True to his word, Viktor arrived the next morning, bearing a breakfast tray filled with toast and tea and orange slices, and had hardly let her out of his sight since—except to pass her off to Harry or Ron or any of the other rotating guards she now seemed to trail like ducklings everywhere she went.
By the end of the week, she was spent, and entirely fed up with having an anxious bodyguard or two walking her between classes, as if whoever had cursed her would just pop out from behind a statue, shout 'gotcha!' and kill her dead right there outside of Transfiguration.
It did nothing to help her already foul—and rapidly worsening—mood.
Because everything hurt.
Her fingers constantly tingled, just a bit numb at the tips, and every time she sat down to revise one of her friend's atrocious class notes, her whole hand would go hot and achy, from her elbow all the way to the base of her fingernails, which throbbed in time with her pulse. She had no idea that her nails could even feel pain, or numbness, or whatever this strange burning sensation was, but she was ready for them to stop it. Right now.
Her vision still swam, letters dancing and doubling and fading out entirely when she wasn't concentrating hard enough. Madame Pomfrey had assured her that it would improve with time, that her vision would recover and she'd no longer have to fight to make sense of the Potions recipes on the board.
She'd given no such assurances for the burning, aching fingers.
And that wasn't even getting to the headaches that plagued her every step. The mornings were fine. Or, as fine as could be reasonably expected. But by the end of the day—after squinting and straining to read even from the front row, fighting through pain and fatigue just to write her essays—the tension would build and build behind her eyes until it felt like her entire face was pounding and all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep.
Which was what she was contemplating right this very moment as Ginny met her at the portrait hole to Gryffindor tower.
"Hi Viktor," she greeted Hermione's silent shadow.
He grunted in acknowledgement.
"How's she doing today?"
Hermione couldn't see Viktor's face, but she could imagine the anxious, upset expression. He seemed to wear it constantly, and she'd barely gotten a word out of him all week, despite seeing him several times a day as he walked her to classes, carrying her bag and glaring at anyone who thought about getting too friendly or too close in the halls.
Ginny grimaced, moving aside so Hermione could step through the portrait hole. Already she could hear her bed beckoning to her, no matter that the sun hadn't even set yet. If she'd been less tired, less frustrated, less…everything, she'd have stayed behind to thank Viktor for walking her.
But blast it all she just didn't care.
She didn't want him to fuss and hover.
She didn't want him to carry her bag like she'd smash to smithereens under its weight, nothing more than a crumbling porcelain doll.
She didn't want him to pass her off between Harry and Ron and Ginny and any number of other people like she was about to collapse or crumble or disappear if someone wasn't actively watching her at all times. Hermione swore she'd even seen him quietly talking with Lavender of all people! As if she even needed someone to watch her while she slept!
Hermione crawled under the blankets of her warm, cozy, wonderfully quiet bed and contemplated how much work she'd have to do tomorrow if she just said 'bugger it' and went to sleep right this moment.
The answer was 'a lot.' But it wasn't an overwhelming 'a lot.' A very doable slog, she thought.
"Hermione?" Ginny poked her head through the doorway, Hermione's heavy bag slung over her shoulder.
She'd forgotten it again, hadn't she?
Tears stung her eyes.
The forgetting was the hardest part, she'd decided. Little things. Innocuous things. She'd go to have a sip of tea at breakfast and find her cup empty. And Viktor would see the empty cup, the empty cup that had never held tea that morning, and he'd pour her some with his brows pulled together in anger and dismay and he'd go to squeeze her hand in solidarity and comfort only to remember the first time he'd done that and she'd yelped and he'd stop himself and they'd sit together in silence again. Those moments were ones she couldn't seem to forget.
Hermione's bag landed on her bedside table with a 'thump.'
"Budge up," Ginny said, shoving lightly at her shoulder and sitting so close she was nearly squashing the pillow. "Oh come on, sit up. It's not time to go to sleep yet."
"And what would you know about it?" Hermione snapped.
Ginny's eye-roll was nearly audible.
"Your hair is a rat's nest. If you go to sleep like that, you're going to have to chop it all off in the morning. When's the last time you brushed it?"
Hermione couldn't remember. Probably not this week, if she was being honest. Did they brush your hair in hospital? She wasn't sure.
