Hermione's heart skipped a beat as her eyes locked onto a familiar figure across the crowded hall. Viktor Krum stood tall amidst the sea of celebrants, his dark gaze sweeping the room with an intensity that made her breath catch. For a moment, the voices, the noise faded away, and she was transported back to a time when life seemed simpler.

"Miss Granger! Over here!"

The shrill voice of a reporter yanked her back to reality. Hermione blinked. A crowd of reporters swarmed her like crows after scraps.

"How does it feel to be hailed as the brightest witch of your age?"

"What are your plans now that the war is over?"

"Is it true you and Ronald Weasley are no longer an item?"

The questions came rapid-fire, each one a blow to her carefully constructed facade. Hermione's fingers twitched, itching to reach for her wand, to cast a shield charm between herself and the probing eyes and flashing cameras. But she couldn't. She was a war hero now, expected to be gracious, to smile and nod and give the public what they wanted.

"I... I'm grateful for the recognition, but there were many brave witches and w-wizards who fought alongside us," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "As for my personal life, I'd prefer to keep that private."

But they pressed closer, hungry for more. Hermione's chest tightened, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room seemed to shrink.

Masked figures, wands raised. Curses flying. Blood. Fred's body. Miss Weasley's wales.

"Miss Granger, are you alright?"

Hermione's vision blurred, the faces before her morphing into Death Eaters. She stumbled back, her heel catching on the hem of her dress robes.

And then, like a beacon in a storm, she saw him again. Viktor. His brow furrowed with concern, taking a step in her direction. In that moment, Hermione saw more than just that awkward duck-footed boy that stirred all sorts of feelings in her. She saw safety. Comfort. The lighthouse that kept her from being lost at sea in her own mind.

Safety.

Quiet.

Their eyes met and without conscious thought, her feet carried her towards him. The crowd parted, whether from her purposeful steps, her heels clicking a steady rhythm or the wild look in her eyes, she didn't know. Didn't care.

Safety.

"Viktor," she breathed as she reached him, her hand finding his. His much larger hand engulfed his, his callouses brushing against her skin. "I need... Can we— can you...?"

He nodded and scowled at the reporters. In one fluid motion, he turned, guiding her away. Hermione let out a shaky breath, feeling the knot in her chest begin to loosen as they wove through the crowd.

They slipped through a side door, emerging into a quiet corridor. Hermione leaned against the cool stone wall, her eyes closed as she focused on steadying her breathing.

"Her-my-oh-knee?" Viktor's voice was soft, concern evident in every syllable. "Are you okay?"

She opened her eyes, meeting his worried gaze.

She had been wrong.

The Viktor before her was different from the boy she'd known during the Triwizard Tournament. His features were sharper, more defined.

Yet his eyes... they held the same warmth, the same quiet strength that had drawn her to him years ago.

"I'm sorry, Viktor" she murmured, a flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "I didn't mean to drag you away like that. It's just... it was all too much."

Viktor shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Do not apologize for needing help, Her-my-oh-knee. I am glad I could be here for you."

She bit her lip, suddenly more embarrassed than anything else. She couldn't even handle a couple of questions.

"I thought I was ready for this," she confessed, gesturing vaguely towards the Great Hall. "To celebrate, to move on. But being in there, with everyone watching, asking questions... It was like being back in the war. Like any moment, curses would start flying and-"

Her voice broke, and Viktor stepped closer. It was almost as he was acting like a shield.

"You do not haffe to explain," he said gently. "Var leaves scars that do not alvays show. It is okay to not be okay, Her-my-oh-knee."

A sob escaped her. The dam of emotions she'd been holding back finally breaking. Viktor hesitated for only a moment before pulling her into his arms. Hermione melted into the embrace, burying her face in his chest as years of pent-up fear, grief, and exhaustion poured out of her.

Viktor held her, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back, the other cradling her head. He murmured soft words in Bulgarian, the sound of his native tongue, a sound she hadn't realized she missed hearing, washing over her like a balm.

As her sobs subsided, Hermione became acutely aware of their closeness. The steady beat of Viktor's heart beneath her ear, the warmth of his body against hers, the subtle scent of pine, leather and broom polish. A scent that was distinctly Viktor's. A blush crept up her neck. A different kind of tension settled in. It was warm and strangely… welcoming, spreading from her core to her fingertips.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him through tear-stained lashes. Viktor's eyes met hers, dark and intense, but not overwhelming. For a moment, they stood frozen, the air between them changed.

Hermione admired the way Viktor's muscular frame felt beneath her hands. She liked the way his steady heartbeat soothed her frayed nerves. She marveled at the contrast between his rugged, stoic exterior and the gentleness with which he held her.

Safe.

"Viktor, I-" Hermione began, her voice low.

Hermione's heart raced as she heard the distant sound of approaching footsteps and voices. She tensed, knowing the reporters were drawing closer. Glancing up at Viktor, she saw his jaw clenching and he scowled towards the direction of the sound. Instinctively, she moved closer to Viktor.

Viktor stepped back, his hands sliding down to gently grasp her shoulders. "Let us go somevhere else," he suggested.

Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling robbed of his warmth without his arms around her. "Yes, I... I think that would be best."

As they moved further down the corridor, seeking a quiet corner away from prying eyes, Hermione's mind raced.

What in Merlin's name had just happened? What was this feeling? Why did being in the Seeker's arms warm more than just her soul?

A swarm of butterflies erupted in her stomach, fluttering wildly and she suddenly was 15 again, too nervous for words. Confused about why this foreign boy caused her fix, or at least try to fix her hair, why, when he told her she looked beautiful she thought she was dying of a heart attack.

One thing was certain though: next to Viktor, in his strong arms, for the first time since the war ended, Hermione felt truly safe. And she wasn't ready to let that feeling go.

She was safe.

And it was finally quiet.