Chapter Three: Raging Bull
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Library, 1994
I: Hermione
Hermione yawned.
She didn't want to insult Viktor, yawning, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten a full night's sleep.
Many things conspired to give Hermione Granger, 15, sleepless nights.
And Viktor noticed, right away.
"Are you too sleepy, Hermy-own–ninny? Or am I too stupid for you?"
"You're not stupid, Viktor. You're just not used to English. Besides, the gods only know, I haven't slept for more than three or four hours in about two years, so why do I care a monkey's, if I'm up all night helping you?"
"Hermy-own–ninny, you are too kind to Krum. To spend all this time to help with my work."
"Oh, that's alright, Viktor. It never hurts to help."
He thinks I'm kind.
Kind.
He thinks I'm kind.
Like his dear old granny in a babushka.
Why don't men ever look at me and see a girl?
"Hermy-own ninny, are you having Harry or the Veasel as your boyfriend?"
"Weasley, Viktor."
"I know his name. I am calling him vat I think he is. Veasel."
Hermione was used to that question; she hardly looked up from the parchment.
"What is it with the two of you? Why do you hate each other, so?"
Viktor shrugged.
"That's the way it is mit men, Hermy-own-inny." He said, thickly.
Then, the unthinkable.
Of all people, and at that hour of the night, Lavender Brown came from the stacks, and walked over to their table.
"Fucking slag." Hermione muttered, under her breath.
"Hermione, I was wondering if you had figured out our assignment. In potions."
If looks could kill, without a spell to make them do so, the one Hermione gave Lavender would have been as good as a Death Curse.
It was a real Snape sort of look, complete with arched eyebrow.
"You assignment? I figured out your assignment in potions when I was ten. Before I even came to Hogwarts. Those of us who know what we're doing have different assignments that you lot wot sit in the back." Hermione snarled.
"Well, could you explain it to me? You know. Just between us Gryffindors."
"Oh I would, Lav. The only thing is, you wouldn't be able to understand me. Me and my low, common, Scouser accent."
Lavender had been taunting Hermione for four years about the thickness of her Scouse accent.
Her and her upper class West End BBC newsreader spoilt posh tart tones.
Viktor swallowed a laugh.
Lavender Brown dropped the act.
"You bitch!" Lavender hissed.
"I know! Here's an idea for yer to finish yer work! Why don't you take on wiv what you're good at? Blow some bloke in 6th or 7th year, and let him sort yer out, yer fookin' slag!" Hermione shot back.
Lavender shook with rage, and then pouring on the sweetness, turned to Viktor.
"Do you think you could help me, Viktor?" she cooed.
"No. Even wizard have no cure for herpes on khuy."
Viktor figured that Miss Brown didn't know the translation of the word he had just used, so he helpfully grabbed his crotch to elucidate.
Then he turned his head and spat on the floor.
That was an insult in any language.
One that Lavender got.
"You thick fucking Bohunk bastard! Fuck you!" she spat.
"Fuck me? You? Don't make Krum to laugh, dirty slut you! If I had rubbermade of steel like tyre to put on my khuy, I would not fuck you! Krum has pride. He does not go where any dumb muzhik who knows Quaffle from Bludger has been before!" Viktor yelled after her.
Hermione was quite surprised at the clarity of his English.
Give or take a few Russian words.
"That was quite good, wasn't it? Viktor, how is it you know every English phrase that's an insult, or a swear word, or has to do with sex or violence, or sport, for that matter, but you can't suss out your lessons?"
"I learn English from TV. Also from talk. And Quidditch. People and TV and Quidditch players in locked room talk from insults and cursing and violence and sex. Not what is in dusty old books."
"Locker room, Viktor. And you have a point. Look, I know that you don't give much of a damn about what's in these dusty old books, unless it's a hex, a charm, or something to do with combat or sport, and if I were you, I wouldn't either. But if you don't pass these classes you won't graduate and then they'll kick you off the team. Now, if you'll turn to page 203 in your dusty old book, here—"
"What about love? Anything in dusty old books about love?"
"Do you mean sloshy romantic shit, or fucking?"
Viktor frowned.
"You don't see might be something in between?" he asked.
"No. I mean, at least not with the fucking naff punters at this gaff."
"Chto?"
"Not with these immature idiots, at this school, I mean. The thing is, I would never want a boyfriend. Not by the average wizard's terms. All that sloshy love bullshit. It's all for stupid bints who end up no better off than they ought to've been. You know wot that translates into?"
"Chto?"
"I'll tell you wot, then! At the bottom, when they say 'I love you, I want you to be my girl', that's not what they mean. They mean, 'Because I've put me dick in you, that means you're mine. You belong to me, you're my property. You'll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. You'll like what I say you like, and who I say you like, and you'll go where I say you go, and you had better not so much as look at another man, even if I turn out to be the worst fuck in a thousand years. And as soon as we graduate, we'll get married, and you can start pumping out my rotten little bastards, whilst I go off to work and shag whoever I please. And you'll like it.' Fuck that noise! I need that shit like I need a hole in me fucking head."
Viktor laughed a little.
"I see. Hermy-own-ninny, I do not vant to read the book you get definition of love from. Vat is it you vant from a man, then?"
Hermione had, of course, thought about that.
Many times.
But no one had ever asked her.
"Well, what I mean is, well, I'd want what men say they want from women, don't I? I'd want a man, who was a friend. Someone I could trust. Someone who wouldn't lie to me and bullshit me. And he could be a man to me and a friend to me, and that would be an end to it. A man's man, yunno. A real man. Good for it. A bloke who really, yunno, got the job done."
Hermione began to blush.
She cleared her throat and looked back at her papers.
"Christ, but I need a smoke." She muttered.
"Man who is strong man? Good fuck?"
"Summat like that, alright.' Hermione muttered into her papers and parchments.
"Da! I understand! How do you say, in English, friends mit benefits?" Krum replied.
"Brilliant."
She was about to look back at her papers, but, Krum lifted her head from the table, gently but firmly, putting his hand under her chin.
"Hermy-own-ninny, you are too afraid that every man is like the Veasel. Too afraid you are doomed to end up mit him. You don't know shit about men. Only frightened boys. What I mean is, voman who is, like that Lavender, who is dumb whore, don't care who puts his cock vhere as long as they buy present for her, make fuss over her, they think like all they want is fucked, mit no other emotion involved. I think Hermy-own–ninny, you have never so much as been kissed by a man, if he was to treat you like whore, fuck you and leave you and only call again next time he vants to like you say, shag, it would make you sad. Every man is not the Veasel, who wants to own, you, to crush you, to squeeze all that is good about you like orange for juice, to mash you into pulp. This you cannot learn from boy. You need man to show you. Let me." Viktor insisted.
Now it was Hermione's turn to make with the one word answers.
"What?"
"Fuck! Vere are the vords? Hermy-own-ninny, ven I am wery young, before the var kills my mother, she makes from dried English flower a scent she vears. Purple flower. Wery deliate, but wery strong. And scent is like…moment… moment of spring…"
Viktor found the word in Russian, then in Bulgarian.
But he was at sea, in English.
"Shit!" he cursed.
"Lavender?"
"Yes. You remind me of it. Like English lavender to bloom on collective farm in Bulgaria, you are rare, beautiful thing. You give all for friends, for country, for honor. Save nothing for Hermy-own-ninny. Mit kindness you treat me, like man, not like…like…"
"A commodity?"
"Chto?"
"A commodity, Viktor. Something that is bought and sold. Usually for a lot of fookin' money."
"Da. Commodity. You tell me your deda, your papa, he is like me. Wery big man. Ven you are home in Liverpool, he protects you. But here vere danger is, no man protect you. You have only boys, and you protect them. They do not even see you as voman. I want to be man who protects you. To hold you against my chest, to know that no one harms you."
Hermione began to feel a little light-headed.
"Fucking hell, my English is bad! Krum is not boy, he is man, da? I vant to take you to Yule Ball. To be your man. The vay you say. Mit out owning you, possessing you, crushing your spirit. Wery much, I vant to kiss you, to be…I don't know vords I can say to you in library."
Krum swore under his breath and took his hand away.
"I vish you knew Russian. Or even Bulgarian, Hermy-own-ninny."
Hermione was now feeling extremely light-headed.
Does this qualify as a miracle?
Yes, it bloody well does!
"I know a little Russian, Viktor, just from talking to you. I understand. It's just that I can't fookin' well believe that you're saying what you're saying!"
"Vy?"
"I just…I mean…you don't…You don't really know me. I mean, nobody thinks of me like I'm a girl. Or a woman. Anything remotely female, at all. Maybe Professor Snape does. I can't be sure. But he's my teacher, and I work for his family and he's old enough to be my father. Well, only just. And with me being 15, I don't think much is going to come of that. Maybe not ever. My point is, I, well, I thought maybe, someday, on account of us both being from Liverpool, from the same neighborhood, you know, and his Da being friends with mine, ,maybe, someday, when I was, I don't know, thirty, or something he might notice me, if we all live that long. And Ron, well, I know he has a thing for me. But I just never thought that anybody, I mean, especially you…what I mean is, well, I know I don't 'alf fancy you, do I? I mean, I like you, don't I…as a man, and all but, well… fookin' hell, you're as good lookin' a bloke as I've ever met, ain't yer? Wot would the likes of you want with the likes of me, anyway? Yunno?" Hermione sputtered.