Ginny shoved at her shoulder again, with less timidity and more frustration.
"Now sit up so I can brush your hair." She shoved again, but Hermione refused to be moved.
"Go away, Gin. My head hurts."
There was a long, tense moment of silence.
"I know." Ginny finally said.
Hermione sighed and heaved herself up, trying to ignore the vertigo and how Ginny's hand on her shoulder blade was propping her up more than her own muscles were. With a little push, Ginny helped her slump forward a bit more and moved to settle behind her.
With a 'hmm,' Ginny selected a section of hair right behind Hermione's right ear and set to work with a wide-toothed comb.
"Do you want to take your pain potion?" she asked.
Hermione nodded.
"It's the purple one."
The bed shifted under Ginny's weight as she leaned to the side and rummaged through the seemingly endless bottles on Hermione's nightstand before grasping the dark purple vial.
"Here."
She didn't want to take it. Madame Pomfrey had been explicit that the pain potion was addictive, and that this little purple vial was the only one she'd get this week. When it was gone, it was gone, and she'd just have to make do with simple pain relievers until Monday, when she could get another little purple vial. The idea that she'd have to do this for the rest of the year, maybe the rest of her life, made her want to hurl the glass at the wall just to watch it shatter.
Instead, Hermione gave the bottle a little shake. Still half full. That was good.
She shouldn't need it, she thought. But as Ginny continued to slowly brush out her hair, one tiny section at a time, Hermione could feel her nerves and her headache not-so-slowly ratcheting up in intensity. With a sigh, she took a swig, capped the vial, and handed it back to Ginny.
"See?" Ginny asked. "That's better."
"Oh, shut up."
"You're in a wonderful mood tonight."
"Can't imagine why."
Ginny teased out another clump of hair and began working the knots out, one inch at a time.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Hermione finally broke the silence.
"I know." Ginny tugged on an especially awful knot. After another minute, she continued: "It was really scary, you know. Seeing you like that. Like we were all just helpless. I just want to help. That's all any of us want to do."
"Oh."
Hermione didn't know what else to say, but she squirmed a little less as Ginny brushed out her snarls.
"I'm ok."
Ginny scoffed.
"Really. I'm ok."
"That's a load of shite."
"Well sorry for trying to comfort you."
"For fucks sake, Hermione. Can't you just let us take care of you for once? Merlin. And keep your head still." She punctuated the last with a tug that sent tingles zapping down Hermione's scalp and into her neck.
"Sorry," Hermione muttered.
"Me too.
"How're your assignments going? Did the professors waive the old ones?" Ginny asked, her topic a peace offering.
"Fine, I guess. Professor Snape even waived one of them. He said he refused to punish himself by reading six of my essays in a row and I'd have to be satisfied with only torturing him with five."
"What a git," Ginny supplied.
Hermione shrugged.
"He's brewing all my potions, I think. So I suppose I can't be too upset with him."
"Still."
Hermione shrugged again.
"Have they?" Ginny paused, her hands stilling. "Do they have any idea who did…you know?"
Hermione did know. She'd honestly been surprised that Ginny had waited this long to ask. Her friend wasn't usually one for patience when it came to important information.
"No. If they do, they haven't told me about it."
"Well, do you know who did it?"
An important distinction, that. Hermione pursed her lips and tried to think of how to answer. She'd been mulling over her silence in front of Auror Shacklebolt all week, and she wasn't at all convinced that she'd done the right thing, keeping her own counsel. But she also didn't know exactly what she would have told him that wouldn't have sounded crazy, or half-baked, or decidedly unhelpful.
"I think I know the why, but I can't figure out the who," she finally admitted.
"Well?" Ginny asked.
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"It's got to do with Harry, I think."
"And he's forbidden you from doing anything smart, like get help? Merlin, I swear he's the most paranoid person I've ever met."
"He's usually right."
Ginny laughed, the sound tinged with an emotion Hermione couldn't name.
"When, exactly, has he ever been right?"
Hermione was about to tell Ginny exactly how right Harry usually was, but shut her mouth with a click. When had Harry actually been right? When had his distrust of…everyone, really…been justified?
First year? He'd been right to be worried about the stone. But perhaps that was all he'd been right about. After all, he'd been convinced that Professor Snape was the villain of the story. And when they'd tried to tell Professor McGonagall and she'd brushed them off, he'd decided from that point on to never really trust her again.
