Notes:
I got a little carried away with the worldbuilding, inspired by Inwardtranscience's reimagining of Grindelwald as a populist instead of Voldemort: the Prequel. In this AU, he rallied the disenfranchised underclass against the status quo & succeeded in overthrowing the pureblood aristocracy of numerous states before ICW forces (largely made up of volunteers from other oligarchies) took him down.
This paved the way for roughly half of magical Europe to eventually establish real democracies. Fear of the same thing happening in Britain was/is a key ingredient of Riddle's cult.
TL;DR: Grindelwald was still a megalomaniac in this AU, but exploited the proles instead of the ruling class, & the current state of magical Europe reflects that.
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Chapter XIII
HERMIONE GRANGER & the HORRENDOUS HORMONES, PART II
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.o.
Hermione sat in one of the luxurious armchairs of Professor Babbling's lounge, listening to Ezra Oliveira and Ben Glyndŵr debate ethical implications of the correlation between greater concentrations of ambient magic and higher magical birth rates (the factuality of which was apparently subject to vicious debate in British pureblood circles for the usual reasons) when a small group of Durmstrangers walked in.
Wearing a yarmulke made Viktor Krum look vaguely like the brooding hero of some Byronesque novel who was attending Shabbos in pursuit of his vendetta— i.e. rather awkward, but with a certain grim resolve that held both her attention and her curiosity.
She watched from across the room as some of the upperclassmen greeted them, and wondered.
Perhaps he was just uncomfortable being one of the only goys in the room. Wait, was he a goy? Most of what she knew of him came either from overheard gossip or brief glances at Quidditch magazines, which might well have deemed his religion irrelevant for their purposes— but he'd been at Hogwarts for weeks now, and this was the first time he'd shown up for Shabbos.
Krum turned away from one group of upperclassmen to greet another— and caught her watching.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat as she snapped her gaze back to Glyndŵr and Oliveira.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.
Especially after those pureblood bints had made it so bluntly clear just how mad Krum's presence was driving half the bloody school.
The politeness he and his friends had shown her had been somewhat surprising, given Durmstrang's reputation (though not as surprising as it might have been had the vague, dramatic descriptions of it available in the school library not led her to suspect that its reality did not suit the purposes of wizarding Britain's oligarchy), and he and Grönlund had helped drag the spider back seemingly on chivalrous principle, which was far more than any British pureblood boy had ever done for her… but none of them had approached her about it afterwards. According to Parvati, who still had a finger on the pulse of Hogwarts gossip via Lavender despite the Lightening Cream Debacle, the Durmstrangers had been seen talking to Karkaroff, Dumbledore, Hagrid, and several others at the edge of the Forest while caked in spider-filth— and whether or not they'd talked to anyone else about the hunt, some Hogwarts students had clearly connected the dots, because rumors had started circulating about their heroics. Weeks ago. Yet no one had come to question her about it or punish her for it. She couldn't help but feel uneasy, as if she was missing something important.
She risked another glance at Krum— and noticed, after a moment's observation, that he… wasn't really talking to anyone? Sure, he was the physical center of the group his schoolmates and those older Hogwarts students had formed, but he didn't seem to be contributing to the conversation beyond the occasional nod or brief, stiffly-spoken answer, almost like…
Oh.
Like Harry, literally any time his fame became especially evident.
Just like that, some of her wariness melted away— which had the unfortunate side effect of making it harder not to stare. Thankfully his awkward attempts to appear engaged with the conversation prevented him from catching her again.
Celebrity aside, she couldn't see what all the fuss was about. He wasn't particularly handsome— at least not in the unnaturally perfect, Lockheartish way the magical world seemed to favor… though now that she took the time to look, there was a certain… distinctness to his features, with those dark bushy brows, roman nose, and strong jaw, which was rather… compelling. And there were the broad shoulders, obviously. Solid-looking, without the sheer, ursine bulk that made Vaukovič and some of the others so imposing. He was a Seeker, she supposed, so it made sense that he'd be… sleeker?
Krum, of course, chose that very moment to glance over and catch her gaze. Again.
Hermione averted her eyes, furious at herself and the growing warmth in her cheeks.
Suffice to say dinner was awkward for her. She did manage to avoid gawking at him any more, but the intermittent feeling of being watched made it annoyingly difficult to focus on discussing Arithmancy with Anthony— and she was never sure if she was imagining the feeling or not. Sure, she suspected that willful attention might be magically active and thus perceptible via her sixth sense, but she had no evidence. Yet another addition to List #4.
After dinner, while half the guests were saying their goodbyes and the rest were breaking off into smaller groups, Hermione claimed an armchair in the quietest corner and waited.
Five minutes later, he approached.
"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said in Français, with a slight bow. "Would you mind some company?"
He had a noticeable accent, and something in his diction that suggested he'd learned the language in a classroom, but he still spoke it far more smoothly than most of her peers.
"Not at all, Monsieur Krum. Please, sit."
He took the chair beside hers, and… said nothing, for a moment, gazing off across the room instead of meeting her eye, fingertips tapping the armrest. Just as Hermione was about to speak, he asked: "Why did you invent the spider hunt?"
She took a steadying breath, and shot him what she hoped was an affronted look. "Excuse me?"
"We asked your schoolmates, afterwards. They say there is no such tradition."
Wonderful.
"Well," Hermione said as casually as she could (which was, apparently, not very), "not yet, perhaps. Word of your schoolmates' exploits seem to have inspired a number of mine."
"Oh," said Krum. "Good. The more people that hunt those things, the sooner the forest might be safe."
Hermione couldn't help but scoff. "It would take much more than a bit of hunting to make Hogwarts safe."
Krum blinked, confused— but she didn't want to get into all that at 8pm on a Friday night, so she spoke again before he could ask. "Why wait so long to approach me?"
He hesitated, shot a quick look around the room, drew his wand to silently cast a very complex privacy charm, judging by all the twists and swirls and how dense the resulting bubble appeared to her magesight, and then said: "Karkaroff."
Ah.
