The summer that Hermione was eleven, they spent the first three weeks of the holidays in France. It was a break with tradition, and she knew that her parents were attempting to keep her to themselves for just a little longer. Her Hogwarts letter had arrived the previous September. Adjusting hadn't been the most natural thing in the world.

Quite a number of things had made sense the moment it arrived. Why she could do things that her parents couldn't. And then there were all sorts of other questions it opened up. The first one she had was why wizarding folks used owls to send mail. It might have been faster than having people postal workers, but surely there was some spell that could do the job better.

Viktor Krum, the same strange boy who she had bumped into while in Greece, had become her brain to pick. He was a wizard and attended Durmstrang Institute of something or other. It was a long name and they just referred to it as Durmstrang most of the time.

She knew that the experiences he had weren't universal. For one, Hogwarts wasn't likely to teach Nordic spells. And she was sure that wizarding cultures and customs varied from country to country, much the same way that muggle ones did.

She was glad to have someone she could ask all of her questions. Hermione was inquisitive by nature. Having a whole new world opened up to her was like a dream come true. It was also her worst nightmare. She knew nothing, and that terrified her.

She knew nothing. Wizards used owls to deliver their mail. There was something called floo powder that was supposedly a form of transportation. There seemed to be a spell or potion for everything imaginable. And children who grew up in magical households took it all for granted.

And people actually flew on brooms. There was a sport, something like quid-itch, that was as big in the magical world as football was to the muggle world. Perhaps more so. Having never gone to a match, or followed the sport at all, Hermione had no clue.

Viktor couldn't answer that question any better than she could. He didn't know much about football, even if he did know about quidditch. And he didn't have anyone who wanted to explain it to him.

When the Grangers got to Greece, Hermione felt herself relax. She was there to rest and spend time with her grandparents. She didn't have anything she needed to worry about then. And Greece was more comfortable than France, if only because Hermione was almost fluent in Greek while her French still needed some work.

After their first week in Greece, Hermione received a letter. It had appeared through seemingly "normal" means. It even had the address of where she was staying. She hadn't told anyone that. It seemed rude to tell people of her grandparents' address.

She could tell it was from Viktor. She recognized his stilted clumsy letters. He was still unused to writing in the roman alphabet. But, between the two of them, English was the one common language they could use.

Viktor was fluent in Bulgarian, Russian, Norwegian, and was at least conversational in English. He was working on that. Hermione spoke English and Greek, and was learning French. Her French wasn't as good as Viktor's English, but she had had less instances to practice. She tried not to hold it against herself, but found that difficult.

She read over the letter. Apparently Viktor had been accepted into the same quidditch training program he had been in the previous year. It was more intense, because he had advanced quite a bit in that time. Hermione got the sense that he was attempting to be humble. It didn't work particularly well since he had to explain everything in great detail for her to understand.

"Who's writing to you here?" her mother asked.

"Viktor," Hermione said without glancing up.

"The Bulgarian broom sport player?"

"That would be the one." Hermione didn't know many Viktors. Which was probably for the best. Things would get even more confusing if she did.

In her primary school class there were three boys named James and two named Eric. And that was just her class. Not to mention the rest of the school.

"How's he doing?" Mrs. Granger asked. "Still talking about that Nimbly three thousand or something?"

Hermione scanned the letter for any mention of what her mother was talking about. There was a brief mention, just a sentence or two, of a nimbus two thousand. It was supposed to be the best broom on the market that year.

"I suppose it's a bit like Dad and football," she mused.

Mr. Granger was an avid fan of football. His wife and daughter didn't understand why he liked it. To them it was just a group of men running after a ball and not accomplishing much. All things considered, they found it incredibly boring. But Mr. Granger liked it, so they put up with it.

Mrs. Granger nodded. She knew that her husband couldn't keep quiet when it came to football. Each time he tried, he failed miserably. New players. New equipment. New training facilities. If it involved football, it would find its way into conversation.

"What's like me and football?" Mr. Granger asked walking into the kitchen.

"Hermione's Bulgarian sport playing friend about brooms," Mrs. Granger answered.

"Ah, what was his name. Vincent?"

"Viktor," Hermione said. She was still focused on reading the slightly long letter. "He's in town. There's some quidditch training camp he's going to."

"He comes to Greece just to train for his sport." Mr. Granger let out a low whistle. "He's certainly dedicated. I'll give him that."

Hermione had to agree. Part of the program involved a multi-day-long international flight. It was supposed to improve stamina. Hermione was mostly just frightened out of her mind at the thought. She wasn't comfortable flying on a plane, let alone on a twig.

"We should have him over for dinner sometime," Mrs. Granger said.

"I'll write and ask."