The remaining days leading up to the Second Task passed in a whirlwind of anxious preparations. There was homework to be completed of course—and every professor seemingly decided that they would make all the assignments due the day before the task, and wasn't it incredibly unfair that Harry didn't have to do any of it? And then there were the frantic preparations in abandoned classrooms, sometimes late into the night, where the three of them would practice spells until Harry couldn't see straight. The very night before he'd gotten so drunk for lack of sleep that he'd swayed right into a suit of armor as the three of them had attempted to sneak back to their dorms. It had been Professor Dumbledore who had caught them, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he told Harry he really had better get enough sleep.

Which was why, the night before the Second Task, Hermione was unsurprised that she and Ron had both received a summons to Professor McGonagall's office. Harry wouldn't get in trouble, but the Headmaster's leniency obviously hadn't extended to Harry's partners in crime.

However, upon opening up the door to the professor's office, she'd been startled to find that it contained many more people than she'd expected. There was Professor Flitwick, his eyes bright and a bit concerned, chatting with a supremely disinterested Professor Snape. Awkwardly standing by the fire was Cho Chang, who gave her a little wave when their eyes met. At the very back of the room was Madame Maxime, gently holding the shoulder of an incredibly pale-haired girl that looked to be maybe Hermione's own age, or perhaps a little younger.

The door burst back open and Ron swept in, a little red-faced and out of breath. His eyes darted around the room before finding Hermione. With an uncomfortable smile, he sidled up beside her, trying to pretend that all eyes in the room weren't literally on him.

"Good. We're all here." Professor McGonagall started, her voice brooking no interruption. "You are all here because you, too, have a part to play in tomorrow's Triwizard Task."

Hermione's thoughts stuttered to a halt.

Beside her, Ron silently mouthed the word 'what?' gazing over at Hermione like she could answer the question and wasn't just as baffled as he was.

"As some of you may be aware," and here McGonagall shot her and Ron a quick, cutting glance, "the Champions tomorrow must swim to the bottom of the Black Lake and retrieve something of great value to them."

"We've taken what you'll sorely miss," Hermione breathed out.

"Quite." The professor's voice bordered on sarcastic. "Now if you're done, Ms. Granger?"

No, it wasn't sarcasm. It was…concern, Hermione thought. The professor sounded anxious, troubled even. Which wasn't a state she'd ever associated with her Transfiguration Professor.

"Sorry, Professor," she muttered, uncomfortably aware of the attention she'd drawn.

"Now, as I was saying. Each of you has been paired with one of the Champions…"

Hermione knew, in an abstract kind of way, that Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were explaining more about the task and their part in it, but for the first time in her academic career, she honestly didn't listen. Instead, her brain cycled through two things she'd just learned. One, that she was going to be trapped underwater for an indeterminate amount of time. And two, that Viktor would sorely miss her.

Both thoughts left her a bit giddy.

"Are there any questions?" Professor Flitwick asked.

Not a single person there said a word. In fact, each of the—what should she even call them? Items? Targets? Hostages?—looked beyond shellshocked. Cho, who was obviously here for Cedric, was sweating slightly. Ron looked a bit green. And the young blonde, who Hermione now realized looked a bit like Fleur, had the expression of someone who'd just been politely informed that they'd been sentenced to execution by firing squad.

"Well then," Professor Flitwick cleared his throat. "If no one has any questions, we have some potions for you, and then we'll be performing the charm. Please be assured that you will be closely monitored and no harm will come to you."

"Wait," she was saying before she could stop herself. "You're doing it tonight? Not…in the morning?"

McGonagall raised her eyebrows, her lips pinched in a tight line. "Is there a problem, Ms. Granger?"

"I…I didn't get to wish Viktor good luck," she mumbled, staring at her feet.

When she looked back up, something like pity crossed McGonagall's face. "I'm sorry, Ms. Granger, but now that you know the particulars of the task, you cannot have any contact with the Champions. Mr. Krum included."

"Of course, Professor," she murmured, scared and mutinous and worried. What would Viktor think, when she didn't have breakfast with him? She'd barely been able to see him all week, and she knew he understood why, but she'd promised to wish him good luck before the task. What would he think of her when she just didn't show up?