(Hermione had combed through the Daily Prophet and Northern Herald's coverage of the Death Eater trials after noticing how the Russian's aura warped around his right forearm; she had yet to find any details of the deal he supposedly cut with the Prussian government to be trusted with authority over children, but if it was anything like Snape's situation…)
"Grönlund told him that we overheard about the Acromantulae from some random Hogwarts students," Krum went on. "That the hunt was all our idea. But we do not think he really believed it. And he has a grudge against Dumbledore; he would be happy to see Hogwarts students ruined for endangering his 'prize pupils.' So it is best if he has no reason to look twice at you. At least not while he might still connect you to the hunt…"
Oh. "And now you can say you met me here. Tonight."
"Yes."
"I… suppose I owe you my thanks, then."
"You owe me nothing," he said. "Though I would like an explanation, if you will give one."
Right.
"Why invent a false tradition? Why not just ask for our help to capture a spider?"
Hermione slumped back into her chair a bit. All that worrying for… well, not nothing, but Krum honestly seemed a bit too awkward to be pulling some sort of Slytherinish trick on her.
"Why do you think?" She asked. He'd clearly given this some forethought, so: "You must have some theories."
Krum hesitated, regarding her like she was a Snitch he was trying to predict the trajectory of (or something).
"I think," he said quietly, carefully, "that you sacrificed that spider to cast some sort of protection for Potter. And I think that this had to be a secret because of the legal system here."
…well. Forethought indeed.
Hermione hated it when she underestimated people.
At least this person didn't seem murderous— not that that necessarily meant anything…
But he probably wasn't a pureblood, or else she'd have heard someone crowing about it by now, and he did have quite a lot to lose if he got caught doing something villainous…
Sod it.
"What do you know of this country's legal system?" She asked.
"Not much," said Krum. "Only what I've learned for classes and read in papers. So… broad strokes?"
"Evading the question, Monsieur Krum?"
He blinked. His lips twitched. "No. I'm trying to be tactful. I've been told I need the practice."
Well, Hermione thought. We have that in common.
"I wouldn't know," Hermione said. "I don't follow Quidditch."
Krum's lips twitched into a very slight smile. "I noticed."
What was that supposed to mean?
"To answer your question, Durmstrang's civics courses point to Britain as an example of what Preußen's legal system was like before the Revolution."
Durmstrang had civics courses?
"And what wasit like, exactly?" She pressed.
Krum adjusted his yarmulke. "…unfair for anyone without a title or a wealthy patron."
Hermione felt both fiercely validated and acutely jealous. It was a novel combination.
"So you claim Prussia is fairer, in that respect?"
(and wasn't that odd, using Prussia to refer to a contemporary, democratic state)
"It seems that way to me," said Krum. "In comparison to Bǎlgariya, at least. Prussia was one of the places where the ICW brokered a compromise after the war. Between the old money and revolutionaries, I mean. It's not perfect, but they don't have… well, terrorists walking free due to bribes, for example."
Point.
"And yet its premiere school of magic doesn't admit muggle-raised magi," Hermione shot back.
Krum's eyebrows twitched up, and he didn't immediately reply.
"Well?"
"Sorry, it's just… you might be surprised how few of your schoolmates haven't assumed 'muggle-raised' to be a euphemism for 'muggle-born' in regards to Durmstrang's policy."
"I assure you I would not be," she replied. "All the books our library has on your school were published in Britain, and British books don't dance around these things. Neither do they detail Durmstrang's reasons for excluding the muggle-raised. Care to explain?"
Krum looked… relieved? Maybe?
"Of course." He shifted around a bit, settling further into his chair. "It's part of the post-war compromise. By law, all children whose accidental magic is detectable by Ministry sensors must be raised by a magical family."
What.
"That accounts for almost 90% of them, I think."
What.
"There are very strict laws about the treatment of these children," he quickly added. "And it's not just the old money that fosters— if a family that's financially able to foster doesn't for too long, there is… stigma. Speculation. Their reputation, their social standing, it suffers. Some progressive families foster as many children as they can, to keep them away from the conservatives. So most children born to muggles get the advantages of belonging to magical families, and Secrecy breaches are minimized. As is muggle influence."
"And the parents?" Hermione asked, unable to keep the shrill edge from her voice. "How does this enlightened society deal with all the inconvenient muggles that happened to birth these children?"
Krum hesitated. Adjusted his yarmulke again. "Memory alteration."
Knowing the answer before she heard it didn't make hearing it any less bloody horrific.
"They steal muggleborn children from their parents," she hissed, "and you think that's better than how we do things here?"
"No," Krum said firmly, holding her gaze. "I did not say that. I am only telling you what it's like over there."
Hermione took a deep breath, and then another. It did nothing to cool the anger simmering through her. She'd known of the practice in vague, sanitized, academic terms, but this…
"How can an entire nation justify that?"
Krum shrugged. "How do Britanniques justify Azkaban?"
It had been a while since Hermione was rendered speechless.
"Do you think it's justified?" He asked, not unkindly.
Just the thought of being locked up in proximity to Dementors sent a chill down her spine. The soul-deep cold closing in around her, Sirius' horridly gaunt face, haunted eyes, and jarring mood swings…
She mentally shook herself. "No. No, I don't. I think the fact it hasn't been evacuated and turned into a tomb for the Dementors —the way that no one seems to even question the fact that we favor perpetual torture over rehabilitation— says horrible things about the moral condition of wizarding Britain."
Granted, most people hadn't spent a summer cooped up with someone who'd survived over a decade in that hellhole.
(Most prisoners didn't last that long.)
"But that doesn't make mass child abduction any less awful!"
Krum nodded. "Some Preußischesvolk disagree with the fostering system."
"How was it agreed upon in the first place?" Hermione pressed. "Weren't many of the revolutionaries muggle-borns and half-bloods?"
"Ah." Krum briefly ducked his head. "Right, no, I should have started there. Sorry— it's been a few years since I learned this in class…"
Another bitter pang of jealousy twisted through her. Binns taught nothing like this.
"That's alright," she managed.
