Viktor
Viktor and his brother, Alexei, were outside racing on their brooms. Their laughter echoed through the crisp winter air as they poked fun at the pompous witches and wizards who would soon arrive at their house for the annual Yuletide gathering in a few hours.
Viktor's heart pounded with exhilaration as he soared through the sky, the wind whipping through his hair. The feeling of weightlessness, the rush of speed – it was intoxicating.
"We should head back, Viktor. It's getting late."Called Alexei, stopping in the middle of the Quidditch pitch in their backyard.
"One more lap," Viktor replied with a mischievous glint in his eye. "And the loser dances with Madame Ivanova tonight." Viktor shivered at the thought. Madame Ivanova was a pushy, perfume-drenched dance partner, notorious for stepping on her partners' feet.
Alexei scrunched his face in disgust. "You're on!" Gripping his broom tightly, he accepted the challenge.
Viktor grinned at his brother and took out his wand to cast a timer charm.
As they were getting ready, their mother approached, her face etched with disapproval.
"I do not know Viktor. Maybe it is not a good idea."
"You can call it off if you're afraid," Viktor teased his younger brother playfully, knowing he would get in trouble later for coaxing Alexei into being late.
As the timer reached the last five seconds, their mother's voice boomed. "Don't you dare! You get down now!"
"One more lap," Viktor defiantly replied, his competitive spirit overriding his fear of his mother's wrath.
Before their mother could answer, the timer went off.
Viktor's heart raced with adrenaline as he pushed his broom to its limits. The world seemed to blur beneath him as he swooped and darted, attempting to gain an edge on his brother. Viktor's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in short gasps. He could feel Alexei's presence close behind him.
As they neared the finish line, Viktor surged forward, his broom straining under the pressure. He leaned into the wind, his determination burning like a fire within him. With a final burst of speed, he crossed the finish line, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
Alexei landed beside him, breathing heavily. "That's cheating. I'm pretty sure you're more bird than human. You've got the face for it too."
Viktor laughed and threw his broom over his shoulder. "You could beat me if you practiced."
The younger Krum rolled his eyes. "Yeah right, because I can beat the natural talent of a bird."
"It's more than natural talent; it's dedication."
"Ugh, yes, yes, hard work and all that," Alexei mocked.
Viktor put an arm around his brother, knowing how irked Alexei got when people compared the two. "At least you'll have fun dancing with Madame Ivanova."
Alexei grunted. "Gods, dancing with that witch always gives me a headache."
They enjoyed a couple of seconds of peace until their mother and her elf popped up next to them.
The rush of winning was short-lived due to their mother's nagging about being late. She lectured Viktor about being more responsible now that he was considered an adult and the next heir of the Krumovs. He had been right about getting an earful about being a role model for his younger brothers, but it had been worth it to avoid bruised toes.
A few hours later, thirteen-year-old Viktor Krum stood in the middle of the Krum estate's grand ballroom, feeling out of place. His heart thudded against his chest like a caged bird. The room was heavy with perfume, which he was certain emanated solely from Madame Ivanova. The space was filled with the melodious strains of a waltz and alive with elegant gowns and impeccably polished shoes.
Adjusting the sleeves of his new adult robes, Viktor couldn't shake the uncomfortable sensation of the silky fabric against his skin. Despite being assured countless times that silk was smooth, it felt wrong ever since he stepped into the room. But then again, perhaps it was the weight of people's eyes on him that made him feel like a trapped dragon on display.
An older woman, whose name Victor couldn't recall, fixed him with an unrelenting critical stare. He scowled in return; the woman seemed to recoil from his expression before quickly snapping her fan shut and marching away.
"Viktor, my little dragon," his mother leaned down and whispered in his ear. Her red lips hovered for a second before she straightened her back. "Remember what we've told you about scowling? It doesn't befit a young man."
Meeting his mother's lighter gaze with his own dark eyes, Viktor silently mumbled, "Sorry, Mother."
A lively blend of traditional Bulgarian folk melodies and modern ballroom tunes filled the air. As the music swelled, the guests began to pair off, their movements fluid and practiced. His parents gracefully took center stage, swirling and twirling as they gazed into each other's eyes.