"Vell, you are very good voman, Hermione. Also, wery good-looking."
"Thanks. You're the first to notice. I mean, whether I am. Good-lookin', or not, that is. But, how did you know I fancied you?"
Viktor couldn't seem to help it.
He laughed, quite heartily.
"You think you do good job mit hiding it?"
"Well, I fookin' well tried, didn't I!"
"Try? You try like shit! Maybe you do not drool on table, and point vand at my head and tell me to shut up and take it like man, but you not so good to hide from me what you are vanting. That is how I get nerve to talk this vay to you."
Viktor leaned over the table so that his roughly handsome Slavic face was very close to Hermione's.
"I know vat you vant from me, Hermy-own-ninny. So much, I vant to give it to you." He told her, his voice almost a groan.
Well, Hermione Granger had only left home a few years or more, and she had never ever kissed a man before, to paraphrase Ray Davies.
A Southerner, but a good musician, nonetheless.
But she leaned forward, and put her hand on the back of Viktor's neck, and she kissed him, alright, with parted lips and two years worth of densely suppressed frustrated passion.
Victor exclaimed something loudly in the Russian that was his first language, and, impulsively, he pulled Hermione across the table and she was sitting in the other chair with him.
On his lap.
Ooh-la-la!
Well, Granger?
Don't just sit there like a cold fish, fucking get to it, then!
Hermione put her arms around Viktor's neck, and wrapped her legs up around him, lacing her ankles over the back of the chair.
She was still in her knee socks, one of which had fallen down around her ankles, and her school skirt, which had bunched up around her waist, and her cotton knickers, which were becoming more disreputable by the second.
Hermione groaned into Viktor's mouth, and he growled, a rumble from deep in his brawny barrel chest, and put his hand on the side of her thigh.
For Viktor Krum, Quidditch Hero, was a big, hairy, barrel-chested bear of a man, even at 18.
Man enough to realize that had he wanted to, he could have cast a contraceptive spell on Hermione and pushed her knickers aside a bit, and she would have been unzipping his pants with both hands.
Also man enough to realize that even if he could, and she would, this was neither the time, nor the place.
Gently but firmly, Viktor pushed Hermione away.
"Enough, Hermy-own –ninny! You say yourself, the Snape, he keeps you in his pocket for later. If he catches us like this here in library, you vill be cleaning cauldrons in Potions Room until you are forty…also how long I vill rot in Azkaban. And he haunts this place like ghost. Anyvone might see us here. Funny how I have to tell you to keep it back in your pants."
Viktor chuckled a little as he placed Hermione standing up on the floor, and yanked his tunic down a little.
To obscure the obvious.
"You're right. Viktor. But, goddamn, that was one hell of a first kiss!"
"Gods, Hermy-own-ninny, I burn for you. There is…such fire when I look at you. You are, how do I say…wery much voman to me. Englishman vant the small girl, like look like little boy, but you…Hermy-own-ninny…fuck, I cannot kiss you no more in library, because ven I kiss you, I do not stop…"
Victor swore, again.
"Shit! I go too far. Please, forgive."
"Trust me, Viktor. I feel the same way. When we're alone, then, you can say them. Please."
"Chto?"
"The words. All the dirty words you think I don't want to hear." She panted.
Viktor blushed red to the roots of his black hair, and smiled at her.
"You vould like that?"
Hermione nodded, violently.
"Da, Hermy-own-ninny, I vill do vat you vant, now I am your man. Your friend mit benefits. If you vant I say to you dirty words, I say them. In Russian. And English. First I say it, then I do it!"
Viktor laughed, loudly.
Hermione felt warmth rush into her face as if she might faint.
"But this is no time. And no place. Ve must find place to go, secret place. Quiet place. Vere no one find us. And I have you to myself."
Hermione knew of one.
"Have you been to the Hog's Head, Viktor?"
"Da."
"Aberforth, the geezer who runs the place, he keeps a room there. Behind the goat sheds. It's not much more than a bed and a lamp and a sink , and a door with a lock on it, but you can have the room for a few knuts, and for a few more he'll forget who you are and that you were ever there. I know a secret way to get to Hogsmeade, as well."
"You are full of vonders, Hermy-own-ninny. But I do not need pass or to go in secret. I can apparatye where I want, when I want. Special pass because I play Quidditch. You go. I meet you in room. Ve vait for veek-end?"
"What, all week? Not bloody likely! I've waited long enough. Tomorrow. Eleven."
"You talk like that, Hermy-own-ninny, it makes Krum feel…"
"Weak in the knees?"
Krum laughed again, and beat his chest with both fists.
"Veak? Never! Krum is strong! Like raging bull!"
"I bleedin' well hope so, Viktor. For both our sakes, I really do."
Tomorrow came a lot faster than Hermione expected it would.
She went to the Hog's Head and gave Aberforth the money for the room.
He looked at her, and the money, and drew her a butterbeer.
"Not that it's any of me business, Granger, but, it's not Severus you're meeting up with, is it?"
Hermione almost choked on her drink.
"Wot? No! Of course not! He's-"
"Old enough to know better, with you being fifteen, and all. Now, let's have you wand out. Come on then, if you trust me brother, you can trust me."
Hermione took her wand out.
"Now, poke the business end into your bellybutton. No, not like that. Put it under your shirt. The spell is two words. Say "Nolo Conceptio".
"Aberforth!"
"Well, you parents are Muggles, what do they know? And my brother, who's stuck somewhere around 1860, doesn't have you kids taking sex ed until your 7th year. Now after you've said the words, you'll need to drink one draught of this potion. Don't give it the stink eye, it's Prince's."
"Is that a new bottle?"
"Of course it is."
Hermione did the spell, and drank one draught.
"That's a smart girl. Now, when you're 16, you can buy this in any shop you like, but before that, you can't even buy the ingredients. But, old Aberforth, he knows no one's holding their breath that long. And so does Eileen Snape. That draught and that spell will last you a week, no matter who and what you're business is with. You repeat it every week. That's three months worthy you got there. Next bottle you can buy here, no questions asked. I get it straight from Prince's Potions."
"How much?" Hermione asked.
"This time? Free with the room. Mind, it's not the nicest place, but it'll do in a pinch. Next time, luv, pick a man who's got money, and who'll take you to a nicer place. I dare say, the old Snape would."
"The man I'm expecting has lots of money."
"Do he? In that case, I imagine I'll only mark you down for having the room an hour. It'll take him less time than that to take you elsewhere."
Alone in the room, Hermione tormented herself with thoughts.
Madness.
It's madness, that's what it is?
What's mad about it?
Birds do it, bees do it, half the students at Hogwarts from third year on up do it.
Why not me?
Hermione was a nervous wreck.
She sat on the lumpy bed, chain-smoking.
She wore her school uniform, because it was the nicest thing she had, and when she realized she didn't have any underwear that matched or was sexy, she just wore the pair of cotton bikini knickers she liked the best and didn't bother with a bra.
It was a long time coming, she thought, because Hermione had started to get an itch for a man when she was about 12, a vague sort of itch, though.
By the time she was 13 it was more a burning than an itching, and by the time she was 14, and met Viktor, it was a five alarm inferno.
She didn't even know what it was she and Viktor really had in common.
Hermione attended school Quidditch matches because of Ron and Ginny and Harry, and she went to the Quidditch cup for an outing with her friends; she wasn't particularly interested in sports.
Quidditch, on the other hand, was Viktor's life and it was the only thing he was really knowledgeable about.
Viktor seemed surly and moody, but when you got to know him, he was really a very sweet man, and friendly, a good and decent man, but he wasn't book smart at all.
The man could hardly speak English.
Then again, he seemed to be an intelligent man, insofar as street smarts went.
He was ambitious, like she was, and career driven, and he wasn't a jealous, possessive, provincial male chauvinist pig.
Not to mention, he actually listened to what she had to say, like it was important.
Not like he was just waiting for her to shut the fuck up with her yapping, so he could talk.
Not to mention, Viktor was in awe of her because she was cute and smart, and witty and Hermione was attracted to Victor because he was a big, hairy, barrel-chested bear of a man, even at 18.
Man enough to grow a goatee, and to have five o' clock shadow at a quarter past two.
He didn't have to speak English, and Hermione didn't have to speak Bulgarian or Russian for sparks to fly between them.
She had never heard of him until the Quidditch cup, and then, when she saw him, fifty feet high on that giant screen, her belly felt like its contents had been replaced with hot molten lava.
When he showed up at Hogwarts, she got that feeling again.
There was only one other man she could think of who made her feel like that, and he was entirely off limits.
Now, Krum, he was an exotic specimen for a Scouser girl from Liverpuddle.
Tall , brawny and barrel-chested, with his high Asiatic cheekbones and his square Slavic jaw, and the thin beard, moustache and goatee that none of the boys of her immediate acquaintance could even grow.