How much knowledge had she been deprived of? How much knowledge was everyone being deprived of? The average Hogwarts student could barely be bothered to read the textbooks for that class, much less seek out additional literature (with the predictable exception of muggleborns like her and Colin). When she'd asked Anthony about it, back in first year, he'd said that most people learned the broad strokes of history from their families before Hogwarts. He had lacked a good answer for her supposition that this meant their understanding of history was both childlike and mostly focused on their own families. And considering how many of those families were or had been allies, relatives, or vassals of people like the Blacks, it was no wonder Britain was so bloody—
"The way our professor and the guests she brought in explained it…"
Right. Krum. Prussian post-war compromise.
"….after the War," he said a bit slowly and stiltedly, clearly reciting, "the majority wanted equality by any means necessary. The surviving aristocrats were divided. They wanted to keep their wealth and power, yes, but some cared more about protecting their families… and they knew that not doing something to pacify the masses would put their families in greater danger, because the Russians would likely intervene."
Right. Wouldn't want thirty thousand battle-hardened communist wizards to catch you living off unearned wealth.
(What sparse literature she'd been able to find on the Soviet approach to Secrecy was frustratingly fascinating.)
"The one thing all sides had in common was fear of muggle weapons. It was impossible to be ignorant of them then, with all the bombs and the thunder of artillery. And they knew about the death camps. So." He shrugged. "Compromise."
Hermione was honestly a bit appalled that it hadn't even occurred to her to wonder how the World Wars had affected other magical societies. She knew that Tom Riddle wasn't the only mage to suffer in the Blitz (the few wardcrafters that'd known how to set up bomb-wards at the time were prohibitively expensive if your family didn't have a centuries old hoard of gold or connections in the Ministry, so of course the old Houses had seized the opportunity to lord over the working class and redouble their anti-muggle propaganda; some had even gotten muggleborns to indenture themselves in exchange for shelter); she could only imagine what Continental mages had suffered. Of course their response would be more drastic than Britain's.
"My Prussian schoolmates," Krum continued, "say that raising the muggle-born in our world prevents… disparity, yes? Because they don't have to catch up. They aren't outsiders."
Hermione's jaw clenched without her permission.
"And…"
He trailed off.
Hermione took some very deep breaths. "And what?"
"Well." He shifted in his chair, crossed his arms— "Prussia has not had a war since the Compromise."
Hermione took a few more deep breaths.
Don't curse the messenger.
Stay calm. Observe. Analyze.
"What about the children old enough to remember their real parents?" She asked. "Are their memories modified as well?"
Krum at least had the decency to look uncomfortable about it. "Most of the time, yes."
Bloody hell.
It was like treating a fracture via amputation.
She took another few deep breaths.
Don't curse the messenger.
"I'm sorry," Krum said gently, which did not help her calm down— "I didn't mean to—"
Tell me about your curriculum," she demanded. She wouldn't be able to stay civil if she let herself think about the rest of it right now. "The shield-wall you and your friends used against the spiders— did you learn that in class?"
He blinked. "Oh. Yes. Kriegsmagie— War-Magic. It's an elective that's meant to train wizards for the Hexerritter— knights of the High Council, sort of like your Hit-Wizards…"
Well, that was sinister. The DMLE might've been deeply flawed, but it was better than Hit-Wizards serving the Wizengamot directly.
"…but these days most boys enroll. It's… expected of us. Those who don't do it are… not respected. As real men, that is."
Oh, lovely.
"I think it's why Durmstrang has a reputation for the 'Dark Arts' here. Kriegsmagie is supposed to make us ready to fight off a Russian invasion or another Grindelwald, so the teachers focus more on, ah… combat effectiveness, than anything else."
Hermione's jealousy shriveled up like Devil's Snare in a forge. Going to school with spoiled brats like Malfoy was bad enough without them having literal military training.
"What about the girls?" She asked.
"Some of them take Kriegsmagie as well. Especially the Norsewomen, like Grönlund's sisters. But it's not expected of them."
Oh, right— "I've wondered about that too, actually; why did Grönlund —or his family, I suppose— choose Durmstrang over Attevǫllund? And, for that matter, why did you choose Durmstrang over… whatever the Bulgarian school is called?"
"Ah. Well. For the Grönlunds it's about religion. Politics. They worship the Old Gods of the North, but many of their countrymen are Christian— in part because the witch-hunts were not as bad there as in other places, they say."
Hmm…
(It was something of an open secret, according to Mrs. Tonks, that some of the most vocal proponents of a 'return to the Old Ways' had worn crosses until all the witch-hunts made it so acutely passé— which was apparently one of several reasons so many of the old families distrusted the Malfoys even before the whole Death Eater thing.)
"They say that the curriculum of Attevǫllund has been… curtailed, by Christian ideas of Light and Darkness."
"And Durmstrang's hasn't?"
"No," said Krum. "The opposite, really."
"Because the witch-hunts were worse in Prussia?"
"Yes." Krum nodded, then paused. "That's part of it, at least. Much of the aristocracy was pagan even before all that, though mostly in secret. Sort of like here."
Oh, of course!
The way Britain classified and restricted magic was in many ways a product of the ancient conflict between Pagan mages and various Church-backed conquerors— which had unfolded differently on the Isles than on much of the Continent because A) the Romans never conquered Scotland or Ireland, thus leaving behind a bunch of Celts for whom Christianity was synonymous with foreign invasion, and B) the magi leading the Germanic invasions had seen their religious traditions as the source of their power, so C) by the time William the Conqueror showed up, a significant fraction of the Isles' entrenched magical communities were willing to temporarily table their blood feuds and join forces against him.
(Which, incidentally, was why he'd thrown so much gold at wizards like Armand du Mal Foi— and, consequently, another reason no one trusted the Malfoys.)
It would of course be different in areas Rome had fully controlled when Constantine converted— but Rome had never conquered most of Northern Europe. By the time Christianization took off in what would become Prussia, its mages must've been of a similar disposition to the Celts, Anglo-Saxons, and Northmen; multiply that by much more widespread witch-hunts than the Isles had suffered…
Most people, unfortunately, couldn't summarize legal codes off the top of their head, but… "Can you recommend any books about how Prussian law categorizes the Dark Arts?"
Krum stared at her for a moment. "That term is not used in Preußen, but I can ask some of my school-comrades for book recommendations."
Hermione forcibly restrained the plethora of questions about alternative categories to 'Dark' and 'Light', and instead simply said: "I'd appreciate that."