Second year, he'd been convinced that Malfoy was up to no good. And she'd gone along with it because it had just made sense. And he'd been dead wrong and they'd broken a dozen school rules (and laws, if she was being honest) all for nothing. And when he had decided to put his trust in someone, he'd chosen Lockheart of all people, rather than Professor Snape (who knew much more about the Dark Arts) or Professor McGonagall (who knew all about how to keep the school safe) or even Hagrid (who knew more about basilisks and other terrifying creatures than was honestly acceptable).
And somewhere along the line, Harry had cut all of them off from any adult who could help them, hadn't he?
And she'd gone along with it.
Mostly.
Last year she'd reported that Firebolt to Professor McGonagall, and Harry had cut her out for weeks. Long enough that even she had begun to think she'd done the wrong thing. That she'd overreacted. When all she'd wanted to do was keep Harry safe.
"What should I do?" She finally asked.
"You know. First year? I was acting strange all year. I know I was. And I knew something was wrong. But all year? No one did anything. Not really. And I didn't tell anyone. I wish I had."
The two girls were silent for a long, long time.
"Do you want me to walk you to the Champions' Dorm?" Ginny asked the next morning, handing Hermione her pain potion with an expression entirely too reminiscent of Molly Weasley.
Hermione took a small swig, feeling the icy wash of it as her muscles relaxed and her already blossoming headache receded.
"Why?" she asked, handing back the dreaded purple vial.
"I thought you'd want to see Viktor."
Did she?
He'd been grumpy all week.
But then, so had she.
Perhaps they could be grumpy together.
"I'd like that." Hermione said, gathering her things and shoving them into her bulging bag.
"Are you really taking your homework?"
"I've got twelve essays to catch up on by Friday," Hermione replied, wedging a roll of parchment between her Potions text and her ink bottle. "There. Now I'm ready."
Ginny picked up her bag and made to sling it over her shoulder.
"I can carry my own bag!" Hermione latched onto the leather strap and yanked.
Ginny huffed. "Merlin. Fine. Take it." She dropped the bag into Hermione's hand, a look of 'I told you so' on her face as Hermione buckled under its weight.
Well. Nothing a feather-light charm wouldn't fix.
The silence stretched for a long moment.
"Well come on then. But if Viktor bitches to me about you overexerting yourself, I'm siccing him on you."
"He's been impossible all week."
Ginny pushed open the portrait hole, holding it open on the other side as Hermione walked through.
"He's probably just scared, you know. You don't understand."
Hermione bristled.
"I don't understand? Really?"
Lord, she was in a foul temper already and it was barely nine in the morning. She knew she was prickly and being, well, awful really, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Her brain supplied reasonable responses to things, like 'why wouldn't I understand?' or 'it must have been frightening to see someone be cursed.' But it was like there was a disconnect between her brain and her mouth. No matter what she did, or how reasonable she felt at any given moment, she couldn't seem to keep her composure about anything.
Not that she'd ever been particularly good about keeping her thoughts to herself, but this past week she had so many different thoughts and feelings all at once that the ones that burst from her lips were always the worst ones.
Ginny met her in kind.
"Yeah, you don't. You got to be unconscious for all of it." She paused. "Sorry," she muttered. "But you know what I mean," Ginny continued, her voice gaining that preaching quality Hermione usually associated with Ginny talking to Ron or the twins when they were being particularly recalcitrant. "It was so scary. We were all so scared. Viktor was scared. And then everyone thought he'd done it. And everyone was whispering about him and the aurors were called in. And then everyone was really whispering about him. And they wouldn't let him see you, so he was probably imagining all the worst things. It's enough to drive anyone mad."
The moving staircase crashed into place, the landing shuddering slightly as the girls stepped on. Hermione gripped the railing and braced herself as the stairs began to descend.
"When you put it like that."
"Just cut him some slack, yeah?"
Hermione nodded, tears pricking her eyes. "Yeah."
The remaining trip to the Champions' Dorm passed in amiable—if not completely comfortable—silence.
After hours of homework and essays that made her head spin and her fingers hurt, Hermione finally set down her quill. It rested neatly on the little soapstone stand, nestled next to the one Viktor had abandoned hours ago.