He was very dark, his skin was a shade or two darker than her pale Northern white, and his short, thick hair was black, and his eyes very nearly so.
Viktor was a beast to most of the school, especially the Quidditch fans, moody and surly and rude, but he seemed to warm to her, instinctively.
Hermione had, like usual, put aside her own feelings to help him with his studies when he asked her to.
Never imagining that he was as attracted to her as she was to him.
She kept thinking about the pent up passion, the intense thickness of frustrated lust in his voice, in the library, and she felt so overcome with same that she felt faint.
No to mention the size of that hot, hard, insistent pole of hot meat that had pressed up against the flimsy stuff of her knickers.
Hermione frowned to herself at the lewdness of her own thoughts.
If he starts to say filthy words to me in broken English, I'll come my lot before he even puts his hands on me.
Hermione had recently picked up a habit her parents would have hung her for.
A nervous habit.
She had started smoking, and now seemed as good a time as any.
Hermione looked around the room.
She saw what Aberforth meant.
The last time the walls had been sloppily whitewashed, Mr. Dickens was sitting down to write Oliver Twist, from the look of them.
They had well over a century of stains on them; yellowed from tobacco smoke, and dry rot and roof leaks.
The bed was ancient, squeaky and uncomfortable.
The rest of the room smelled of mildew and age, but the bed smelled like armpits and old beer and stale sweat and a thousand other nasty things.
She hesitated to move the covers back.
To get on the bed took a strong resolve and a strong stomach; to get under the covers would have taken strong drink, as well.
Around 10:00, Hermione heard a heavy knock.
"Who is it?"
"Krum."
Hermione lifted the wards from the door.
"Come in."
Viktor warded the door, elaborately, and looked at the room with dismay.
The first thing he noticed was the bottle on the nightstand with the label "Prince's Plan-Ahead Potion"
He took a brown paper bag out of his pocket and put it down next to the large vial.
"Now you have six month supply. I know good backup spell. Much better than shit spell they teach in sex-ed nolo conceptio…"
Then, he looked around the room, again.
"This is real piece of shit! I have never seen such shit in my life, and I grow up on collective farm! Live in dormitory! I have seen dirtiest locker rooms in Vizarding Vorld! This is even more shit! Is bed even comfortable?"
"No, actually. And it stinks."
"B'lyad! This means, in Russian, it means, fuck. And, fuck this! This is place vere old drunken man brings ancient vitch he pays cheap for. No, I do not make of you a voman in this shithole, Hermy-own –ninny. Fuck, if ve had done it ten thousand times, I vould not bring you here! Is good place from bed to get lices. Also crabs. Even if you do not, Krum has more respect than this for you. Come. We go to vere hotel team stay when play in Inverness. Is not far. And is nice place. Very old. They know me there."
"You want me to illegally apparate with you?"
"Yes. Also to lie and say you are 16."
"I can do that."
"You have vild side, Hermy-own-ninny. This I suspected. Don't vorry. I take care of everything."
It certainly was good to be the king.
The staff at the Royal Merlyn's Arms in Inverness treated Krum like he was a conquering hero, and when he introduced Hermione as his "sted-yee girl-friend" and explained she was "nice girl, very smart", they started treating her like she was a princess.
The suite they were given was fit for a conquering hero; the bathroom alone was the size of a parking lot and you could have sunk the goddamn Titanic in the bathtub.
"Viktor, you didn't have to go to all this trouble!"
"Yes I did. Is very important night for you. Ven you think backwards, you must remember it good. Besides, I can afford. What good money does me, not spent? None. First, is too late. Take necklace, make time go back."
"You know what this is?"
"Of course. At Durmsrtang, they teach you more of practical magic. Don't vorry. I do not tell."
Hermione turned back to 7PM.
The room seemed to go with them.
Well, it was a magical room, after all.
Carefully, Hermione took off the Time Turner and put it in the top drawer of the chest of drawers.
When she turned around, Victor was right behind her.
"Now, vere did ve leave off in library…?"
"Good morning, Ron! Good morning, Harry!"
"What's this? You, wide awake and chipper at breakfast? Usually your eyes are like two pissholes in the snow until our first class starts." Ron inquired.
"I got a good night's sleep last night. My first in years." Hermione told him.
"Find the cure for what ailed you, Hermione?" Harry asked.
He looked down over his glasses at her, and winked.
Conspiratorially.
Ron seemed oblivious.
"I did. Ron, would you be the best mate I ever had, and go get me another pumpkin juice?"
"Sure."
Hermione leaned across the table.
"Harry, you fookin' swine! I really thought I had all of you beat! Who was she?"
"Who was he?' Harry rejoined.
"I can't tell you that!"
Harry grinned at her.
"Then I can't tell you, either."
Woolton, Liverpool, 1998
Hermione was glad her parents weren't home, when she got there and began looking for the suitcase she had put the glamour on.
Sometimes she needed to use it when she was going to meet with Viktor.
She wasn't about to tell John and Olive where she was going, and if they didn't know, they would assume she was still at Snape's.
Hermione felt a pang of guilt, and deliberately squashed it down.
The wicked old screw owns me, till the day I die, I can take a fucking week off from his villainy.
Maybe it'll sweeten his attitude a bit.
Give him something to think of.
"Where the fuck is me fucking suitcase?" she snapped.
Winky, the Granger family house elf, apparated with a crack, and the suitcase.
Packed.
How Hermione Granger , head of SPEW, or her family ended up with their own house elf was quite a story, in and of itself.
But, one for another time.
"Oh, Winky, I'm sorry. I wasn't shouting at you, I was just…shouting. I just need some time off , is all."
"I have packed it, Miss Hermione. You are receiving many owls from your Crumbs. I have owled him back, saying you are going to be there, soon. How is the Snape?"
"Wicked. Evil. Miserable."
"Oh, good. He is better, then." Winky squeaked.
"Yes."
Hermione lit a cigarette and opened her bedroom window.
"Winky, my love life is so complicated."
On her way to the Adelphi, one of Liverpool's oldest and swankiest hotels, on the bus, yet Hermione thought of what she had told Winky.
It was true.
And deciding to become Ron's girlfriend was the latest disaster in the series of disasters than constituted Hermione's love life.
Viktor was not a disaster, though.
He was the only man who wasn't.
When she was 15, the towering inferno under her red and gold plaid skirt, fuelled by the one between her ears was not the only thing she and Viktor had in common.
In hindsight, Hermione realised it was a mirror miracle that she had discovered Viktor, and that he had overcome his natural shyness to speak so frankly to her.
God only knew what would have become of her, in her stupidity and lust, without Viktor.
She liked Victor, and he was honestly, a little in awe of her, and they were very good friends, but the cornerstone of their relationship was sex.
Sex, sex, sex.
It turned out to be a good cornerstone on which to base a firm friendship that had lasted three, nearly four, years now, through war and long separations.
Viktor was a little surprised that the 15 year old English rose whom he introduced to the pleasures of the flesh rapidly blossomed into the horniest hellcat at Hogwarts, but counted himself as a lucky man, and went with it.
He even had a theory.
"Everything you do, Hermy-own-ninny, is between your ears. Whole life in head, and heart is frozen. Also, everything for other peoples. Nothing for Hermy-own–ninny. Inside, you are like caged beast, roaring to be freed. With me, beast comes out. But I am man enough to handle it. What will you do when I go? I will have to some back to you, Hermy-own, ninny. Someday, maybe, I make you hot enough to melt snow on heart."
He had her there, she had to admit.
That was something else about Viktor, in his patient, understanding, nonjudgmental way, he understood her better than even her own best friends.
Everyone always wanted something from her; Viktor wanted to do something for her.
She didn't think that considering that thing was sex and companionship, without the benefit of lies, ties and slosh made the whole thing somehow inherently bad or wrong.
Viktor was an exciting lover; maybe he never read the Kama Sutra or practiced sex magic, but he knew what he was doing well enough.
He was athletic, and good-looking and enthusiastic, and he had a lot of stamina.
Like a bull.
A raging bull.
He was fond of saying that.
Viktor liked to beat his chest with his fists and yell "Krum is strong! Like raging bull!"
And it was so unlike him, she'd laugh and laugh.
He did it, probably, just to make her laugh.
Yes, those were the days.
Viktor was rude and horny and dirty and had quite a bit between his legs to back it up with.
They did the dirty deed all over the school, and the grounds, but had some of their highest times in the back room of the Hog's Head, which had a bed, a lamp, and a door with a lock on it.
The old place was a shambles, but with a little magic, a little elbow grease and a new set of bedclothes, they made it into a fine place to do their dirty work
Aberforth Dumbledore was so impressed with their efforts he let them use it, exclusively and free of charge, with no questions asked.
A further tip bought you his complete silence.
Viktor never said anything to her about love, which was good.
Hermione didn't like to hear anything about love.
It wasn't so much that she and Viktor broke up, he left Hogwarts after her 4th year, and went back to Bulgaria.
They continued to write to each other, however.
Viktor had a lot of trouble with his studies, whether they were in Russian, or English.
For starters, the Bulgarian village in which Krum had grown up in was ethnically Russian. His family were ethnic Russians who had adopted a Bulgarian surname, and Viktor had learned to speak Russian before he learned to speak Bulgarian.