It was odd, to find herself smiling at a boy she'd only just met.
(A man, really…)
"What about you?" She asked.
"Me?"
"Why Durmstrang instead of… sorry, I don't know anything about the Bulgarian schools."
Krum smiled ruefully, which suited his face rather well. "Probably because there aren't any."
"…what?"
"The highborn have tutors and prestigious apprenticeships. Everyone else learns from family, clergy, or… less-favorable apprenticeships."
Ah.
(Bulgaria was one of those places where the revolution hadn't been so successful, then— and where Christianization had, if clergy were a main source of magical education…)
"Or they leave," she said.
He nodded. "My family are vassals of… a very powerful House. That House could have arranged an apprenticeship for me, but I did not want to be indebted to them like my father was. Like my grandfather before him. And I can learn more at Durmstrang, so."
"More than you could learn at the Scuole Grandi or the Hagia Sofia?"
Krum's expression tensed; his gaze darkened.
"Yes," he said flatly.
Alright then.
(It was, in hindsight, somewhat surprising it had taken so long to put her foot in her mouth, especially while discussing eastern European history…)
Hermione forcibly restrained more questions, and from among them excavated what she hoped was a relatively inoffensive one. "If Durmstrang has no muggle-raised students, and it teaches things that the schools of more Christianized states don't…"
"Yes?"
"…well, it seems that would attract some demographics more than others."
"Pagan old money from all over Europe," Krum replied. "Yes."
…hrm.
No wonder Britons called it 'Dark.'
"And what about the muggleborns the Ministry doesn't find?"
And again, he hesitated.
That was when another red-clad figure walked up and tapped his wand on the privacy bubble. Krum dispelled it with a flick, revealing the pale face of and dirty-blond hair of Radek Levin— and the almost-empty room. The only ones left were Babbling, some of her friends from Hogsmeade, some upperclassmen, and a few Durmstrangers lingering by the door.
Levin gave Hermione a polite nod before asking Krum something in German. Krum stood, but turned to Hermione as Levin rejoined the others.
"I must take my leave," he said formally, hands clasped behind his back in a way that pulled his uniform taut across his chest.
It was more due to Mrs. Tonks' etiquette lessons than any great prudence on Hermione's part that she managed to refrain from spelling him back into the chair for questioning. Amicable acquaintanceship established via courtesy could, over time, provide her with more information than a single aggressive interview.
"Very well," she replied, then faltered, doubting her ability to convincingly say it had been a pleasure to speak with him. "Thank you for taking the time to explain so much."
"Please, think nothing of it." He hesitated then, glancing at the floor and subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot before saying, in English: "I see now for vy Mal-foi iz so jalous of you."
There was a glint of humor in his dark eyes, and the hesitant beginnings of a smile on his lips. It was almost roguish.
Hermione found herself thankful for the low light.
"Oh?" She asked, tilting her head to the side. "And what is it, exactly, that you see?"
"I see une sorcière zat…" he winced, either at his pronunciation or the effort it was taking to translate from— Français? German? Bulgarian? "Who prove him to be wrong. About ze purité. Your questions, zey are vizer. He ask to confirm it zat he believe already. You ask to learn."
It abruptly became quite difficult to keep the smug satisfaction off her face.
"I see une sorcière zat… con-seal her… puissance?"
"Power," said Hermione, with a warm rush of pride. "Power can mean both puissance and pouvoir."
"Szank you." Krum ducked his head— an oddly cute motion for such an imposing man— "If you please, I vould like… mock-duel viss you."
Hermione's jerk reaction was eagerness, the way Fleur had framed the international dueling club's educational benefits suddenly clear in her mind.
Her second thought was of Malfoy's fraudulent challenge back in first year, quickly branching into the various sorts of trap one might be lured into that way.
She glanced past Krum to survey his schoolmates; most were talking amongst themselves, but a few of whom were looking over.
"Why?" She asked sharply.
Krum thought for a moment, brows furrowing broodily, then switched back to Français to say: "I like to duel. And it's… sort of a tradition, at Durmstrang. For showing respect."
"You toss spells at each other to show respect?"
"Well, we do the formalities first. In the old days, formal duels were only fought between wizards of the same social class. Otherwise it was just a fight. It's not so rigid anymore, but there is… symbolism, yes?"
…huh.
"No audience," he added, "if you prefer. Only those you trust— and Grönlund, as my Second."
Not for the first time, Hermione found herself fiercely envious of mind-mages. Only the strongest, most instinctual emotions seemed to show themselves in people's auras, and Krum's was a calm silvery-blue, rippling close to his body— so either he meant her no harm or was a skilled occlumens, which he didn't need to be because Quidditch, but celebrities were targets for all sorts of attention…
She'd just have to be extra careful.
She wasn't a first year anymore— and she wasn't alone. People listened to her now.
"Tuesday," she said. "Eastern staircase, eighth floor, seventh door on the right. After fifth bell."
Krum looked… relieved? "I'll be there."
"Until then, Monsieur Krum."
He smiled and gave a shallow, soldierly bow. "Mademoiselle Granger."
With that he turned and marched over to his friends.
Quidditch wasn't really that athletic compared to most muggle sports, but it did appear to firm up the thighs.
She tore her gaze away, flushing, and spent the next few minutes thinking over precautions for their duel. Mock-duel. Potential-but-unlikely trap. Opportunity.
More or less the same opportunity she'd discarded by lashing out at Ron, in fact.
She was halfway back to the Tower, escorted by Professor Babbling and some of the older Gryffindors, when the subject of Hogwarts lack of a serious history curriculum resurfaced in her mind.
"Professor," she asked, breaking the tired-but-comfortable lull in conversation, "why hasn't Professor Binns been exorcized?"
"Ah," Babbling sighed. "I was wondering when you might ask."
…it was a rather obvious question.
"The ghosts of Hogwarts cannot, to the best of my knowledge, be exorcized. People have tried, but it never works, and has often backfired on the would-be exorcists in unpredictable ways. The prevailing theory is that they are, magically, part of the school, and the wards thus recognize any attempt to remove them as theft or vandalism or some such."
…alright, that was actually fascinating, but… "Why not hire an actual history teacher, and leave Binns to his haunting?"