Oh, all of this was awful.

"Harry's gonna be worried sick," Ron whispered, his face still a bit ashen.

Oh, Harry. She'd nearly forgotten about him. Now he was going to have to face the start of the Second Task alone. In the morning, he'd come up to the common room for company and neither of them would be there. And he wouldn't have any idea why. Would he think that they'd abandoned him?

Crossing her fingers, she hoped that Ginny and Neville would keep him company so he didn't spiral too badly. After all, he'd been an anxious mess all week and was certain to be even more of one tomorrow morning.

When Professor Snape marched over with vials of smoking black goo, a sick smile on his face at their horrified expressions, Ron reached over and squeezed her hand in solidarity before snagging his vial off the tray.

"Well," he said. "Here goes nothing."

With shaking hands, Hermione swallowed her own dose, grimacing at the bitter flavor and the way the potion seemed to cling to the back of her throat.

She knew that there were charms that would come next, and yet, when she would look back, she wouldn't remember a single one of them.

=/=/=

If she'd given it any thought, Hermione would have expected her own return to consciousness to be slow, ambling. A blink here, a grumble there, and bit by bit she'd drift back into awareness. After all, her professors were adept at magic; it was normal to expect them to weave a spell beautiful in its subtlety.

The reality was far from subtle. Or beautiful.

Hermione's head broke the surface of the Black Lake and it was like she'd been struck by lightning. Her muscles contracted, bending her backwards into a bleakly comical imitation of the letter C. Her mouth gaped open and she gasped, desperately trying to bring new air into her lungs. It didn't work of course, for she'd slipped down into the water again and instead of blissful oxygen, she inhaled a solid mouthful of briny, brackish water.

How Viktor got her to the shore she really didn't know, but within moments she was heaving on her hands and knees, desperately trying to expel the water from her lungs as she began to shiver violently, as if every muscle in her body had suddenly realized all at once that it had been surrounded by frigid water for who-knew-how-long and was frantically trying to restore blood flow and oxygen to starving tissues.

Someone was saying her name.

Weren't they?

But Hermione's ears were stuffed full of cotton.

As was her nose, which both refused to admit air and was starting to run, a slimy trail of snot and lake water seeping down her face.

Warm hands wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Strong arms pulled her into a solid, if damp, chest.

"Viktor?" she croaked.

Oh, her voice was ruined: stuffy and hoarse and gross.

A hand cupped the back of her head, so large it cradled the full span of her skull, and tentatively stroked her hair.

"Right here. You are ok." His breath was warm in her ear. "You are ok," he repeated, though it was unclear whether he was trying to comfort her or himself.

Somewhere close by, someone pointedly cleared their throat.

It was all it took for Hermione's brain to kick into gear and take stock of her surroundings. She was kneeling on the pier, its slimy boards pressing into the skin of her knees where her socks had fallen down. Viktor was sitting in front of her, his legs on either side of her, the inside of his thighs just barely brushing the heavy fabric of her skirt. He'd wrapped a large blanket around her, his long arm heavy across her back, the weight of it pulling her forward into his embrace. His cheek pressed tightly to the crown of her head and for the briefest moment she let herself collapse forward until she could feel the warm skin of his neck against her forehead.

The throat cleared again.

"That's quite enough hysterics, Mr. Krum. Ms. Granger will be fine, but she needs to come with me to the healer's tent." When Viktor didn't immediately move, the voice continued. "Now."

Several minutes later, she was warming her frigid toes in front of a magically-burning cast iron stove, sipping hot tea with lemon and wincing every time steam burst, sudden and unexpected, out of her ears.

"Quite enough hysterics," she muttered to herself. "I'll show him hysterics."

"The Ministry healer is a brusque fellow, isn't he?"

Hermione yelped and tipped her hot tea straight into her lap.

Remus Lupin stood before her, his shoulders a little hunched, his eyes more than a little tired, but with a welcoming smile that stretched and warped the spider-web of scars arcing across his face.

"Professor Lupin!"

