Viktor grunted as he stepped through the ornate doors of the Great Hall. The cacophony of laughter and chatter washed over him. His dark eyes swept across the sea of faces, searching for one in particular.

"Viktor Krum! What an honor!"

A portly wizard with an impressively curled mustache materialized before him, hand outstretched. Viktor shook it, his grip firm but distracted.

"Dank you," he murmured, his accent thick with politeness. "It is good to be back."

The wizard prattled on about Quidditch statistics and Bulgarian politics, but Viktor's attention had already drifted. He nodded at appropriate intervals, years of press conferences having honed his ability to appear engaged while his mind wandered.

Where was she?

A flash of auburn caught his eye, and for a moment, his heart leapt. But it was only Ginny Weasley, her arm linked with Harry Potter's as they made their way through the crowd. Viktor's gaze lingered on the couple.

"Quite the turnout, isn't it?" The mustached wizard was still talking. "I daresay we needed this celebration after everything we've been through."

Viktor's jaw clenched. Everything "we've been" through. As if the war had been a mere inconvenience, something to be shrugged off with a glass of champagne and a hearty laugh. But then again it probably was to this man. The British Ministry had been all too happy to let teens in school do all the work.

"Indeed," he replied. "If you excuse me."

He extracted himself from the conversation, weaving through the crowd with the same agility he displayed on the Quidditch pitch. Snippets of conversation drifted past him.

"...can't believe it's finally over..."

"...heard they're rebuilding Diagon Alley..."

"...what do you think you'll do now that..."

Where was she?

A waiter glided past, bearing a tray of glistening champagne flutes. Viktor plucked one from the array, more for something to occupy his hands than any real desire to drink. The bubbles fizzed against his lips as he took a sip.

Viktor's grip tightened on the delicate stem of his champagne flute, his knuckles whitening as the memories crashed over. The raucous laughter and tinkling of glasses faded to a dull roar in his ears, replaced by the echo of screams and shattering spells.

He blinked hard, willing the images away. The smoldering ruins of Durmstrang. The stench of dark magic lingering in the air. His teammates, their broomsticks abandoned, wands at the ready as they patrolled the perimeter of their training grounds.

Viktor's jaw clenched. He'd wanted to come and fight. But duty had anchored him to Bulgaria, his fame making him a symbol of hope. The restrictions had been suffocating, each day bringing news of fresh horrors from across the Channel.

"To victory!" A nearby toast jerked Viktor back to the present. He raised his glass mechanically.

Victory. As if it were that simple.

His dark eyes scanned the crowd once more, searching for a familiar head of bushy hair. But no luck. Viktor's brow furrowed.

A peal of laughter drew his attention. Potter and Weasley stood a few meters away, their heads bent close together as they shared some private joke.

The red-head caught his eye and waved, her grin widening. Viktor inclined his head, forcing his features into what he hoped was a passable smile.

His feet carried him towards the edge of the room, where the press of bodies thinned. The air felt cooler here, less stifling. Viktor leaned against a stone pillar..

His fingers drummed against the cool stone, his eyes restlessly scanning the crowd. A flash of red hair caught his attention, and he suppressed a groan as Ron Weasley approached, his freckled face flushed with what Viktor suspected was more than just excitement.

"Krum," Ron's voice held a brittle edge. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Viktor straightened, squaring his shoulders. "Veasley," he nodded. "I vas invited."

Weasley's eyes narrowed. "Right. 'Course you were." He glanced around, his posture subtly shifted, one foot stepping slightly forward to bridge the gap between them."Looking for someone?"

Yes.

Viktor's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. "Many people to see tonight."

"Yeah, well, some of us actually fought in the war," Ron's words were sharp, pointed. "Not everyone had the luxury of sitting it out."

A white-hot anger flared in Viktor's chest. His fist clenched at his side, itching to connect with that freckled jaw. But he breathed deep, forcing the rage down. Violence wouldn't solve anything, and it certainly wouldn't help him find such someone.