Professor Babbling smiled tiredly. "That, I'm afraid, is a bit more complex and a lot more political."
"…Hogwarts-Ministry tension political, or 'an ignorant populace is easier to manipulate' political?"
For the first time that Hermione could remember —and she could remember quite well— her favorite Professor looked surprised.
"Both. And more."
As they neared the Fat Lady, she laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder.
"Far too few mages look past the convenience of their own lives," she said, "and our world has suffered for it. Whatever you do, Miss Granger, never stop asking questions."
Hermione fell asleep smiling that night.
Parvati stepped halfway behind one of the Twin Terrors, so that he could shield her from stray spells.
The Hunt, despite (and because of) its sheer hair-raising awfulness, had left her with the ability to cast much stronger shield charms— but she and Padma still weren't very quick on the draw. Not compared to 6th-year Beaters who regularly experimented with volatile substances. Or Harry, who'd been uncanny reflexes even before he started dodging curses several hours a week. He too had his wand out, as did Ginny— who was practically bouncing on her toes as Hermione and Krum rose from their bows and started circling in the center of the hall. Grönlund watched intently from a chair by the bookshelf.
Parvati slipped her left hand into Padma's right, instantly diluting her anxiety, and tried not to watch too intently.
Her inconvenient awareness of Hermione would be a lot more manageable if the girl wasn't so fond of denims. Every time she wore them, Parvati found new appreciation for muggles— not just for inventing the bothersome, shape-hugging things, but for the sheer focus it must take to maintain a functioning society with people walking about thusly dressed.
"Skjalda!"
A pearly shield bloomed from Hermione's wand just in time to deflect a rose-red stunner, quickly followed by the startling BANG of a blasting curse.
Hermione didn't even blink, brightening her shield with steady circles of her wand as Krum wordlessly chained together rapid flickers and flashes and spark-bursts that echoed through the hall like a Weasley prank gone wrong, each sending ripples across the ghostly hemisphere in front of her—
Her left hand shot out, closed into a fist, and yanked. A chair soared across the room towards Krum's unprotected back, only for him to duck out of the way with nary a glance— and then seem to realize what had just happened afterwards, steps faltering for an instant which Hermione seized to flick a series of hexes that broke into sparks on his quick, wordless shield—
—the chair abruptly changed course inches from the floor to hurtle at Krum again but he smoothly sidestepped before it could even reach him—
"Discute!"
The chair exploded with a fiery BANG mere feet from his head. Parvati flinched back, eyes snapping shut at the light and noise—
"Slæsik! Ligo! Arde! Skera! Brjót!"
—and when she opened them Hermione was on the attack, every other spell silent 'til they burst on Krum's smaller, dimmer shield— but then she had to stop for breath, and in the instant she did he flicked a bolt of scarlet light right into her chest. Hermione stumbled backwards and tripped over her own foot as her wand sailed into Krum's outstretched hand.
Padma's hand clenched around Parvati's to stop herself from doing anything stupid.
Hermione managed to tuck her head as she fell, but Parvati still winced; she'd have some proper bruises all along her arse and back in a few hours.
"Good thing she's got some padding back there," Padma murmured. "To protect her poor tailbone, you know."
Parvati said nothing. She didn't need to, not to Pads— especially not with their hands joined.
Hermione's chest was heaving, her face screwed up in frustration. Krum, on the other hand, was breathing like he'd maybe taken the stairs a bit fast, except for the several bleeding cuts on his face and the splinters sticking out of it. One of them was several inches long.
He was also grinning.
"Is gut I verr uniform, yes?"
He took a step forward, and Hermione swiftly pulled her knees to her chest, ready to take what she called evasive maneuvers. Krum paused at the sight, knelt down, laid both their wands on the floor, and strode over to offer a hand. Hermione stared up at him for a moment before grasping it; Krum pulled her to her feet with no apparent effort, only for her to stumble slightly and end up so close their chests were nearly touching— while still holding his hand.
A leaden feeling settled in Parvati's belly, a tightness in her chest and throat as she watched Hermione gaze up into his eyes and softly say:
"Sōpiō."
A red flash filled the scant space between them— and Krum crumpled to the ground, slowed just before impact by a swish of…
Wait a second.
Grönlund let out a baritone bark of a laugh. "That will teach him not to wait for the yield! And they say he's immune to pretty faces!"
"Is that Malfoy's wand?" Blurted one of the Terrors.
Hermione tore her eyes off Krum's limp form with visible reluctance, twisting said wand between her fingers and clearly fighting a smirk as she replied:
"Not anymore."
"He's been using a new one this year," Harry added. "Guess you wouldn't have noticed, not sharing classes with him."
If he was trying to feign surprise, he was doing an abysmal job of it.
But Malfoy's practically ignored her this year…
Hermione slipped the wand into what must have been a second wrist-holster and summoned her own back with a flick of her fingers. Then she paused, staring down at the world-famous Quidditch star she'd just dropped like a sack of spuds.
The last time I saw Malfoy near her was on…
"The Express," Padma murmured.
Where he had barely even looked at her. Where she had stared at him with that tense, single-minded intensity.
Surely she didn't…
Hermione used her cypress wand to silently summon another chair from across the room, over the scorched shards of the last one, and set it down beside Krum.
"What's this?" Asked Grönlund.
"You said it yourself," Hermione replied, watching him carefully. "He really should have known better than to let up before I yielded. Why not emphasize the lesson?"
"…with a chair?"
"Humor me."
He crossed his burly arms, and held her gaze for a moment before shrugging. "Very well, Commandant Granger."
With a swish of her wand and a sharply whispered incantation, Krum's limp body rose off the floor and —with some careful repositioning which should have required serious modification of the hover charm— slumped into the chair. His rugged, stubbly head lolled to the side.
"Incarcerous."
Thin translucent ropes formed out of the air, only to dissolve into mist the instant they struck Krum's limp form.
Hermione pursed her lips in frustration.
(which was really typical of her— beating herself up for not having mastered 6th-year material, honestly…)
She raised her wand again.
"Is this… really necessary?" Harry asked.
She paused. Frowned thoughtfully. "Good point."
"…thanks?"