Viktor had when he first went to school, painstakingly learnt Bulgarian, only to be set to Durmstrang, where the classes for all students of Eastern European and Russian origin were taught in Russian.
The official school language, however, was English, and all of the texts, even those in the Russian language, were printed using the Arabic and not the Cyrillic alphabet.
The joke in all this of course, was that Viktor was bad with languages.
He had been able to master Bulgarian because it was spoken all round him, and had some similarity to Russian, but, as Hermione could attest, his spoken English was something less than proficient.
His written English was awful, and, as for reading English, Hermione kept her letters very brief.
Worse, after Karkaroff took it on his toes and Durmstrang got a proper Headmaster, they could have conducted the classes in Wizarding Old English and it wouldn't have made a difference, Viktor would still have been at sea.
As it turned out Kakaroff was just giving Viktor his grades.
And without his diploma, he would not be able to continue to play Quidditch.
Hermione did the only decent thing.
She learnt the Russian language and the Cyrillic alphabet, using completely illicit and technically illegal ancient Elvish magic to enhance the speed of her learning, and began to tutor Viktor via owl post.
She began by translating his lessons into the Cyrillic alphabet, and after he gained some confidence, she started trying to make his English skills, both written and spoken, better.
It turned out Viktor was not as slow as she had thought; he was just uneducated.
Karkaroff had let him ignore his studies in favour of Quidditch.
It took him time to catch onto things, but they stayed in his mind once she managed to fasten them in there, and Viktor's grades began to improve.
Even his English writing and reading got better.
At the end of her fifth year, Viktor graduated Durmstrang, having been given a B average by Kakraroff for all of his upper-class years except the last, which he earned, himself.
Without a doubt, then, if she hadn't already, Hermione had earned herself a friend for life in Viktor Krum.
Competitive Quidditch often brought Viktor to England.
Whenever he was on the same island as Hermy-own-ninny, Viktor would move heaven and earth with his own hands to see her.
And when he was on the continent, Hermione often had to move same to see him.
Which she did, more often than you might think.
Once every two weeks or more often, once a week.
Because there were a few things she learned about Viktor in the years she had known him, and about the temperament of those hardy Slavs who had been born and raised behind the Iron Curtain.
His spoken English was never as bad as he pretended it was, and he wasn't half as stupid as he let on.
They had a name, in the Soviet Bloc nations for people who were not quick-minded, resourceful, and clever.
Dead.
Victor did have a melancholy temperament, and he was cynical, stoic and fatalistic, but, at the same time he was hopeful, even cheerful, in the face of even the worst kind of despair.
And stubborn.
Gods, was that man stubborn; once he had something in his blunt bullish skull you weren't going to shake him free of it.
That was how they had remained friends.
Even though she didn't want to, Hermione had tried, many times, to quit writing to Viktor and quite seeing him.
And he simply refused to go away.
So, she gave up.
It was certainly a sweet surrender.
Woolton, Liverpool. July, 1995
"Well, I think it's fucking stupid. It'd be pretty fuckin' difficult to kill Krum. Not unless you had a gun. With large caliber bullets. The Death Curse wouldn't even give him a headache. The man's like a fucking bull." Ginny Weasley snorted.
"A raging bull." Hermione corrected her.
"I'll fucking bet he is! Way-hey-hey-hey! Wink wink, nudge, nudge, say no more!"
Ginny made a series of rude gestures to accompany her comments.
"Ginny, you don't understand. You're too mercenary."
"No, I don't bleedin' understand. Mercenary or not, if I ever found a bloke I wanted to know for more than twenty minutes standing up against a brick wall, I wouldn't fucking well give him the boot because I decided he couldn't take it, being my old man , because of the war and all. I mean, fucking hell, Hermione, they're only Death Eaters! You just kill them, that's all. I've killed three of them this week, AND I dare say I've not lost any sleep over it. You're just mortifying yourself, and the gods only know why. Like you don't think you're allowed to have a man, to have anything at all. Either that or you're scared he'll get too close. Either way, it's fucking rubbish! Live a little, for fuck's sake! You could be dead before the summer's over."
The last time Hermione was at the Burrow, that was Ginny's take on her breaking it off with Viktor.
And whether Ginny was right or wrong, Viktor wasn't taking no for an answer.
He kept writing to her, and, eventually, she quit replying to his letters.
Hermione shook off her thoughts about him, and rapidly became deeply engrossed in an ancient Elvish grimoire that Snape had lent her for the summer when her father boomed to her that there was someone on the phone for her.
Hermione only had one friend who used a telephone.
"Harry, what do you want? I'm busy."
"Is not Harry, Hermy-own-ninny."
"Viktor!"
Hermione stood up, the ancient book fell off her lap and she had to use magic to catch it, before it hit the ground.
The shock of that might have disintegrated the book, whereupon Snape may have disintegrated her.
"Viktor, what are you doing on my phone?"
"In Bulgaria, all wizards have telephone. In America, in rest of Europe, shit, rest of world, vizards have phone, TV, computer. Not like you English living in dark ages."
"I told you…"
"I know vat you told me. It vas shit. I don't vant you to be noble. I just vant you."
"Viktor, I'm at my parents house…"
"Are they listening?"
"No. They would never!"
. "I think of you always. It has been three months since I make love to you last and I am like crazy man, mit out you. When I am mit other vomen, I think of you. Of how you are so much more. I miss you, Hermy-own-ninny. I miss the feel of your body squirming beneath mine, like snake. I miss the vay you used to look at me, ven you have, between your pretty pink lips, my khuy. I…"
Hermione's heart began to beat too fast, and she felt dizzy.
"Viktor, that's enough!"
"No! Is not! Is not enough until I have you, again! You are in my blood. Like Dragon's Fire. You must come to me, Hermy-own-ninny. And not just vonce. Or I come for you… I take you."
"Oh, gods, Viktor…" Hermione groaned.
Hermione's mother came and knocked on her door.
She dropped the phone.
"Your father and I are going to work. Are you going to the shop, today?"
"No, Mum. Today's my day off.."
"Alright, Have a good day."
After her Mum left, Hermione got back on the phone.
"Viktor? Hello? Hello?"
He wasn't there.
The next day, Hermione went to her job at Prince's Potions, and returned home to find Viktor casually sitting in her living room, discussing Quidditch with her father.
John Granger, who was already a serious football fanatic, got very heavy into Quidditch, very quickly.
"Hermione, you didn't tell your Da and I you'd been seeing anyone." Olive commented.
"I'm not! I mean. I wasn't! I mean…"
"It's alright, Hermione. You're 15, you'll be 16 in a few months. You're old enough to date. In fact, your father and I were beginning to wonder about you. No boyfriends. No girlfriends. No one."
"Mother!"
"Well, it's not normal, is it? For you not to have anyone? Why didn't you tell us? Because he's famous? Because he's a few years older? I wouldn't have much to say about that would I? Your Da, he's old enough to be my Da. You're a sensible girl, Hermione. Your father and I trust you."
"It's not that, Mother-"
"And here's our Hermione! Well? Don't just stand there in the bleedin' doorway! Viktor's come all the way from Bulgaria to see you! Is that as costly for you as it is for us Muggles?" John boomed, dragging his daughter into the living room.
"No. Vizards , ve can just apparate vere ve vant to go."
"It's not as easy as all that, Viktor! This is an illegal apparition."
"Bollocks, Hermy-own-ninny. I have pass to apparate internationally, mit out limit, because I play Quidditch."
"To Muggle neighborhoods?"
Viktor shrugged.
"Pass does not say I don't. But, if you are right, well then, I risk my freedom to come and see you. Also, I make expensive reservation for dinner at Adelphi Hotel. Maybe you go, get dressed up?"
Hermione had dinner with Viktor, in his suite at the Adelphi Hotel, one of Liverpool's oldest and finest and poshest establishments.
It was all on the arm, as Viktor was such a major celebrity in the Wizarding World, and the Adelphi, as one of the oldest hotels in England, catered to a very varied clientele.
Throughout the meal, and after, Hermione kept coming back to repeated attempts to tell Viktor that they were through.
He paid no attention.
"Goddamit, Viktor, why won't you listen to me!"
"Because you are full of shit! If I thought you did not vant me, to be your friend, or your man, I vould go. But you do still vant me, I can tell, so I vill not listen. I knew you would not come to me. So I come to you. I don't mind no strings. I don't mind no talk of love. But I have nothing to hide. No shame. I come to see your house, to meet your parents. I am proud man, I am proud to call you my friend, my voman. I vill not let you throw shame on us."
"And it doesn't matter what I want? And don't hang that dumb old-fashioned Russki bollocks on so thick, you clever bastard! You know they'll be on your side now, me Mum and Dad!" Hermione replied, bitterly.
"Vat kind of talk is that? Vat side?"
"What about the war, Viktor? You know how close to the action I am? Do you want to put yourself beside me in the line of fire? Because of your cock?"
