
She was going to die. Right here. Right in this hospital bed. From sheer mortification.
She was sure you could die from that.
And if anyone dared to tell her differently, she'd tell them the story of Oggbert the Abashed of 1674.
At least she wasn't the only one feeling awkward.
In fact, she was fairly certain that not a single person in the Hospital Wing, with the probable exception of Madam Pomfrey, wasn't feeling incredibly uncomfortable.
Harry had stopped several feet from her bed and was now shuffling uncomfortably, trying to decide where to look and seemingly having no luck making a decision.
Ron had seemingly realized they'd all heard him; his face had gone bright red and he was gaping like a fish, his eyes darting about the room like he was thinking of making a run for it.
Viktor's face had fallen completely blank, his resting expression forbidding and grumpy. He made to get up—some stuffy Pureblood manners she supposed—but she gripped his hand tightly.
Let the boys see them as they were. Let Ron see that Bulgarian bonbon was here to stay and he liked her. Even when she was covered in fading boils, her naked skull wrapped in a lurid yellow scarf bedecked with bright pink begonias and magically flapping butterflies.
Besides, his hand in hers, his thigh pressed against hers where he half-perched on the bed: these things helped ground her. It was like she could, by osmosis, absorb some of Viktor's quiet, steady strength.
Harry was the first one to break the silence.
"Hey Krum." Harry's attempt at a smile made him look like he had gas.
"Potter."
Viktor gave him that funny little head bow he used when he didn't feel like standing up. She suspected it was one part courtesy with a dash of disapproval thrown in. But Harry didn't need to know that.
"Weasel."
If possible, Ron's face got even redder. "It's Weasley, actually," he managed to stutter out.
Determined to stop a fight from breaking out—really, teenage boys were such a handful—she barreled on like this was completely and perfectly normal.
"So tell me, what happened this morning? I remember Pansy being awful and then I was on the floor."
"Oh. Yeah. So, here's the thing," Ron started, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck.
"We were only trying to help," Harry interjected.
Already, she didn't like where this was going.
"Exactly!" Ron exclaimed, warming to Harry's interpretation of events. "We know how you are in a dual, and you looked ready to go after her. We were only trying to back you up."
When neither of them continued, she scoffed. "And how does that explain anything?"
"Well. You see," Harry started. "Ron thought he could take out Pansy before she tried anything. And I thought I could cast a good shield charm in case she got off some kind of hex."
"And…" she prompted.
"And we both did just that. Only, Crabbe tried to put Harry in a headlock. So, Pansy still got you with that hair-loss jinx." Ron rubbed his neck again.
"But what about the boils?"
Harry and Ron shared a long look. It was easy to see that neither of them wanted to tell her what had happened next. It was like she could see them desperately playing a round of 'rock paper scissors' in their minds.
Harry lost.
"Well. Crabbe jumped me, yeah? So my shield charm didn't work the way I intended."
"Oh?"
She swore, getting this story out of them was like pulling teeth.
"And, well, IaccidentallycasttheshieldcharmaroundPansyinsteadofyou."
"What?"
All three of them jumped a little, reminded suddenly that Viktor was right there and also listening to their story.
Harry swallowed hard and gave a side long glance at Viktor's forearm, where he kept his wand holster. She hadn't realized that Harry would know he wore it there, but it made sense. They did share a dorm, after all.
With a deep breath, Harry soldiered on.
"When Crabbe grabbed me, I was casting the shield charm, right? And, er, well. I miscast and it went around Pansy instead of around you."
"And the Fernunculus?" she asked, unamused and already guessing where this story ended.
"It was mine," Ron finally muttered.
Viktor turned to glare at Ron. Well, perhaps 'glare' wasn't the right word. But he looked far grumpier and more forbidding than he ever did on those World Cup posters.
"It wasn't my fault!" Ron exclaimed, gesticulating wildly.
"Obviously," Viktor replied.
In that moment, his scathing drawl reminded her a little of Professor Snape. Which was an uncomfortable thought she wasn't going to chase down right now.
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. Did you come to bring my assignments?"
Harry, grateful for her interference, reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of parchment.
"I brought you my notes. I know they're not as good as yours, but I tried to, er, put a bit more effort in." He seemed reluctant to hand them over.
"And…?" she prompted, when he didn't continue.
Harry plastered on a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just reading for Defense and History, but we've got a new essay for Potions. On, um…"
Again, Harry's voice trailed off.
"Oh for god's sake, what is it?"
"It's on the dangers of love potions," Harry finally managed to squeak out, for all the world looking like he was trying to invent a spell that would actually let him sink into the floor.
Her own sound of outrage was drowned out by a very rude exclamation in Bulgarian. Or maybe Russian. She couldn't tell. What she did know was that it wasn't English, and it definitely wasn't nice. And Viktor was upset enough that he didn't even blush when he said it.
Instead, he looked absolutely murderous, his face dark and his expression shuttered. For a moment, he was that powerful older wizard slicing into his own palm to enter the Tournament. He was that competitive, feral athlete driving his opponent to crash face first into the ground simply to get him out of his way.
"This I will fix," he muttered, standing abruptly, shoulders pulled back and spine straight as a board.
"No. No you will not," she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and wrenching him back towards her. "You will not fight this battle for me, Viktor Krum. This is my problem, and I get to decide what to do about it."
He turned to face her, the boys behind them forgotten. "But you will do nothing!"
"Yes. And that is my choice! I won't give anyone that kind of power over me. I am mortified, and angry. And I will write Professor Snape the most professional goddamn essay on the 'dangers of love potions' and I will shove it down his throat. He will not get the satisfaction of knowing he got to me."
"Merlin, Mione," Ron breathed out.
Viktor, seeming to realize they still had an audience, huffed quietly before turning back to her.
"You say the word."
"I won't."
He smiled, just a little. "I know." Face darkening again, he leaned forward, grasped her face between his hands, and planted a searing kiss on her lips before pulling back and placing a quieter, softer one on her forehead.
"I see you at breakfast, da?" he murmured in her ear, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine.
Turning to leave, he once again drew up to his full height, emphasizing just how short and young both Harry and Ron looked.
"Potter. Weasel." Tipping his head in a miniscule, casually insulting bow, he left.
Ron did not rise to the challenge in Viktor's eyes.
A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the incredibly long wait for this chapter, and thank you everyone who has left a review or a favorite on this story while you've been patiently waiting. Life has been crazy lately, and I needed to step back and focus on taking care of me. But, you'll be happy to know that life is going much smoother again and the writing bug has bit me. I churned out this chapter in 24 hours, and I'm hoping to get back into more regular updates again. I won't make any promises I can't keep, but I hope to see you all with the next chapter very soon.