Hermione walked around the chair, gnawed at her bottom lip for a moment, then jabbed, twisted, swirled, and waved her wand through what looked like a modified sculpture 'charm' with —was that a mirroring element?— quietly chanting in Latin all the while. The chair-back deformed, thick branch-like protrusions sprouting from either side to slowly curl around Krum's torso, pinning his arms to his sides before fusing together in front.
Hermione lowered her wand with a huff, hand ever-so-slightly trembling.
"…is that necessary?" Harry asked.
"It's educational," she said, "so yes."
She then began carefully summoning the splinters out of Krum's face.
"Been teaching yourself varied methods of tying blokes up, have we?" Asked one of the Twin Terrors.
"Some studying is best done independently," the other mused.
"Quite right, Gred."
Hermione continued deftly de-splintering the unconscious Quidditch star, showing no sign of having heard them.
Grönlund, apparently accustomed to this sort of thing, wandered off to browse the bookshelf.
"Couldn't you just summon them all at once?" Asked Ginny.
"Oh, she could," said one of her brothers. "But it's a bad habit to get into. Imagine if you had shards of debris from a blasting curse in ya—"
—Parvati's stomach turned as she recalled the stench of burnt Acromantula—
"—an' they all got yanked out the same direction. Might nick something important."
Hermione paused to look up from her wand-work. "You've studied healing?"
The Twin Terrors shrugged. "Mum started teaching us things when she caught us fiddling with fireworks. We're no medi-wizards, but we can mend bumps and scrapes. Burns are trickier."
"So I've read." Hermione inspected Krum's face, which now appeared to be fully de-splintered, though a number of red pinpricks remained— as did several still-oozing cuts. "Let me know how I do, please."
She held the tip of her wand over the largest cut, and after a moment of seekerlike concentration started moving in tiny circles while softly, lyrically chanting:
"Miþīngæst-mahtīg beuþissuwund gehailid. Miþīngæst-mahtīg beuþissuwund gehailid . Miþīngæst-mahtīg beuþissuwund gehailid…"
Like fabric having the mending charm demonstrated on it, Krum's skin slowly sealed itself up— as did the scratches and pin-pricks around it. She moved onto the next cut.
"Miþīngæst-mahtīg beuþissuwund gehailid. Miþīngæst-mahtīg beuþissuwund gehailid . Miþīngæst-mahtīg beuþissuwund gehailid…"
Parvati-and-Padma watched in fascination. Proper healing spells were supposed to be stubborn and temperamental. You couldn't just shove your magic into another mage's body and expect it to mend intricate things like skin and blood vessels and nerves— you had to coax their magic into accelerating the natural healing process.
Yet another thing Hermione had apparently practiced over the summer. Probably on Sirius Bloody Black.
"…beuþissuwund gehailid." She paused to review her work (Parvati couldn't see any more cuts, but there was still a crust of blood on his face), took a slow breath, and started… patting him down.
The Twin Terrors somehow refrained from commenting on this. Parvati suspected they were paralyzed by the sheer abundance of potential jokes. She was a bit tempted herself— but didn't trust herself not to sound catty.
Hermione pulled a second wand out of Krum's left sleeve… and a knife that looked like it was made for skinning bears out of the other.
"Aha!" Grönlund chimed. "You would have detention for that, at Durmstrang."
Hermione frowned at him for a beat, then huffed. "Cursed hilts?"
He nodded. "To burn— if you're lucky."
"You see, Harry?" She stepped back, stowed Krum's knife and wand in her back pockets, and raised her own again. "Educational. Rennervate."
He woke with a jolt, a grunt, and a quick survey of his present circumstances— by which he seemed mildly surprised and a bit abashed, but not particularly bothered.
"Was ist Ihr Preis dafür," he said to Grönlund, "dass Sie niemandem davon erzählen?"
The Finn grinned. "Oh, das kann ich unmöglich ohne sorgfältige Überlegung beantworten."
Krum looked aggrieved as he turned his head toward Hermione again. "Un deuxième bâton? Est-ce légal pour les mages mineurs ici?"
"Yes," she replied, her face a mask of calm indifference she must have learned from Madam Tonks— "But the Ministry taxes the purchase of secondary wands heavily enough to prevent most of the populace from owning one."
Krum looked pensive for a moment, probably mentally translating, and nodded grimly. Then he smiled— not the polite, restrained smile he wore around interviewers and fans, but a tentative, honest one as he said: "You have it vonne at ze ancient."
"The old-fashioned way," she corrected, not unkindly, while crossing her arms. "Yes. Now, I would rather not have you spreading word of what to expect from me in a duel."
"Vy not?"
"You've met Malfoy. I'm sure you can imagine a few reasons."
He grimaced. "Ah."
"Es-tu d'accord?"
"Oui," said Krum. "I vill garde ze secret."
"Keep the secret. Secrets are kept, in English."
"Ah. Szank you."
"Of course." Hermione nodded. "Would you like to tell me what this was really about, now?"
Krum suddenly looked even more awkward than he already had.
Grönlund snickered. "You didn't tell her?"
"He told me that challenging someone to a mock-duel is a way of showing respect at Durmstrang, but I sincerely doubt you all head to the arena every time you want to make a new friend."
The Finn's smile only grew. "We do not."
"Niko," Krum said in a very 'Shove off, mate' sort of way.
Grönlund plopped back down into his chair, bright-eyed as a Weasley watching a prank unfold.
Krum hesitated a moment longer. His right arm twitched as if he'd meant to straighten a cufflink or something, and he looked down at the wooden loop trapping him in the chair. "Unbind me, please."
Hermione thoughtfully tapped her wand against her lips.
"No," she said, "I don't think I will. Not yet."
Parvati wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that Hermione was clearly enjoying this.
Krum glanced nervously at their audience.
"Du kannst es schaffen!" Said Grönlund.
Krum shot him a glare. Then he huffed, wet his lips, and said: "At Durmstrang… ze mock-duel kann be for to make friends. Spécial-lee… entre classes sociales. Kann also be for boy to show girl zat he respekt her as equal."
Oh.
Oh shite.
"En prélude à une invitation," Krum all but blurted.
Hermione stared as if he'd just started speaking a language she didn't understand. "Une invitation."