"No, I vould not put myself in bulls-eye, just for my cock. You are my voman, Hermy-own-ninny. My friend. I do not stand beside you, in line of fire. I stand in front of you. Krum fights same war as you do. And I am never told okay, until war is over, you must give up friends, give up family, give up your voman, give up life and hide in hole like scared rabbit. I am not afraid of Death Eaters. I fight same war against same Death Eaters as you do. I have just as much chance to get killed knowing you as not. That is piece of shit excuse."
"Well, maybe you've got me there, Viktor, I suppose I'm just afraid you'll get too close. You, or anyone else."
Viktor laughed.
"Too close? Hermy-own-ninny, for six months, you and me, ve do it all over school, in hotels, even, almost every day! There is no more close that a man and a voman can get. I do not chase you to talk of love. Or to make claim to own you. I only vant vat ve had. Just because I go back to Bulgaria, does not men ve have to forget about it."
"Maybe I'm just not interested?"
"Really?"
Viktor stood up, and pulled off the jersey he was wearing.
Then he kicked off his trainers and pulled down his jeans.
And his shorts.
"Viktor, what the fuck are you doing?"
"This is my room. No one vill break the door down, drag me away for taking off clothes. I vant to see if you are just not interested."
He grabbed Hermione, and kissed her, holding her fast against his naked body.
"Stop!"
That was what Hermione said, but she had both her arms around him and she was rubbing up against him like a junkyard dog under a full moon on a hot night.
"Vy? You don't want me to."
"Yes I do!"
"Then let go of me. Push me away. The door is unlocked. Go on. Leave."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.
"You son of a bitch! This isn't fair, you bastard!"
"Who says is fair?"
He grinned at her, and Hermione knew what he was going to do.
"Viktor, don't you fucking dare!"
"Chto? Can't hear you. No blood in ears, all has rushed to khuy."
He beat his chest with his fist.
"Krum is strong! Like raging bull!"
That did it.
Hermione started wriggling out of her clothes, and Viktor helped her.
They were naked and locked together inside of a minute and Viktor picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
They spent the next few hours shagging like bunnies.
Hermione had never enjoyed being proved wrong so much.
"Ven do you have to be home?"
"Eleven. I've still got an hour."
"I vill go mit you to apparition place. Then valk you home. Ve had better get out of bed. Dress. But first, take shower."
"Right. Might as well not telegraph it to Mum and Da that you and I are sleeping together by coming home smelling like the fuck cage at the human zoo. Fucking hell, I can't believe it's been almost three months. I was going out of my mind." Hermione admitted, snuggling happily against Viktor's chest.
"It will not be so long ever again."
"No? Alright, Viktor. I assume you have a plan."
"Da. Once a week, you come to see me play. Different place every week, but same day. We meet in hotel. Ve haff dinner together. Ve make love."
"Can I come to your dressing room, after the game? To the showers, with you?"
Viktor laughed.
"You haff dirty fantasy about dirty screw in locker room, while I'm still mit sveat and blood from game? You are dirty girl, Hermy-own-ninny. But, no one knows that but Krum. Yes. Vatever you vant."
"I'll do it. I must be crazy, but I'll do it. Just one thing. Please, don't talk to me about love."
"Chto?"
"You heard me."
"Hermy-own-ninny, man who has to make talk about love knows shit about it."
Moscow, Russian Federation, 1996
Hermione wouldn't have termed it a "secret life".
She made no secret of the fact that she and Krum were still friends, and that they corresponded and met, regularly.
Nobody had really asked her what she meant by that.
Well, Harry had.
And she told him, because Harry had the capacity to be an adult about things.
He winked and raised his drink to his lips, and said "Here's to friendships with benefits. They're the best kind."
Other people, well, she couldn't be so sure.
Viktor was a celebrity, and she was too, in her own way; the last thing Hermione could afford to be, especially considering her position in Dumbledore's Army and the secret espionage work she did for and with Snape was to be notorious.
She kept a low profile.
Hermione had a little more leeway than the average student; as Snape's Acolyte and one of his spies, she answered to him.
He was lenient about her Friday nights with Viktor Krum.
Well Friday afternoon, Friday night and Saturday morning, and she was always back home in Liverpool on Saturday for dinner.
The Hogwarts staff thought she spent Fridays and Saturdays at home, and Hermione's parents thought she was studying on Friday nights and during the day on Saturday.
And she was always back at Hogwarts on Sunday morning, sharp at nine.
What nobody knew, except her Master, for reasons related to the War they each knew where the other was at all times, was that she spent part of every weekend in different parts of the world, with Viktor Krum.
Today, she sat in a private box at Ekateriana Stadium, named after Russia's most famous witch, the half-blood Empress Catherine the Great.
It had been built in the early days of the last Tsar, and it was a grand and ornate place, in that grand, ornate Victorian style, crossed with the usual Asiatic awesomeness of Russian architecture.
The box looked like a room from a palace in St. Petersburg, and although it was a bit draughty, Hermione was buttoned into a heavy woolen overcoat, lined in down and trimmed in fur, and had a hat and gloves on of the same material.
Prezzies from Viktor, for last year's Chrimble, to protect her from the cold winters at Hogwarts.
The weather in a drafty old castle in the Scottish Highlands, from whose highest towers you could see the North Sea were almost as brutal as those martialled up in Russia by Generals January and February.
Viktor was a major celebrity all over the world, but in the former Soviet Bloc nations, the Bulgarian of ethnic Russian descent was a demigod.
He was a real Rags to Riches story.
A poor Russian boy, born on a collective farm in Bulgaria, who lost two of his grandparents to Stalin and one to the First Wizarding War, whose mother also perished at the hands of Death Eaters. He was raised by his grandmother, a Social Democrat who spent 15 years in a Siberian gulag before being released and exiled, and then marrying a Bulgarian of Russian descent named Stanislaus Krumov.
Krum's father, who spent five years in a Siberian gulag for trying to have his mother rehabilitated and was released only to fight against Voldemort was tortured by Death Eaters and was lame in one leg and blind in one eye as a result, but survived.
Raised in grinding poverty under the Iron Curtain in the Bulgarian countryside, Viktor also witnessed the death of a younger brother and sister both from the flu, when he was just a boy.
He was the only surviving child in his generation of the Krum family.
From these dire circumstances, Viktor rose to become a Tri-Wizard Champion, graduate of Durmstrang and the best Quidditch Seeker in the world, certainly one of the best in all Wizarding history.
It was rumored that he was a part of the network of deep cover spies and wreckers that ultimately answered to double agent and sly Spymaster Severus Snape, in the war against Voldemort.
Hermione knew this to be true.
Some of their meetings had actually been covers for missions they undertook together.
Something that made Hermione comment to Viktor as though she felt she was occasionally living in some Mad Hatter's tea party version of Dr. Zhivago.
Viktor promptly bought the book, read it, and decided he didn't like it.
Which trumped Hermione, because she had only seen the movie.
She went and bought the book, too, and decided Viktor was not only right, but a lot smarter than she had given him credit for.
The ornate box was high above the rest of the seating and above even the Quidditch pitch, itself.
It amazed Hermione to look down and to see everyone below, from the people in the cheap seats to the would-be boyars in the levels just a bit below her.
It was an international game, with Krum's team playing Manchester, and the crowed was wholly with Krum.
So many people had come, just to see Viktor play.
So many of them woman, hoping for a night, a few hours, maybe even just ten or twenty minutes with their Quidditch superhero demigod.
And there she was, Hermione Granger, of Woolton, Liverpool.
Born in the bedroom of her parents house in Vauxhall, in 1978, delivered of dental assistant Olive Granger, 25 in the anxious presence of John Granger, 50, by Eileen Snape, the local witch/gypsy/midwife and named for Hermione Gingold, her father's favorite actress.
Sitting in a box built for murdered aristocrats, knowing that she had what it was everyone in the whole stadium wanted.
My secret life, indeed.
Hermione watched the whole game using binoculars, she was so far up.
Until the end.
Her entire field of vision was subsumed by fluttering gold and she took the binoculars away to see the golden snitch hanging before her eyes.
It buzzed and soared before her, unhindered for a few seconds.
She looked down and saw both teams far below her, but then one player began rapidly to ascend , at a 90 degree angle.
Before Hermione could even get her binoculars again, there was Viktor.
He dashed past the box and kissed her full on the lips, hovering in midair, at the same time as his hand closed around the golden snitch.
"It's good I keep my eye on you Hermy-own-ninny." He said.
Then, he turned to face his adoring fans, flying far enough away from Hermione that prying cameras did not discover her.
Viktor beat his chest with the fist that held the golden snitch.
"Krum sil'no! Kak svirepstvovat' bull!"
Which was, of course, Russian for "Krum is strong! Like Raging Bull!"
A little later, dressed only in the overcoat, and covered with Harry's Invisibility cloak, which he lent her every weekend, for the express purpose of sneaking about locker rooms, Hermione crept into the showers in the men's locker room of Ekaterina Stadium.
As usual, Krum had a pair of his socks hanging on the door of the stall he was in.
He admitted Hermione, and the cloak and the overcoat came off and went over the door.
In one of those secret conversations women have that men would pay to hear, Hermione tried to maintain that she was every bit the pervert Ginny Weasley was, even though Ginny's conquests were in the double, perhaps triple digits, and Hermione had only ever slept with one man.