She stretched, trying to relieve the tension settled so deep into her bones. With the wet sensation of something thunking back into place, her neck popped loudly. "Ugh," Hermione groaned.
Viktor looked up from his position on the bed, his long legs sprawled out before him, a book propped up on his chest, his head bent at a horrid angle that made her absolutely ache in sympathy.
"Finally done?" he asked, closing his book with a snap and clambering into a sitting position. His white socks struggled to gain purchase on the down quilt.
She smiled at him—wearily, probably—and contemplated a second swallow of her pain potion. "As I'm going to be, today." Digging in her bag for another moment, she finally gave up the search: the purple vial and its blissful contents were still sitting on her nightstand upstairs in Gryffindor Tower. For the best, perhaps.
"Your head hurts again?"
"That obvious?"
He just smiled at her, softly, before giving her his affirmative Bulgarian head wobble.
"Come here, yes? Rest that poor head. You've worked it very hard today." He patted the bed beside him, holding her gaze until she sighed and got up, sitting next to him and resting her head against his shoulder.
What felt like hours later, Hermione woke to find her head cradled in Viktor's lap, his right hand gently carding through her hair while his left propped a book open on his thigh. The page turned with a dry snick, a familiar, soothing noise.
"Hmm," she hummed, sitting up and stretching her neck. As wonderful as it was to wake up next to Viktor, she definitely slept on something funny. Her shoulder popped loudly as she laced her fingers overhead, palms pressed towards the sky.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Viktor stare for a long moment at the curve of her spine before very studiously not staring.
In a world whirring around her with intrigue and danger and uncertainty, it made her feel powerful. In control of something.
It made her giggle.
Which made Viktor smile. Broadly. Like she hadn't seen him do since she woke up in the Hospital Wing.
Resting her head against his broad shoulder, Hermione took a deep breath, feeling some of her tension finally leak out on the exhale. If only she could feel like this forever.
"Hermione?"
"Hmm?"
"I," Viktor stopped, clearing his throat and gently shutting his book. The rumble of his voice seemed to echo in her ear. "I have a question. Do not need answer now. But…" he trailed off, his voice fading. In his lap, he twisted his hands together, grabbing his fingers and tugging until the knuckles popped.
"You're going to give yourself arthritis."
It was a testament to how distracted he was that he didn't even ask her what arthritis meant.
The next finger cracked.
The one after was stubborn, but so was Viktor. Curling the digit towards his palm, he shoved down until it gave a satisfying, disgusting pop.
Hermione rested her hand on his.
"Is everything ok?"
It was a long moment of tense silence, in which Hermione did her level best not to blurt out any of the thoughts that whirred around in her head. Viktor would choose his words in his own time, and any input from her would only delay the process, or derail it entirely. She'd learned that ages ago, and she was wasn't going to forget that hard-earned lesson now.
Taking a breath, Viktor locked his eyes on the opposite wall.
"I was wanting to know. If…" he cleared his throat again. Loudly. "If you would. Would sign, uh, marriage contract. With me."
Every thought racing through her mind came to a screeching, grinding halt. The silence left in their wake rang loudly in her ears, a kind of high pitched buzzing moving into the spaces her own internal voice usually occupied.
"What?"
"Would you sign marriage contract with me?" He repeated, his voice steadier but somehow more unsure, as if he'd honestly thought she'd just…say yes.
Hermione sat upright, her brows drawn tight over her eyes as she sought his gaze.
Had he really just asked her to marry him?
"Are you joking?"
"What? No," he replied, startled enough to look at her. Taking her hands in his, he looked at her beseechingly, as if trying to drill his sincerity into her skull.
What was she supposed to say? She had no idea. None at all. Viktor had always been good at helping to quiet her loud, intrusive, obnoxious thoughts. But this total emptiness wasn't what she was used to, and she rather thought she hated it.
In the end, she didn't know what to do besides slowly, gently pulling her hands from his. She gazed at them, resting in her own lap: lonely and cold.
Viktor was quiet for a long time, the beds of his fingernails intensely interesting, his eyes shining in a way Hermione didn't want to admit might be tears.
"Do I—do I get to know why?"
"I'm fifteen," she said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "I mean, we're both just kids."