He caught sight of Alexei dancing with the plump witch and smirked when he saw his toes getting crushed. But even watching his brother being tormented, he couldn't enjoy it as much as he thought he would.
To ease the uncomfortable feeling in his skin, he attempted to immerse himself in conversation with Vladimir and Oleg, but the incessant itch persisted.
It was a relentless gnawing. No matter what he did, it wouldn't go away. He even asked one of the elves to check if there was anything wrong with his robes. He asked another elf to cast a cooling spell to relieve it, but nothing worked.
He was about to bolt out of the ballroom when suddenly, a girl caught his eye. She was a few years older than him, with long, flowing blonde hair and eyes that sparkled like the stars.
He narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows furrowing as he continued to watch her. She ran her hand through her hair and touched her neck.
The itch that had danced and pirouetted beneath his skin finally calmed. But with the itch gone, he felt a pull towards the blonde girl. It was as if an unseen force was drawing him towards her.
Despite his brother's teasing remarks about resembling a hawk perched for its prey, Viktor remained fixated on the blonde girl. His mother's gentle whisper, "Son, didn't we already discuss this? You must not stare or scowl at guests," fell on deaf ears.
"I'm sorry, Mother, but I can't help it," Viktor insisted, his brow furrowed in concentration.
His mother's brow turned into a thin white line. "You can't help being rude?"
It wasn't like he wanted to stare, but he couldn't help it. It was as if his body was separate from his brain. He had tried over and over to look away, to leave, but he couldn't do it. Viktor's brows furrowed even deeper, his eyes never leaving the blonde girl. "No," he replied curtly.
"Viktor!" His mother exclaimed, her voice laced with exasperation.
"I'm sorry, but I feel strange, Mother," Viktor confessed, his gaze shifting to the floor. "It's like an itch I can't scratch, a magnetic pull that won't let me go." He glanced back at the blonde girl, his expression a mix of confusion and fascination. "No matter what I do, I can't stop looking at her. Maybe there's something wrong with me? What if I caught something?" He asked, distressed.
His mother chuckled softly, her eyes filled with knowing amusement. "My dear boy," she said, tenderly kissing his temple, "I think this is a conversation you should have with your father."
Later that evening, Viktor found himself standing outside his father's study, nervously twisting the foreign ring on his index finger, his thumb scraping over his family's insignia.
"Come in." His father's voice boomed from within.
Viktor stepped into the spacious study, feeling a wave of heat wash over him despite the cool evening air. His father stood by the fireplace, a drink in his hand.
"Your mother told me about your situation today," his father began, his voice deep and commanding.
Viktor gulped, his palms growing clammy. "Yes, Father," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Situation? Oh, Merlin. Viktor's thoughts were flooded with images of flesh-eating diseases. He was sick after all.
The head of the family took a drink and placed the tumbler on the mantle above the hearth. "Tell me about it."
Viktor recounted the events of the day, describing the strange itch, how no matter what he did, it would still be there. How he had been fine until he entered the ballroom. The inexplicable pull towards the blonde girl, and the strange pull he felt.
His father's lips curled into a faint smile. "I see," he murmured.
"Am I sick? Do I have dragonpox?" Viktor asked anxiously, his voice trembling.
Mister Krum raised his eyebrows. "No, Viktor. In fact, you are quite healthy."
Viktor's eyes narrowed in confusion. If he wasn't sick, then what was happening to him? He had been fine a couple of hours before.
What followed was a conversation that made Viktor wish for dragonpox instead. His father explained that certain wizards and witches, as they approached adulthood, experienced a special kind of magic awakening within them. This magic allowed them to sense companions with whom they shared a unique magical bond, a connection that ensured their compatibility for child-bearing.
Because of this connection, wizards and witches frequently felt a deep physical connection to one another. If the link was strong enough, their magic would call out to the other's.
And though this produced a strong magical connection, which in turn would lead to magically strong children, it also increased the need for a physical bond.
If Viktor wasn't ashamed enough, his father made him pledge that he would never act on those physical urges. He was to remain a perfect gentleman at all times with any witch he felt a connection to.