"Viktor always waits until I show up to take a shower. I like to lick the sweat off of his hairy chest."
"Oooo, that sounds lovely. I've done that. That's why I've found, it's nice, spending a lot of time with one or two blokes. You get to, yunno, observe the niceties. He's guilty as hell over it, my lycan master, but he howls so even when it's not a full moon when I lick the sweat off his balls."
"I've got you beat. I do it on me knees. On the tile floor. Usually with one knee in the shower drain."
"Brilliant! Now that is kinky. I'll have to try that."
The hotel that Viktor was staying in used to be one of the imperial places, and the suite they stayed in had once been occupied by not only Tsars, but all the crowned heads of Europe.
Alone in such vast and ornate surroundings, the girl from a council estate in the provinces and the boy who had grown up in the dorms of a collective farm had a moment where they were somewhat less than cosmopolitan.
"I almost feel like we should sit on floor. Sleep there, too."
"Well, tovarisch, we've made it. This is the toppermost of the poppermost."
Victor, a Social Democrat, like his father and grandmother, smiled at Hermione's use of the word "Comrade"
A term that modern and moderate Russian Social Democrats were trying to rehabilitate.
Viktor strode forward a little, and sat in the most ornate chair in the room.
"Look at me, Hermy-own-ninny. Sitting in a chair that probably was sat in by Pyotr the Great, Tsar of all the Russias."
She took his picture.
"And think of it. I'm going to get laid by a handsome raging bull of a hot-blooded Russian hussar in a bed where Catherine the Great probably had the same."
"Chto?"
Hermione repeated herself in Russian, and Viktor laughed.
He got on the telephone.
One thing that Hermione thought was sensible about Russians, and, for that matter, most Europeans, as well as Americans, Australians, Canadians and Kiwis was that their witches and wizards were permitted to use Muggle devices and technology, visit Muggle doctors, even live amongst Muggles in Muggle communities if they wanted to, as long as they didn't obviously use magic.
Leave it to the British to lag behind the times, and cling to archaic traditions, as usual.
Meanwhile, as Hermione pondered politics, Viktor was on the phone, ordering up huge quantities of food.
They had a huge feast of truly grand Slavic proportions, most of which was demolished by Viktor, and then he quite literally carried her off to the huge bedroom, with its gargantuan bed.
Wherein they had the kind of noisy, smutty, sweaty, enthusiastically filthy sex that one usually associates with pornies from the seventies.
The were up half the night screwing, and talking in between, and only fell asleep a little after dawn.
They slept until noon, had another meal, followed by a quickie on the table, another shower and then, they finally dressed and parted ways.
"Where will I see you next week, Viktor?"
"Hogsmeade. I come for your Hogsmeade veekend, and ve stay in Inverness. Visit Veasley's Vizard Veezes. Many things I need to buy."
Devon, England. The Burrow. Fleur & Bill's Wedding. August, 1997
"See here, Hermione, you can't dance with Krum!"
Hermione pulled her arm out of Ron's grasp.
"Do you own me, Ron? Is your name tattooed anywhere on my body? This is a lovely wedding, but we might all be dead before those flowers on that trellis are. I may never see Viktor again. I'll do what I like, son! Today, and if it comes, tomorrow , as well.! If you've got trouble with that, we'll call this whole fookin' thing off, right now!" Hermione insisted.
"Well then, so will I!" Ron retorted.
"Brilliant! I'm glad to hear you're finally going to be a grown-up about this!" Hermione snapped.
She went off to dance with Viktor.
"Not the way you expected that would go, is it, Ron?" Harry smirked.
"Oh, piss off, Harry. Go and have another vat of wine."
"You look beautiful in that dress, Hermy-own-ninny. I will think of you in it, until we meet again."
"We won't, Viktor. I'll never survive this war."
"Don't say things like that!"
"I have to. This might be my last chance."
"Then can I talk to you now, of love?"
"A little."
"I am allowed to love you, only a little, my Hermy-own-ninny? I hope there are more years for you. That maybe Krum, or even the old Snape can burn the ice from off your heart. A witch can marry twice, you know."
"You've forgotten Ron."
"The Veasel? The only pussycat in family of lions? You forget him too, soon. I vish there vas time for me to make your forget."
"So do I, Viktor."
The song ended.
Hermione felt Ron's eyes on her.
But Viktor did not let her go yet.
"Please Hermy-own –ninny. After war is over, you must think of something that you want to do for only Hermy-own ninny, and no bodies else. Then think of next thing. Do that, too. After Voldemort is dead, your must make own life, Hermy-own-ninny. Or you will never be happy. Krum has seen almost whole family die. I know this pain. If you live, and you lose your Veasel, or Harry Potter, or the old Snape, I vill sweep up bits of you. Krum is strong. Like Raging Bull. Enough for both of us. Da?"
"Da, Viktor."
He walked with her back to Harry and Ron
"No more talk of death. Remember what they say in gulag."
Then Viktor said something in Russian that Ron couldn't understand.
Viktor wished Harry luck with great gusto, did so a little less civilly to Ron and made his exit.
"What the hell did he say?" Ron asked.
"It's Russian, Ron. People used to say it in Siberia, when they were sent there do die. You can die today. I'll die tomorrow." Harry replied.
"How did you know that?" Hermione demanded.
Harry just lifted his glass, winked, and took a drink.
Liverpool, July 1998
Hermione got off the bus at least four blocks from the historic, stately and ornate Adelphi hotel, and engaged her glamour.
As she walked, she thought about the last time she'd seen Viktor.
How she'd thought it would be the last time she'd see him.
That was almost a year ago.
Christ, but war's a bloody awful thing every way you can think of.
The only decent sex I had for a year was a few blows through with Harry in the fucking woods.
As if I didn't have enough to be fucking well depressed over.
No wonder Harry's been off all summer long, getting legless and screwing everything willing with a pussy and a pulse.
Hermione had only just danced with Viktor at Bill and Phlegm's wedding, although she desperately wanted to sneak away to some remote corner with him, despite alll Ron's hemming and hawing about her being almost involved with him.
And Viktor had been a perfect gentleman.
Even though he knew just what kind of whore she really was, he always treated her with respect.
Like a lady.
He made sure to tell her how beautiful she looked in her dress.
Being involved with Ron.
That was a whole different story.
Hermione was convinced that it was a combination of panic, sentiment and that old grab-somebody-it's-the-end-of-the-world feeling that made her agree to get romantic with Ron.
Ron was her best friend, since she was a little girl.
He was witty, and handsome and a safe choice, and he had the rude and horny market cornered, but was lacking in the dirty, the enthusiastic, and was rather average in dimensions.
As he was a Quidditch hero and had been with several other girls before her, Hermione expected Ron to have something to offer, but he proved to have no idea what he was doing.
Or at least, not with her.
Maybe it got creepy for him.
Sometimes Hermione, though an only child, would feel like she was having it off with her own brother, being with Ron.
Maybe he did too, and just wanted to get it over with.
Because Ron's idea or foreplay was taking off his pants and giving you a kiss.
He'd fool around with her tits a little, and feel her up, a bit, but the only part of female anatomy Ron was familiar with was the hole he was supposed to stick it in.
With these formalities completed, Ron would climb aboard, cast his contraceptive spell, stick it in, and then it was pretty much come and go.
And then he was snoring.
Hermione wasn't the kind of witch who was hard to please; it didn't take much for her to come off, but about half the time Ron didn't have that much on the ball.
Worse, although Hermione never admitted it, Ron knew he was following Viktor Krum's act, and he was apprehensive about it.
Not to mention that whether he was acting as her lover or her friend, Ron hardly ever listened to anything she had to say.
Ron never really listened to anything that anyone had to say; it was his nature.
Snape, he'd listen to everything you had to say, but he'd make snarky comments when you were done, and save some of what you told him for later so he could make more snarky comments at some other time when you wished the most that he wouldn't.
But Viktor always listened to her.
He was never mean, or rude and he never lost his temper.
After the past months, or were they the past millennia, with Snape, that was something she was really going to appreciate.
Among other things.
The old Snape, as Viktor called him, he had a thousand chances, lying about in his grubby pants, with his gargantuan cricket set bulging out in all directions, to kiss and make it up to her, for all his meanness, didn't he?
Several times in the past month, Hermione had been jostled out of a fitful sleep on a Tuesday or Thursday night, by the sounds of enthusiastic fucking going on in the old bastard's room, and Sibyl always left in the morning, smiling.
Well he was just going to have to stew in his own juices, because being a devoted Acolyte only went so far, didn't it?
And if the old bastard was insulted by it, good then.
He'd got the fucking message.
Unbreakable Vow or no, Snape didn't own Hermione Jean Granger.
No one ever had, and no one ever would, either.
Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool
The so-called gentlemen and ladies of the tabloid press camped around the Adelphi like flies around a fresh pile of steaming dog shit, hoping to catch war heroine Hermione Granger rushing into the arms of a man other than her reported star-crossed love, War Hero Ron Weasley.