"You know nothing of vat happened outside England," Viktor's voice was low, dangerous. "Do not presume—"

"Everything alright here?" Potter materialized beside them, his green eyes darting between the two wizards. The tension in the air crackled, palpable.

Viktor unclenched his fist with effort. "Fine," he grunted.

The red head opened his mouth, but Harry shot him a warning look. "Good to see you, Krum" he said, extending his hand. "Glad you could make it."

Viktor shook it. "Dank you for having me, Potter."

"Of course. It was thanks to you that we managed to capture any remaining Death Eaters trying to escape." He paused, his eyes darting between Viktor and the red-head. "Have you seen Hermione yet?"

Viktor's heart skipped. "No," he admitted.

"She's around somewhere," Harry said quickly, too quickly. Viktor's eyes narrowed. There was something Potter wasn't saying. "I'm sure you'll run into her soon."

Ron snorted, earning another sharp look from Harry. Viktor ignored him, focused on the subtle shift in Potter's demeanor. "Is everything alright vith Her-my-oh-knee?"

Harry hesitated, and in that moment, Viktor's suspicions crystallized into certainty. Something was wrong.

"She's fine," Harry said finally. "Just... overwhelmed, I think. It's a lot, you know? Being back here, after everything."

Viktor nodded slowly. He knew all too well. He shook his head, forcing himself to stay present.

"I understand," he said softly. "Perhaps... perhaps I vill find her later. Somevhere quieter."

Harry's relief was palpable. "Yeah, that might be good. Just... be gentle, alright? She's been through a lot."

Viktor's eyes flashed. "I vould never—"

"I know, I know," Harry held up his hands placatingly. "I didn't mean... Look, we're all just worried about her, okay?"

Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Some more than others." Viktor chose to ignore it.

"Right."

Viktor turned his heels and walked away from England's heroes.

He had a witch to find.

He weaved through the crowd, his eyes sweeping the room. He caught glimpses of old acquaintances—Fleur Delacour's silvery hair, the transfiguration professor, but not the witch he was looking for,.

A group of witches to his left burst into raucous laughter, and Viktor flinched. The sound grated against his nerves, too sharp. He longed for the quiet solitude of his flat in Sofia, where the only noise was the whisper of wind through the curtains and the occasional hoot of an owl.

But he wasn't in Sofia. He was here, in this crowded hall, surrounded by people who had no idea of the battles fought beyond Britain's shores. The anger that had flared at Weasley's words simmered beneath his skin. They thought they were the only ones who had suffered, the only ones who had lost.

Viktor's hand unconsciously moved to his left side, where a thin scar ran along his ribs. A reminder of the night Death Eaters had attacked Durmstrang, seeking to recruit students for Voldemort's army. He had fought then, wand in hand, defending his school and his classmates. But that didn't matter here.

He shook his head, forcing the memories away. He hadn't come here to dwell on the past or to prove himself to anyone. He had come for her, to see if she was alright.

Viktor's eyes continued their restless search, scanning faces and dismissing them just as quickly. Where was she? Had she already left,?

Then he saw her.

Hermione.

She stood alone by one of the tall windows, half-hidden in shadow. The flickering candlelight caught the gold threads in her dress, making her shimmer like a mirage. But it was her eyes that captured him.

Those brown eyes of hers could swallow stars, galaxies and universes. What hope did he ever have of not pulled into them?

Viktor's breath caught in his throat. She was more beautiful than he remembered, her features sharpened by time. Gone was the awkward girl he had known during the Triwizard Tournament. In her place stood a woman.

He watched as she lifted a glass to her lips. But Viktor saw the slight tremor in her hand, the tightness around her eyes.

His heart ached for her. He knew that feeling all too well, the pressure to smile and celebrate when all you wanted was to scream. How many times had he plastered on a grin for the cameras, pretending that Quidditch victories could erase the horrors he had witnessed?

Viktor took a step towards her, then hesitated. What right did he have to to go to her? They hadn't spoken in years, save for a few brief letters exchanged in the immediate aftermath of the war. She probably didn't even remember him, not really.