His father reminded him of the importance of ensuring a witch's virtue and image remained pure. If he ever were to defile a witch, he would need to take full responsibility.
Viktor listened as his father moved to explain courting customs. First, the interested young man would initiate the courtship by seeking the approval of the witch's family, usually through a matchmaker or by approaching the witch's parents directly. Formal introductions were vital. The wizard would visit the witch's home with gifts.
During these visits, the wizard would display his character and values to the family.
Under no circumstances were the young couple to spend time alone. Physical contact was to remain minimal.
His father suggested that if Viktor couldn't control the physical bond, he could seek solace in his private quarters if the need was too intense, or once he turned 15, he could visit a courtesan at the pleasure district.
Viktor had never been so embarrassed. He prayed he could vanish into thin air, out of existence, and never have to face the humiliation of his father telling him that if he couldn't control himself like a beast, he should go take care of the problem with his hand or an unknown witch.
That night, Viktor couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in bed, his mind racing with questions. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach, making it churn and his palms sweat.
Would he always feel like his skin was crawling with Lacewing flies? He hated how out of control he felt. He felt like a puppet on a string, his emotions and desires controlled by an unseen force.
The remaining days of his Yule break, Viktor spent in the library or flying. He found that the latter had been more productive. The rush of the air when he dipped dangerously low, the way the world seemed to stretch out beneath him, and the feeling of limitless possibility all helped clear his head and focus his thoughts.
When the term started, he was grateful for his all-boys school, and the sanctuary it had provided from the distractions and temptations of witches. Without the constant presence of witches, he had been able to focus on controlling the tether.
Hermione
An unexpected knock on the front door marked a turning point in Hermione's life, just a month before her 13th birthday.
To her astonishment, a tall, stern-looking woman, dressed in black robes and sporting a pointed hat atop a severe bun, stood at the door. Her piercing blue eyes seemed to dissect Hermione, taking in every detail of her appearance.
"Hermione Granger, I presume?" the woman inquired in a crisp, authoritative tone.
Hermione nodded. She had never met this peculiar woman with strange clothes before. Yet there was something eerily familiar that sent shivers down her spine.
"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall," the woman introduced herself, extending a long, slender hand toward Hermione. "And I have some important news for you."
Hermione, still bewildered, hesitantly reached out to shake the woman's hand, her eyes darting behind her to make sure this wasn't some elaborate prank. The street, however, remained eerily quiet. Too quiet in fact.
Distracted by the commotion, Hermione's mother, Helen, called out, "Who's at the door, Hermione?"
Unsure of how to respond, Hermione turned to look at the woman with the pointed hat. "A professor," she replied meekly.
"A professor?" Helen echoed, approaching the entrance, her gaze fixed on the figure dressed in black standing before her daughter.
"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall," the older woman stated, extending her hand towards Helen.
Helen accepted the handshake, her expression a mix of skepticism and intrigue. "Helen Granger," she introduced herself, her eyes scanning the woman's peculiar attire. She looked at her daughter, but Hermione shrugged.
Clearing her throat, Professor McGonagall addressed Helen directly. "I am here to discuss your daughter's future," she stated, her voice softening slightly.
Helen's eyebrows furrowed, "Her future?"
"You see, Mrs. Granger," Professor McGonagall explained. "I'm sure you've noticed that your daughter is often susceptible to being in the middle of strange occurrences."
Both Helen and Hermione exchanged puzzled glances, a knot of anxiety forming in Hermione's stomach.
Helen stood straighter, as she positioned herself in front of Hermione. Her voice, usually gentle and accommodating, took on a steely edge.
"Whatever happens around my daughter is none of your concern," she asserted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione's heart pounded in her chest as she stood between her mother and the enigmatic older woman.
The older woman remained composed, her gaze unwavering. "I assure you, I mean no harm," she said, her voice laced with a hint of urgency. "I'm here to provide an explanation for these occurrences."
"They're just accidents!" Helen insisted, her voice hardening.