They only beheld a tall, leggy blond witch in a Viktor Krum fan tee shirt with a starry look in her rather vacuous blue eyes entering the lobby.
She announced herself to the desk clerk as Andromeda MacAuliffe, and claimed Viktor Krum was expecting her.
Krum had left a password, and the desk clerk asked Ms. MacAuliffe.
She was not too bright, but she had the word written on her hand.
The clerk gave her the passkey and she clomped off to the lifts, in her double-decker platform shoes, dragging a wheeled suitcase with pink leopard print in faux angora behind her.
She let herself into Krum's suite, and began locking and warding the doors, casting several warding and silencing spells.
More than would be needed to get into or out of Azkaban itself.
It was only then that the witch removed the glamour, and transformed from a tall, leggy , glossy-haired blond bimbo into a rather shorter, intense, and as she saw it, curvaceous, bushy-haired brunette.
Following which, Hermione removed the glamour from her sensible black nylon wheeled suitcase.
The suite seemed empty.
"Viktor?" she called.
As if seeing him again after a year's absence wouldn't be shocking enough to her poor, frayed, tattered nerves, Viktor had to waltz out of the loo wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
Ron had once said of Krum, in his distaste, that he resembled a baptized bear.
When he was a boy of 18, Krum had been quite a man.
Now, at 21, in the full bloom of his high-cheekboned, lantern-jawed, almond-eyed Slavic manhood, Viktor bordered on the godlike.
Well, at least to her, he did.
Tall, burly and broad shouldered, with great muscular legs and arms like the limbs of a thousand-year old oak tree, and a very hairy barrel chest, combined with his rough, well-defined features, Viktor Krum was just about everything a little Scouser bird the likes of Hermione could ever wish a man to be.
Spending a furious, tedious and celibate summer with Snape, while the latter lounged infuriatingly about in his y-fronts as he rapidly returned to the wiry, sinewy and ugly bloom of Scouser villain manhood had taken more of a toll on Hermione than she realized, and just knowing that Krum was hers for the taking made her feel dizzy with blunt animal lust.
But, even so, she had little desire to visibly pant and drool like some idiot lovesick fangirl at Viktor's mere presence; she wanted at least to seem cool, calm and collected.
If for no other reason then to assure him that she had come to see him for more than just sex.
Viktor was less concerned about how things seemed.
"Hermy-own-ninny! You are finally come!" he exclaimed, and before she could so much as take another breath, Viktor had lifted her off the ground and he was fairly crushing her against his chest.
"I vas so vorried that I vould never see you alive, again! And ven you did not come yesterday, I vas next to myself! " He told her.
"Beside yourself, Viktor."
"Vatever. Now you are beside me. That is all I vant."
Viktor only put her down so that he could free his hands to roam desperately and demandingly over her body as he covered her face in kisses.
"Hermy-own-ninny, my Ekaterina, I vill take you like Russki hussar takes his enemy in battle and his Tsarina in bed. I fuck you like Superman. Da?"
So much for cool, calm, or collected.
Hermione whipped the towel off from around his waist.
"Da, Viktor. Da!" she groaned.
They made short work of Hermione's clothes, and Viktor picked her up and carried her to the bedroom of the suite.
He put her down on the bed.
"You haff become more beautiful in a year, Hermy-own ninny. Your body, it blooms like flower. Now, your breast so big, they flow over from my hands. You make Krum so hard, I could use my khuy for Beater's bat."
And he said it so ardently, with such depth of feeling.
As he wagged his big, thick, stiff cock at her, and laughed.
"It wasn't the war that almost killed me, Viktor. It was going a whole year without a proper fuck from you."
He laid her down on the bed and got into it with her.
Sighing, Hermione reached for the nearest approaching part of Viktor Krum.
"The gods only know the only thing that got me through all those bloody months in that fucking tent was daydreaming about your cock." She admitted.
"Yes? Was rest of me in dream, too?"
"Of course. Especially your mouth. And your hands."
Krum laughed.
"I wonder if any other man knows how dirty of a girl you are, Hermy-own–ninny."
Briefly, Hermione thought back to a night at the campsite.
"Owww! Quit slapping me, Hermione! That fucking hurts!"
"You drunken bastard! You poncy naff Southern berk! If you're too drunk to get it up for me, I'll break more than your glasses! Sectumsempra, trousers!"
Rrrrrrrip!
"See that, luv? I'm never that drunk. The ol' Firebolt's never failed me yet. All aboard!"
"How about I get a moustache ride, first, Harry? Magic aside, it's not going to lick itself."
"Gods, Hermione, you're so dirty. If I would have known you were this dirty, I would have fucked you, years ago."
"Shut up, and do it now."
"Not like you do, Viktor."
"No, no, don't smoke that shit. I buy you cigarettes in Turkey. Best in vorld."
"Viktor, you don't have to buy me presents."
"Yes, I do. So, how is Head of Master Snape? You write me that you take care of him."
"Headmaster, Viktor. He's made an astounding recovery."
"Chto?'
Hermione smiled to himself.
The first word of Viktor's language she learned, other than the ones he panted over her in the dark was that one.
"What?"
"He's loads better. Almost back to his miserable old self."
"He is good to you?"
"Snape? He's a snarky, miserable prick. Mean as a rattlesnake puffed up with cobra venom. But that's the kind of man he is. What a man's meant to be, where we come from. I need a vacation from the manky old git, and he needs one from me, I dare say. He is good to me, though. In a very important way. He treats me like…like I have value as an...intelligent person. I'm his Acoylte and he's a Pendragon, for fuck's sake. He and his Mum and his grandfather are all both impressed with my abilities. Now he's a hero, he's going to make it public I'm his Acolyte and a master of some of the Disciplines, in my own right. Snape's grooming me to be his apprentice and making me a recommendation to the Merlyn School for university. He trusted me to look after him all summer. Snape's good to me, in his way. When he's better, thinsgw ill go back to normal, between us. I mean, he takes me seriously. He's the only one who does."
"This is good. You are smartest, you should be best. Rise to top. What use is it to be good at something and get nothing from it?"
Hermione sat up in bed, taking a long drag on the aromatic Turkish cigarette.
"I'm glad you understand that, Viktor. Well, of course you do. You're one of the best Quidditch players in the world. You understand what it is, to work, to strive for success. To want to be someone in the world. To have something. A name. A position. Money."
"Yes. Specially money. Without money, life is pile of shit. Without success, where does money come from? Not piece of shit collective farm in piece of shit village in country where we lived worse than fucking muzhiks a thousand years ago. Now, that I am big Quidditch hero, what family Wizarding War and Muggle Communists leave Krum with, they live well. I live well. Big house in Sofia. Also big house in St. Petersburg, where my family comes from. Best neighborhoods. Houses just for me, too. Everything I want all around me, I can walk to. Nothing I don't. I might get place in England, you know. In London, I think. I grow up in country. Is nothing. Is bollocks. You don't want to move to country, Hermy-own-ninny. Is pretty to visit. Is shit to live. Nothing to do."
"Tell that to Ron."
Viktor scowled.
"I do not talk to the Veasel. I give him punch in head."
"Viktor!"
"Vell, I refuse to pretend I like your Vesael friend. I meet his father, his mother, his brothers. Even his sister is better man than he is. Killer Queen is twice man he is. Two weeks ago, we play London team. Is Ginny's second game only playing pro. Killer Queen she take two Bludgers to head at once, boom-boom! Does not stop her. She go into right angle dive, mit great roar like beast, blood coming out of ear, rips through defense like men bigger than Krum made of, how you say, ass papers, you know?"
"Toilet paper?"
"Vet toilet papers. Blood fly this vay, teeth go that vay. Hers, theirs, every vich place. She is so close I feel breath on my neck. We both touch vings of golden snitch at same time. First tie Quidditch game in fifty years. Next time ve meet, I must train like for Triwazard Tournament for month, or Killer Queen vill kick my ass. After game, she come to men's locker room, tells me I am great man and wants to go drink mit me. I drink, she drink butterbeers. Ve get in large fight, beat up every asshole in bar. She walk back to hotel, apologize that she don't go to bed with me, but that with you and her bring such good friends, it seem wrong to her. Woman is lion, not like lion. Rest of family, even her mother, like family of lions. Her mother who bake cookies and knit pullovers, she kills Bella Lestrange. The Veasel is runt of litter. Disgrace to his family. You and Harry Potter carry him around like excess luggage."
"Baggage."
"Vatever. He is small man, can only be big standing on shoulders of big man, or by making big man smaller. This is what he vants, Hermy-own –ninny, to make you small. Vants you big in club, make cake for him while he go play second violin to Harry Potter. You, mit no socks on. Baby hanging from each tit, kids tugging on hem on robe. Every year and half, breed you like cow until tits droop to knees. And you end up, like in Muggle movie you take Victor to? Where the Kazakh man say his fat babushka wife have manda like sleeve on wizard. That is if skinny little shit like the Vesael can get dick like pencil in before dribble all down your leg. When Krum is 15, Krum was man. When Harry Potter was 13, he was man. The Veasel is little boy at 18. He make good girlfriend for you to giggle mit, but any fool can see he's not man enough for you."