His throat bobbed. "Oui."
"Comme…?"
"Comme—" He stared down at the wood-loop for a beat, set his jaw, looked up to meet her gaze again, and said: "Mademoiselle Granger. J'aimerais beaucoup que vous m'accompagniez au bal de Noël."
Hermione's eyes widened. Parvati's brain caught up, and her heart skipped a beat; she played the words back in her head to be sure she hadn't mistranslated, but—
No. Bloody. Way.
"Tu… veux que je sois ton rendez-vous au bal," Hermione said slowly.
"Oui." Krum clearly didn't know what to make of the baffled staring. "Si tu souhaite."
The baffled staring continued.
"Pourquoi?" She asked.
He gave a nervous little smile. "Tu es une sorcière habile, ingénieuse, et belle, qui ne veut pas me… eh, qui ne semble pas désirer de ma célébrité ou de mon argent."
"…oh."
A summer shut up in a gloomy library and months of Scottish weather had leached enough color from Hermione's complexion that she had no hope of hiding her blush.
Parvati suddenly and vividly understood Hermione's disdain for bodice-rippers. The girl had a strange man bound to a chair, totally at her mercy, and he stunned her with just a bit of French? Ridiculous. She was supposed to look pensive and determined and- and fierce. Not like a deer in wandlight! Not for some boy she barely knew!
"You see me in ze bibliothek, yes? Ven I do, ah… retraite tactique from fan-girls?" A hesitant smile softened Krum's broody features. "Zey are vorse, because of Ball. Please, do not leave me at zeir mercy."
Hermione's lips twitched into a slight, shy smile. "I suppose that would be rather cruel."
Krum smiled hesitantly back. Then he… sort of wiggled a bit and seemed to concentrate. His primary wand flew out of Hermione's pocket, into his hand— and, a few seconds later, the wood restraining him went limp as a noodle. He tore free just by standing. Hermione stepped back, uncrossing her arms.
"So you vill kom to ze ball vith me?"
Her gaze roamed his face (and shoulders). "You're serious?"
He nodded. "Ziss is not duel, or Quidditch. I do not feint."
She continued to peer at him as if he were some sort of fascinating anomaly.
They seemed, Parvati noted, to have forgotten there was anyone else in the room. The thought was a phantom stone in her belly.
"…I'm not sure I believe you," said Hermione, prompting several years worth of overheard insults (and backhanded compliments of her own catty, firstie invention) to echo in Parvati's mind.
She abruptly wanted to hug the girl, and also make her chai and get her going about extracurricular magic until she smiled again.
"Vot kann I do for you make— to make you believe?"
Hermione thought for a moment, brows and nose scrunching cutely, before answering: "Collateral."
"…collateral."
"Yes." She tipped her chin challengingly up. "Lend me something you value, and if this turns out to be some cruel joke, you'll never see it again."
Krum took a moment to consider (and/or mentally translate) this. Then started unbuttoning the front of his uniform.
Parvati's already-mild guilt over not inviting Lavender evaporated entirely. There would have been noises.
Thankfully he stopped partway down his torso, folding the front flap of his coat down to reveal a hidden breast pocket. From it he pulled a small silver locket, which he offered to Hermione with a shallow dip of a bow.
Hermione squinted at it for a moment before plucking it from his hand, briefly examining the outside, shooting him a suspicious glance, and opening it.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh," she said softly, gaze flicking back up to search his face again.
"I…" her throat bobbed. "A-alright."
"All right?"
"Oui. J'irai au bal avec toi."
Grönlund started clapping. So did the Twin Terrors. Krum pointed his wand at the former without looking away from Hermione, who aimed hers at the latter.
"Devrions cependant en discuter davantage," she added. "Parce que tu es une célébrité et je suis…"
"Quoi?"
"Une cible favorite de certains…"
"Consanguins?" Krum suggested, and Hermione— fucking giggled.
She did seem embarrassed by it, clapping a hand over her mouth and glancing at her audience (Parvati attempted an encouraging smile when their eyes met, and probably failed). Her flush deepened.
"Je suis d'accord," said Krum, smiling openly again. "Iz all-right zat we… keep secret, for now?"
"Yes, of course. That's probably a good idea, what with all the…" Hermione gestured vaguely."
"Gut. We… meet in bibliothek—"
"Library."
"Ah. Comme 'livre'."
"Oui."
"Lie-breh-ree. Szank you. We meet zere?"
"Yes," she said— and then, slyly: "If you can find me, that is."
Krum's smile grew. "Vot is phrase? 'Challenge accepted?'"
"I feel like I should be waving a banner," Ginny whispered.
"Yes," said Hermione. "That is the phrase."
"Gut." He stared at her for another several seconds, then cleared his throat and held out his hand palm-up.
Hermione blinked and glanced at the locket. Then her lips formed a tiny, silent Oh, and she hurriedly produced his second wand and knife, which he reclaimed with another courteous little bow before sliding them back into his boot and sleeve, respectively. His primary wand he held close to his chest and waved in small circles, chanting something Slavic-sounding, then swept it in an arc around him. Every speck of blood on the floor (and the shards of chair) steamed away to nothing over the course of several seconds.
"You have to teach me that," Hermione and Ginny said in unison.
This seemed to remind Hermione of her audience. Her shoulders inched up; her head tipped down. The blush deepened even further. Krum appeared similarly afflicted, but it wasn't nearly as cute on him.
"Right," said Parvati, turning away. "We should start heading toward the greenhouses. I've not suffered Sprout's Look of Disappointment yet this year, and I'd like to keep it that way. Harry?"
"Yes!" You'd think she'd just tossed a rope down into a well he'd been stuck in, by the relief on his face. He took roughly 2.5 steps and hesitated, glancing at Hermione, Krum, and their mutually terminal awkwardness— "Er…"
"Harry." Ginny crossed her arms and held his gaze, pink in her cheeks and steely determination in her eyes.
"Yeah?"
"You got a date t'the ball?"
It may as well have been an incantation for how quickly it turned him into the most uncomfortable-looking person in the room. "Not yet."
"Y'do now," she decreed.
"Wot?"
Freckles began disappearing into her blush.
"I'll go with you."
"Oh!"