Over the years, the Grangers had made a conscious effort to overlook the unexplained events surrounding their daughter. As Hermione matured, these occurrences had become less frequent, yet a lingering curiosity gnawed at her. No matter how diligently her father attempted to rationalize these incidents, Hermione's inquisitive spirit remained curious. Things always felt strange, it was as if there was something surrounding her.
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the air. "Your daughter, Mrs. Granger, possesses extraordinary talents that often manifest in unexpected ways." She gestured towards Hermione. "I can provide you with an explanation. Would you be willing to invite me in?"
Helen's face contorted into a mask of confusion and hesitation. A beat of silence stretched between them before she reluctantly ushered the woman inside.
They settled into the living room, Helen gracefully arranging teacups on the coffee table. Hermione fidgeted with her nails, her gaze darting between her mother and their strange visitor.
Her heart pounded with anticipation as she waited for the older woman to offer some type of explanation as to why she had always felt like she was the one causing plates to fly off the table or books to fall from bookshelves.
Professor McGonagall sipped her tea, before placing the cup back on the saucer. "I believe we should get to the root of the matter," she stated. "Your daughter, Hermione, possesses magical abilities."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock, and she almost laughed. Magical abilities? Was this some kind of joke? But the stern expression on McGonagall's face told her that this was no laughing matter. Magic? How ludicrous. She was expecting something along the lines of ghosts or maybe some type of prankster spirit that was following her around, never magic.
"Magical abilities?" Mrs. Granger laughed.
Professor McGonagall remained unfazed. "I understand this may be difficult to comprehend," she continued, her voice steady and unwavering, "but your daughter is indeed a witch. She holds the potential to become a powerful one at that."
Hermione's rational mind screamed at her that this was a preposterous notion, a cruel joke. "Magic isn't real," she muttered into her teacup, her voice barely audible.
"Ah, my dear child, but it is," Professor McGonagall countered.
Helen, her patience exhausted, rose from her seat, her eyes blazing with indignation. She had tolerated enough of this woman's outlandish claims. "Enough of this nonsense!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing through the room. "Whatever you are playing at is enough! I wouldn't tolerate you coming here offering help for you to say that my daughter is– is."
"A witch." Professor McGonagall remained unfazed by Helen's outburst. She calmly reached inside her robes and produced a long, black wand. With a flick of her wrist, she pointed it towards the teacup that Hermione was holding.
Hermione watched in disbelief as the teacup began to tremble and shift. Its porcelain form morphed and twisted, and in a matter of seconds, it had transformed into a sleek, white cat.
The cat leaped onto the sofa, its emerald eyes gleaming with otherworldly intelligence. It purred softly, rubbing its head against Hermione's hand.
Unlike Helen, whose face had gone pale and who was almost falling to the floor, Hermione eyed the cup-cat creature with bright eyes. Magic wasn't real, yet here was a cup-cat creature purring into her hand.
She should have been scared; this, after all, wasn't normal. Right? But she couldn't deny how her palms itched when she touched the cup-cat. There was something in the air that crackled that drew her in.
Hermione smiled brightly as she petted the cup-cat. "It's real. Magic is real," she said in disbelief.
"That it is, Miss Granger," explained McGonagall. "And it's a part of you."
Mrs. Granger's face was a mask of fear and disbelief. "A witch? But... how is that possible?"
Professor McGonagall smiled faintly. "Magic is a natural part of the world, Mrs. Granger. It exists all around us, unseen by most. But for those who are born with the gift, magic is as real as the air we breathe."
Hermione's mind was racing. Witches? Magic? This was all so surreal, yet there was something undeniably compelling about Professor McGonagall's words. She felt a tingle of excitement, but it was overshadowed by the questions swimming in her head.
She was about to ask then when her mother beat her to it.
Mrs. Granger swallowed hard. "How can Hermione be a witch?" It came out more of a statement than a question. "I'm not a witch, and neither is my husband."
Professor McGonagall took a sip of her tea before setting the cup down on the coffee table. "The exact origins of magic in Muggle-borns are still a mystery," she explained, "but it is believed that it stems from a distant, magical ancestor, perhaps a Squib who married into a Muggle family."
"Muggle? A Squib?" Helen inquired, her brows furrowed in confusion.