Clearly, Viktor held Ron in as great disgust as Ron held Viktor.
But, Viktor had a point.
"That is what he wants, in a nutshell. And we're a disaster as a couple. Every time he tells me he loves me my insides turn to ice water."
"And he is no good in bed?"
"Well, not to me. I roomed with that fucking whore Lavender Brown, and he put her over the moon. Puts me to sleep. We're just no good together. Can you keep a secret, Viktor?"
"I keep all your secrets, Hermy-own–ninny."
"I did a terrible thing. Horrible, really. With Harry. It was a rotten thing for us to do. For me to do. But I did it, you know. And not just the one time. And in the woods yet. Like a couple of beasts. The idea that death was right around the corner, it made Harry and I so desperate. All it did was make Ron want to go to sleep. I should feel horrible. But I don't."
Viktor shrugged, with typical Slavic fatalism.
"Is war, Hermy-own-ninny. War to end world as we know it. Many people feel same way. Go crazy. Drink, eat, fuck, do anything. Get in for last chance. It just prove what I say. Veasel is boy, not man. Harry Potter is man. It drive him crazy to know his good friend, sexy young woman, she is frightened, waiting for death alone and unprotected, between cold sheets. Is only natural for him, as man, to want to be mit you. So that you and he do not die alone. I vish I could have been mit you. Ven I hear you are captured and tortured, I vow that I kill Lestarnge voman mit bare hands. No magic. Mrs. Veasely take care of that for me, but I find vere she is buried I go piss on grave!"
Hermione laughed.
"I think the whole Weasley family would go in with you for that one. Viktor, you make what I did sound so noble." Hermione snorted.
"Is noble. You are hard woman to know, Hermy-own-ninny. You kick people away with both legs while reaching for them mit both arms. Sometimes all you want from man is for him to be man to you. Vesael can be friend to you. But not man."
"Don't say that, Viktor! I've always valued you as my friend. You listen to me. Nobody listens to me. I don't want you to feel like I'm just using you for sex. You really are you know, a mate. As much as Harry or Ron are. But…I'm fucking terrible with this kind of bollocks. You know what I mean, don't you?"
"I know."
Viktor yawned.
"Too much fucking, too much talk. I have to sleep for a time. When I wake up I go downstairs for food. Yes?"
Hermione was feeling a little sleepy, herself, and she allowed Viktor to gather her into his arms.
"Brilliant, Viktor." She yawned.
And slowly, she began to drift off to sleep.
Viktor nudged her.
"Hermy-own-ninny? You are awake?"
"I am now. What is it?"
"I keep think of what you say. About fucking in woods like beast. Where is nearest woods, so we can go make fuck like beast? I am like Beater's bat again."
Hermione grinned into the dark.
"What about if we illegally apparate to the Forbidden Forest, shag like satyrs, and then we come back here and order room service?" she asked.
"You are vicked, Hermy-on-ninny. But is good idea."
Smaug's Belly. Wizarding Liverpool
II: Snape
"You see that, Luke?" Snape snarled, over the din of the regulars watching the fourth of five Liverpool v. Sofia games.
It was an odd conversation, considering that Snape's entire part of it took place through telepathy in the mind of his friend, Lord Lucius Malfoy.
But, then again, Malfoy thought, it was better that not even the regulars at the Belly, who were well used to Snape at his best and his worst, be subject to the malevolence of the conversation he and Sev were about to have.
It might erase what little goodwill his wartime efforts had engendered in anyone.
Even his fellow Scousers.
"I see it. But I don't believe it."
"That Russki son-of-a-bitch! And that fucking naff little berk Granger's in that audience, somewhere. Egging him on. How d'you fucking like it? She makes an Unbreakable Vow to me, spends the whole summer nursemaiding me, and as soon as Krum crooks his little finger at her, it's fuck you, Snape. I'm off."
Lord Malfoy snorted, derisively, into his fine imported butterbeer.
"You can't have it both ways, Sev. If the witch isn't getting what she wants out of you, she's going to go get it, elsewhere. If you don't want her chasing after Krum, you'd best give her something to keep her at home. You fucked up, already."
"Did I? How was that?"
"Well, when Little Miss Ginny Weasley, the Killer Queen, was 15 and she came panting after me, with the intent to have her wicked way with me before she tore me to pieces, I made sure I showed her what I had over all those naff punters she fucked up against Aberforth's goat sheds, didn't I? By the time I was done with her, she didn't want to kill me, anymore. And after that, she stopped screwing everything in pants, and murdering Death Eaters and so on. I took her in hand, didn't I? You, you let Granger run wild all over the place. You're lucky she was a sensible girl, and all she did was shag Viktor Krum. Krum's been standing in your shoes for years, hasn't he? You should have been the first, Sev. That girl's been flinging herself at you since she was 15. And you did the decent thing and looked away. Fat lot of good that's done you. You ought to just give it to her. Show her what she's been panting after, all these years."
"How old were you when the Killer Queen was 15 and you started shagging her? 45?"
"Something like that. But, as I said, I saved my little Poppy, didn't I? Besides, I imagine I was the last man in the Wizarding World she hadn't got around to. But that never bothered me. I like a woman who's wholly and entirely corrupt."
"Well, Granger is! Whether she's shagged half the world or not; I can tell she's a filthy little thing. I'd give it to her, alright! That fucking little Griffindor whore; she's fucking well never had it like I'd give it to her! She's mine, anyway, isn't she?"
"She certainly is. By Unbreakable Vow.""
"I fucking own her! Body and soul. She'd not soon forget me!"
Snape slugged down the remains of his tonic water and lime, and pounded on the bar for another.
"Little bitch! Teasing me all these years. Torturing me. Then she runs off with that blunt-skulled yob of a Quidditch player? Without so much as a note? That's it Luke! The fucking living end!"
"As well it should be! Some women, yunno, there's nothing they understand but fucking. You can buy them gifts, you can be sweet to them, you can be an evil bastard to them, and no matter what you do, they take no notice of you. It's fuck you, what have you done for me, lately? But, give a witch like that one good fuck, and she'll always return for another. Mind, those are the best kind of women you can find." Malfoy replied.
Snape was getting angrier by the moment, working himself into a jealous, wrathful frenzy of lust and rage.
"You know wot? You're right! She's 18 years old, isn't she? Nearly 19? I'm not going to piss around with all this bullshit about power and honor, and propriety and decency. If all the little plastic Scouser cunt wants is a good fuck, then, by all the gods I'll give her one! I'll fix her! I'll fucking ruin the evil little whore so that every time she opens those pretty round white thighs for any other man, all she'll be able to think of is how he isn't me! I'm through mollycoddling her!"
"That's what she wants, isn't it? She's one of you Scousers, she grew up round the fucking block from you, didn't she? I was at Hogwarts, Tuesday last, and I had a whole earful of weeping and sobbing out of poor old Moony, about how he was so worried about our Miss Weasley, about how she's gotten angry with Potter and out of spite to him she's gone back to running all over town with everything in pants that's a fan of hers. How Remus tried to tell her to leave it out and she told him if he wanted to tell her what to do when she wasn't with him then he could find some other woman to take up his time when Sibyl's with you. Which was less than kind, considering the shape Moony's in, and less than respectful considering she's his Acolyte in the Brotherhood , but Poppy, she's always been less than kind. And one thing the Killer Quuen doesn't respect is mealymouthed pieties. You know what I did?"
"What?"
"Well, I went to the Horntail's Nest, in Knockturn Alley, and I kicked in the door of the flop room she was in, and I pulled some little bastard off of her, and knocked about four of his teeth down his throat with me walking stick. Then I dragged her out of bed, pushed her into the shower, cleaned her up, pulled her out of it, wrapped her in me cloak, carried her out of there, took her back to Malfoy Manor, and then to bed. And I shagged the arse off of her. And yunno what?"
"What?"
"She turns to me and she says, 'Fucking hell, Luke, Harry broke some bloke's jaw at the dive next door to the Nest the other night. Dragged me back to Grimmauld Place and we made it up. What took you so fucking long? I was beginning to think you didn't like me, anymore.' It's a game, Snape. The game that bad women love to play with men who are worse than they are. You can't let a boy like Krum beat you at it."
"No, Luke. I fucking well can't. Can I?"
Snape finished his tonic water and lime.
"You wait. When she comes back on Monday, is Granger ever going to get it from me! Whether she likes it or not!"
"Oh, she'll like it."
"You fucking bet she will!"
Snape scowled at the screen playing the Quidditch match, and mentally shooting a "Sectumsempra" at it, caused it to break into about a million tiny pieces.
He pounded on the bar for another tonic water and lime.
"What? It's not legal, anyway, is it? And I don't suppose any of you would like a duel over it. Or maybe just anold-fashioned punch up? Well?" Malfoy protested in his behalf.
Snape stood up, with his wand in his left hand and his right hand in a fist.
He made eye contact with every wizard in the room who was giving him a dirty look.
Each and every one backed down.
The barman brought him anotherd rink, and Snape sat back down, in front of it.
Snape grinned, nastily, into his tonic water and lime.
It was about fucking time for him to take matters into his own hands.