His smile widened and his eyes softened as he looked her over. With a quick wave of his wand, the spilled tea dried, leaving behind only the faint scent of lemon. With a nearly-inaudible groan, he lowered himself into a chair next to her, leaning forward to warm his hands in front of the stove's grate. His knuckles were swollen and his hands shook, she noted. In fact, the poor man looked on the verge of collapse.

Hermione thought of star charts and moons and realized, suddenly, that yesterday had been the full moon. Should she say something?

Before she had the chance to awkwardly muck it all up, Professor Lupin leaned back and practically melted into the chair.

"I'm not your professor anymore, Hermione. You can call me Remus."

"Yes, sir."

Lupin shook his head fondly before lapsing back into silence.

After several long minutes of quiet contemplation, he spoke again.

"So, you and Viktor Krum?"

If she could have collapsed into the chair any further, she would have. Normally, she'd feel angry, incensed that yet another person was going to accuse Viktor of being a dark wizard bent on some ill-defined but definitely evil plot to…win a school competition. Which was just so stupid, but no one else seemed to see that. But today she couldn't bring forward the energy.

"What about it?"

She didn't even bother to look at her former professor's face, choosing instead to gaze at the flickering tongues of flame that crackled between the iron teeth of the heater.

"How did the two of you meet?"

Hermione appreciated his tact. At least he was feigning interest before expressing his "concern."

"We're both taking Alchemy with Professor Dumbledore. We just finished writing a treatise together on Byzantine Alchemy before the Ottoman conquest."

"That sounds fascinating. I certainly wish there'd been Alchemy offered when I was your age."

And so the two of them neatly sidestepped the minefield that was Hermione's relationship with a boy who practiced blood magic and studied under a former Death Eater (but really, who knew the prejudice of darkness better than a werewolf?) and instead passed the time quite amicably discussing Alchemy and coursework and how desperately Hermione wished that Harry would take his studies seriously so that he didn't graduate to discover himself already educationally crippled. If he shared her concerns, he kept it to himself, but overall Lupin was a surprisingly good conversationalist, and Hermione found herself jealous that it was Harry and not her who got to have people like Lupin and Sirius and the Weasleys in his corner as he acclimated to the wizarding world.

They'd been so caught up in talking about Hermione's concerns over the current direction of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class that they'd nearly missed the arrival of Ron and the little blond French girl. But miss it they did not, and the following minutes passed amiably enough as Ron joined them, bringing Hermione another cup of hot tea.

When the scores were finally announced—Viktor had gotten docked points for his 'incomplete transfiguration,' which was stupid because he'd have been useless if he'd fully transfigured himself and surely Dumbledore of all people would recognize how incredibly difficult that magic was—Ron crowed at Harry's extra points for saving both himself and Fleur's sister. Lupin, too, smiled proudly at Harry's Gryffindor bravery.

If it had happened last year, Hermione wouldn't have taken much notice, but ever since Viktor had commented on the special treatment Harry had received in the scoring of the First Task, she couldn't help but conclude that he was right. Something wasn't adding up. Dumbledore being partial to Harry was nothing new, but Mr. Crouch's decision to also award Harry extra points just didn't make sense. At the start of the year, he'd seemed harsh and punishing, and Sirius had described him as painfully, unwaveringly by-the-book, almost to the point of unfairness. But now here he was, giving Harry enough points to now tie Cedric for first place. What was going on? And why was no one at Hogwarts concerned about the increasingly-blatant favoritism?

Because it benefited them, of course. Stroked their little egos to see both Hogwarts champions tied for first place when both Viktor and Harry had been scored unfairly.

But one look at Ron and Lupin, and she kept her mouth shut.

And then finally—finally!—the Champions came through the doors of the Healer's Tent, bedraggled and cold and, in Harry's case at least, ecstatic.

Who was she supposed to greet first? Harry? Who'd been unfairly awarded extra points for stupidity and who'd come up with his plan based on pure luck and his willingness to ask others to do all his work for him? But who was her best friend in the entire world. Or Viktor? Who'd been likewise unfairly docked points after practicing for long months and practically torturing himself to be as sportsmanlike as possible?

Hermione wrung her hands tightly before she slowly got up.