Clearly, judging by his face, Viktor did not share her opinion that this was, obviously, a massive impediment. She tried a different tactic, reminding him of a conversation they'd had so very, very long ago, when he'd assured her that while these antiquated rites of passage were important to him, that he could find something else to stand in their place if he needed to.
"I thought you said that, well, that you could find another rite of passage if, you know, if you happened to," she floundered.
"Fall in love with Muggleborn?" he supplied, his eyes not quite meeting her face.
"I love you, too," she blurted out before her brain could catch up to her mouth.
But what else was she supposed to say?
It wasn't how she'd imagined this moment. At all. In her mind, the moment they confessed their love for each other there would be kisses and laughter and he'd pick her up and swing her around like he had on the dance floor of the Yule Ball.
Instead, they sat together on his bed, the door wide open, listening to Cedric put the kettle on in the Common Room while they couldn't even look at each other.
Tears stung Hermione's eyes.
This wasn't the way this was supposed to go. And it wasn't fair.
Hermione snatched his hand up in hers, gripping hard. "I love you," she repeated, and could nearly weep when his hand gripped hers back and his eyes finally slid over to meet hers.
"But you won't marry me?"
"Why? Why are you asking now?"
His eyes slid back to the wall and she wanted to shake him, make him look at her.
"Because I almost lost you. Marriage contract, it would give you protection. My name would protect you."
"Oh Viktor." She leaned her head against his shoulder, sagging a little when she felt him press his lips to the crown of her head. "The people after me? After Harry? They aren't the kind of people who would care."
They were both silent for a long moment, listening as Cedric's kettle boiled and he stirred a lump of sugar into his tea, his spoon hitting the sides of the cup over and over and over.
"And if I want you to say yes anyway?"
"Viktor, I can't."
"Hermione," he began.
"No."
She paused, her breath shaky and wet, threatening to send her into another fit of coughing.
"No Viktor. Just. No."
What more was there to say?
Hermione's thoughts tumbled against one another like pebbles in a stream. Or maybe they were the leaves that fell on top, buffeted by the wind, catching on rocks and in eddies, but always leading down down down to one ultimate conclusion. But what was her conclusion? Where was her end? She loved Viktor. As much as she felt she could love anyone. But would she always? Would she regret saying no? If she changed her mind, would she regret saying yes?
She loved him. And he loved her. But was love enough?
It was almost enough to make her want to tear out her own hair. Or to race upstairs and snatch Ron's Divination text from his bed and stare longingly into a crystal ball or soggy tea leaves, trying desperately to divine the answer to "will I be happy?"
Had she ruined everything? Would he even want to see her anymore? Would they just casually drift apart, unmoored and unanchored until finally they just admitted that whatever they'd had was over and done with?
And in the meantime, as she tried to decide what to do—what to say!— was she just supposed to go on eating breakfast with Viktor and walking to classes with Viktor and doing homework with Viktor while pretending that everything was…fine?
Nothing was fine.
Absolutely bloody nothing!
Someone was trying to kill Harry.
Someone was trying to kill her.
Someone was masquerading as someone else in Hogwarts and stealing mail and killing vampires and all sorts of other nefarious things that made her skin crawl.
And now Viktor wanted to get engaged? Like that would just…solve everything? Like he could slot her neatly into his life and future just like that: no problems, no complications, no input from her?
Was he an idiot?
Was she?
There. There was her end: the place her thoughts couldn't help but rush towards, approaching from every conceivable angle. Was she being stupid? Wizards did this all the time, this…children getting engaged business. They'd been doing it this way forever. Surely there had to be a reason why?
But what about her? Where would they live? Would she have to move to Bulgaria? She'd always wanted to make a difference…for house elves, for people like her…could she do that as the Mudblood child bride of a Pureblood Quidditch prodigy? Is that what she wanted out of life?
If they had kids, would she ever be able to share a Muggle cheese toastie with them, or take them to the chippies after a day at the seaside?
Did Viktor even want kids?
Did she?
Her whole universe felt like it had been tilted on its axis, like the carefully stacked bookshelves of her life were collapsing around her and her whole world was spilled out across the floor, full of broken spines and torn pages, never to be returned to the order in which she'd once built it.
No matter what happened, Hermione knew from this moment onward—for good or for ill—she would never be the same. And neither would Viktor.