"Ah, yes, excuse me for not clarifying. A Muggle is a non-magical person. A Muggle-born is a witch or wizard born to non-magical parents," she gave a small smile and looked at Hermione. "A Squib is a non-magical person born to magical parents," Professor McGonagall clarified. "Sometimes, the magical gene skips a generation, reappearing in their offspring."
Helen's brows furrowed deeper. "But why Hermione?" she asked.
The older woman's eyes were full of patience. "Magic is a complex and multifaceted force, Mrs. Granger," she said. "It can manifest in unexpected ways, and it is not always bound by the traditional lines of lineage."
She leaned forward. "Think of it like a hidden spark," she continued. "One that lies dormant within certain individuals, waiting for the right moment to ignite."
"So, you're saying that Hermione has this spark?" she inquired.
Professor McGonagall nodded. "Yes," she confirmed. "And I believe it is this spark that has been causing the... unusual occurrences you've noticed around your daughter."
Helen's eyes widened in realization. "So, it wasn't her fault all along?" she asked, relief washing over her face.
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "No, Mrs. Granger," she said, her voice calm and soothing. "Your daughter's magic was coming to the surface, if you will."
"What happens now?" Helen asked and stood behind her daughter, her warm palms on Hermione's shoulders.
Hermione was awe-struck. She wanted to ask a million questions but they all seem to die at the tip of her toungue.
Magic was real. She was a witch. She wasn't a freak. There was a literal other world out there; who knows what existed? She imagined dragons, fairies, and mermaids casually going about their lives in this other world. Would they be able to speak? Or were they more animal-like?
The older woman—the witch—cleared her throat, jolting Hermione back to reality. Hermione blushed. She dug something from inside her robes, and Hermione wondered if she would bring out a fairy next.
Unfortunately, it was a simple, and from what Hermione could feel, a normal letter.
"Now, we discuss Hermione's future," Professor McGonagall announced.
The envelope turned out to be her Hogwarts welcoming letter. Professor McGonagall explained that she would be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a school for every magical child. The school lasted six years, with the option of taking an extra year to complete an internship.
Hermione was excited beyond words. There was so much to learn, to read that she asked the professor if she had any books she could read.
The older witch told her that she would come to fetch her and her parents a week before the start of the term so they could go buy the necessary supplies. Hermione insisted on going there right away, but McGonagall explained that they needed to go to a magical shopping district.
The days seemed to tick twice as slowly as Hermione waited for their visit to Diagon Alley. When the day arrived, her mother was a mix of excited and nervous. Her father, on the other hand, was skeptical, to say the least.
Wendel Granger thought that his wife and daughter were pulling a fast one on him when they retold the events of McGonagall's visit. It wasn't until the second day that he relented to the idea.
On the day of their shopping trip, Hermione and her mother were in awe as they took in the cobbled narrow streets of Diagon Alley.
The place hummed with what Hermione now knew was magic. It tingled her skin and made her feel at home. They browsed from shop to shop gathering her materials. The last item on her list was her wand.
When she stepped into Olivander's, she felt her skin itch. She assumed it had been from all the magic she had been exposed to. But when her eyes locked onto a pair of gray ones, she felt a sort of pull towards the short platinum blonde boy in front of her.
They maintained eye contact as they waited in line until her father made a comment about how ridiculous it was that they had magic creatures and floating books but they needed a piece of wood to do magic.
The boy's face instantly soured, and he murmured something under his breath before turning to face his father, who was a copy-and-paste version of his son.
They both glared at the Grangers with something that made Hermione's skin crawl.
On the day of her departure to school, Hermione kept feeling that strange tingling and pull towards several boys, one of whom was a twin with red hair. She looked around and saw that no one seemed to be paying any attention to her or anyone else for that matter. Everyone was busy saying their tearful goodbyes.
Her parents hugged her for a bit too long. Her mother made her promise to write about everything, while her father told her that if she wanted to come home, all she needed to do was ask.
On the train, she felt that pull again, but she assumed it must be a problem with her magic. Not wanting to out herself as more of an outcast than she already was, she learned to keep quiet and ignore it.