What followed was stiff and awkward and took entirely too much time. Viktor was…Viktor: grumpy, a bit sullen, and exceedingly uncomfortable as Hermione and Professor Lup—Remus tried to enfold him within their circle of friendship and comradery. Harry and Ron were exuberant in their excitement, happily bulldozing through every conversation as they both relived, moment-by-moment, exactly how wonderful Harry had been and wasn't it exciting that he was tied for first and wasn't it awful that Cedric had done well?

And in the middle of it all was Hermione, torn between conflicting desires and, therefore, failing miserably at meeting anyone's expectations. Her discomfort hadn't gone entirely unremarked, as Remus kept trying to pull her and Viktor into conversation, but every false start simply fizzled, petering out until the subject died and the three were left in uneasy silence.

Finally, Viktor gave her a tight smile and a little bow, and gave up.

"I will leave you to celebrations," he murmured, nodding his head at Remus before squeezing her hand.

And then he was gone, marching from the tent without so much as a look backwards.

Hermione looked towards Harry, who'd finally emerged from his self-congratulatory high long enough to notice that something was off.

"Where's he going?" Ron asked.

Her face felt hot and tight, but she wasn't certain exactly why.

"I don't know."

It was Remus who took pity on her. "How about the two of you go celebrate? I'm sure he'd like to spend some time with you, Hermione." When it looked like she was going to argue, he continued. "I was going to invite you all down to the Three Broomsticks for some butterbeers. How about you catch up with us later? Viktor would be welcome to come with you, of course."

Hermione shuffled from foot to foot before giving herself a firm shake. Was she a Gryffindor or wasn't she?

After all, if she ran, she just might catch him.

=/=/=

There was something about Viktor, about feeling his strong arms around her, that made her frantic heart beat slower, made her muscles unclench, made her racing thoughts calm and, sometimes, even go blissfully quiet. It was just something intrinsic in the way he felt, the way he smelled, the way he held her and kissed the top of her head. Such was the case now, cradled between Viktor's strong thighs, the steady thump of his heart against her back, his cheek pressed to the crown of her head: the whole world could pass her by in this moment and she'd let it. Gladly.

Viktor's arms wrapped around her more tightly as he sighed, pulling her closer and drawing his cloak more completely around them. Normally, Hermione would be anxiously worrying about what to say, how to fill the silence, but she'd already fretted at him at length, incoherent and scattered apologies for why she hadn't been able to wish him luck that morning. He hadn't wanted to hear them, he'd told her. It wasn't her fault and he was only interested in knowing that she was alright.

She was.

Mostly.

The cold had seeped into her bones, so deep even the Pepper Up she'd been given (extra strength and extra uncomfortable) hadn't touched it. The sudden shock of consciousness had left her addled and scatterbrained. As had the worry over how to divide herself between Viktor and her friends.

As if he'd sensed that she was hanging on by fraying threads and sheer determination, Viktor had gently taken her by the hand and quietly led her down by the greenhouses, where they'd found an open First Year greenhouse that was blissfully warm. So long as they didn't get too close to the biting nettles or purposefully dig up a mandrake, there was absolutely nothing to bother them there. And so they'd settled in, wrapped together back to front, and simply existed while Hermione slowly stopped shivering.

After long minutes of silence, during which her arse had started to go numb against the greenhouse floor, Hermione wriggled a bit to get comfy.

"Professor Lupin invited us to the Three Broomsticks this afternoon, if you'd like to join us."

Viktor hmm'd, but otherwise stayed silent.

"Do you? Want to come with me? Only, I figured I should go, even if it's just for a bit. And I know you're not friends with Harry and definitely not with Ron, but it really would be nice. You'd like Professor Lupin."

She could feel Viktor drop his forehead against the back of her neck. With a stifled sigh, he murmured against her skin "Will make you happy, da?"

Part of her wanted to lie. Or shrivel up inside. Because it was so incredibly obvious that Viktor was not enthused at the idea. Not that she could entirely blame him, but he got along just fine with Harry and he really would like Lupin, she thought.

"Yes."

Viktor nodded against her neck before raising his head to place a lingering kiss on her temple. "Than I will go with you. One drink, then I must meet my friends to celebrate."

Oh, she hadn't even thought of that. Lord, she was an idiot.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't even stop to think that you'd want to celebrate with your friends: of course you would. Oh, you probably already have plans to meet them and here I am, asking you to—"

"Hermione," Viktor interrupted. "Is ok. Will celebrate with you now, then friends later. I have time."

Hermione turned around as much as she could, searching his face for evidence that he wasn't just trying to placate her.

"Are you sure?"

Shaking his head, his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Da. Yes."

Beaming, she stretched forward to peck his lips.

"Well, if you're sure."

His lips chased hers as she started to lean back.

"Am sure," he murmured, so close she could feel his lips whispering across hers.

And then he was kissing her like they hadn't kissed in ages. His lips were warm, certain, coaxing hers open while his hand came to press against her cheek, turning her towards him. A muscle—or was it a tendon? she idly wondered—pinched in her neck.

Well, that wouldn't do.

It gave her the perfect opportunity to attempt something Ginny had suggested but that she simply hadn't ever had the chance to try. She pulled back, wiggled awkwardly to her knees, and straddled exactly one thigh. Which hadn't quite been the plan. Ginny had said lap, she'd been certain of that. But Viktor's legs had been splayed so wide to fit her between them that she'd have had to grab them and push them together to make it work.

Which maybe she should have considered before she started this nonsense.

Regardless, Viktor certainly didn't seem to care. It was fascinating to be able to look down at his upturned face, to watch his pupils dilate, to see the very tip of a pink tongue dart out to moisten his lips. The whole thing made her feel powerful instead of silly, especially when Viktor surged forward to capture her lips with his. A long stroke of his hand started at her ankle, gliding hot and heavy up her thick woolen socks before gripping her knee, pulling upwards so he could quickly slot his other leg between hers. When she finally sat down across his lap, she was rewarded with a startled grunt that had her smiling against his lips.

Pulling back, he smiled, wrinkling his nose at her. "Laugh at me, huh?"

"No," Hermione replied, biting her lip to keep from grinning to broadly.

Viktor laughed and cupped her cheek with his broad, callused hand. "I show you laughing."

And he was kissing her again, all tongue and nipping teeth and Hermione forgot why she ever found this funny instead of exhilarating. The blood in her veins felt hot and viscous, the tender flesh between her thighs starting to pound in time with her pulse. Her head felt light and—oh! was that why they called it necking? and wasn't that absolutely wonderful. A revelation, really.

She wondered, for the briefest of moments, whether she'd have a bruise there later.

But then Viktor was weaving his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her head back and she'd never thought being manhandled could be pleasant but it was. Especially when it meant that Viktor could kiss and nip down the column of her neck.

Oh.

Yes. She would most certainly have a bruise there.

And were her hands under the edge of his sweater?

Yes.

When had they gotten there?

She couldn't remember. But it was—he was—glorious: all soft, warm skin and hard muscles, and huffed pleasure from her boyfriend, who seemed to enjoy her hands on him just as much as she did.

Outside, someone giggled.

With a sigh, Viktor ceased his exploration of her bare thigh, his gentle kneading of her waist, and dropped his head onto her shoulder. The moment over, Hermione carefully pulled her hands out from under his sweater, uncertain where to put them now and ultimately settling them in the bulk of his cloak where her knees had bunched it up around his waist and hips.

His voice, soft and husky and a bit uncertain, interrupted her thoughts before they could begin to slowly ramp and spiral as the real world came back into focus.

"Have question. Don't need answer now, but have question."

"OK."

"In June, not ready to say goodbye. You come to Bulgaria, yes? This summer?" He paused, not quite meeting her eyes. "Please?"

"Of course," she replied, her lips forming the words before her brain had even fully processed the magnitude of what Viktor was asking her.

Oh, what had she just agreed to!?

Her dad would never say yes.

Viktor's beaming smile, the way his brow smoothed and his eyes brightened, made her feel wonderful. And guilty. And then wonderful again.

There would be time, she decided, to convince her parents that she could totally spend part of her summer holiday in Bulgaria. Because Viktor was right: June was just around the corner. And she wouldn't be ready to say goodbye.

With a bright smile she didn't entirely feel, Hermione made a decision the likes of which she'd never made before: she decided she'd worry about it all later.