"Unless you'd rather…"
"No!" The pinkness was catching. "I mean yes! That'd be— great. Brilliant, really."
"Good," said Ginny.
The Twin Terrors started cheering like she'd just caught a Snitch, crowding around her and Harry and clapping them on the back and such.
Krum made a valiant attempt to slip by unnoticed, which was thwarted when Hermione called: "Viktor!"
He half-turned to face her again. "Her-my-oh-nee."
"How was my dueling?"
"Oh! Vas gut. Very gut."
She frowned, crossing her arms. "You barely even broke a sweat."
"Svet?"
"La sueur."
"Ah. I… svet-ted more zan I vould in duel vith all ozer fort-year zat I know." He clasped his hands behind his back in a martial sort of way. "You know your starks."
"My… what?"
"Your, ah… compétences, oui? You are not an athlète, like Potter, but… you have no need to be. Not for true kombat." There he paused, watching her carefully, seeming to weigh his words… "And I szink zat ze true kombat is… vot intéresse you. Not duel."
This seemed to satisfy her. "Thank you."
With one last, awkward smile, Krum turned and left, a grinning, taunting Grönlund close behind.
Hermione watched him go, a small, pleased smile on her face. It was both adorable and deeply annoying to look at.
"So," Parvati said a bit louder and more sharply than she'd intended to, cutting through the Weasley's chatter and drawing every eye in the room. "You must be pretty good with memory charms."
The smile was gone in an instant.
"I'm… proficient," Hermione said carefully. Guardedly.
Parvati did not scowl or grit her teeth. She'd been raised better than that. "That's what you call successfully obliviating the heir of an old House that's definitely had occlumency training since childhood? Well enough that he doesn't remember you winning his wand and precisely enough for him not to show any signs of it?"
Hermione frowned. "I'm not sure if you're complimenting me or telling me off."
Neither was Parvati, which made it all the more aggravating.
"What if you'd botched it?" She demanded, and saying it out loud made it realer, more frightening.
"I had enough practice to know what I was doing," said Hermione. "And I took other precautions besides."
"She did," said Harry. "I saw."
Parvati could only stare at him for a second, hurt spreading through her like a bruise.
She knew, intellectually, that he was Hermione's friend first— one of her first real friends and vice versa, and both of them all the more loyal for it. But still, she…
"I thought we were done keeping secrets," Parvati managed.
I thought you trusted me.
Hermione at least had the decency to look abashed— not that it helped.
"I didn't think you needed to know," she said. "It's not a ritual. And it's not like I've gone around using it in front of people."
"Oh, so you'll only tell us about your schemes when you need our help with them?"
"That's not whatI—"
"What if the obliviation hadn't taken? You'd have been at the mercy of Lucius Bloody Malfoy and his friends in the Ministry, and we wouldn't even know you needed help until it was too late!"
"I'm sorry!" Hermione cried out. "I didn't— I just— it seemed better not to involve you in— you know—"
"Larceny?" A Weasley Twin suggested.
"Strategic hooliganism?" Asked the other.
"Heists?"
"Brain bamboozlement?"
"Decisive comeuppance?"
"I didn't want to make you accomplices!" Hermione shouted. "Not unless it was absolutely necessary."
"No such thing as an accomplice if y'don't get caught," Ginny added helpfully.
"I'd rather be an accomplice than see you go to Azkaban!" Parvati-and-Padma replied at somewhat different volumes.
Only in the ensuing silence did they realize how panicked Hermione looked— wide eyed and tense and breathing hard…
"Azkaban?" Asked one of the Weasley Twins, suddenly and jarringly serious. "Gin, what exactly have you lot been up to?"
"It's just an example," said Padma.
The Twin Terrors looked doubtful. And worried.
That was when the bell rang.
For a moment no one moved. Parvati and Hermione stared at each other across the cold, barren dueling hall. Parvati wished they were sharing a couch in the common room, or a nook in their dorm.
"Je suis désolé," said Hermione, watching her as if she might vanish. Neither Harry nor the Weasleys spoke French, and that… sort of helped, a little. "Je voulais seulement te protéger."
"Nous sommes plus forts ensemble," Padma replied. Parvati marched across the room and hugged Hermione— who was, as usual, both very warm and very enthusiastic about returning the hug, both strong and soft. Her curls tickled Parvati's face and neck, smelling of coconut oil and herbs from the Ayurvedic shampoo they'd given her for Hanukkah.
"M'sorry," she mumbled into Parvati's shoulder. "I'll tell you everything. I'll show you too, if you want— I've got a bunch of books from—"
"Later," said Parvati. "It's alright. We'll talk about it all later, yeah?"
"O-okay."
Neither of them let go. The hall really was rather chilly, and Hermione was so very warm…
The groan of the door cut through the comfort like a mandrake cry. Parvati dropped her arms, stepped back, glanced about, and found Ginny watching them quizzically. Her heart quite abruptly began to race. If not for years of meditation, she might have done something telling like visibly tense.
(This was not home. Hermione, for all her fierce, near-obsessive curiosity, was muggle-raised and British. She might understand, she might accept— but she might not, might recoil, might walk away. Parvati couldn't risk that. No; better to keep it to herself.)
"Come on," she said, linking her arm with Hermione's as if nothing was amiss. "Let's get to class."
.
.o.
"Viktor, my friend, my brother-in-arms—"
"Can you not."
"—you sure know how to pick'em."
"Yes, I do."
"Aw, don't be like that. It's a compliment! Sharp as a Red Witch, that one— but still soft where it counts, ja?"
"I prefer not to speculate."
"Oh, you want to do this like an interview? Very well..."
"Niko."
"Mister Krum, what do you have to say about your slip-up in the final moments of the match? Was it Miss Granger's exotic beauty that distracted you from securing your victory?"
"No comment."
"How would you describe the experience of being bound to a chair and… so closely questioned by such a capable, mysterious witch? Completely at her mercy?"
"I could have summoned my wand at any time."
"Ah, but you didn't."
"I thought she would feel more comfortable that way. This school… I do not think it has been kind to her."
Grönlund's cheeky grin shrank away.
"No, probably not." He clapped Viktor on the shoulder. "Good thing such you're such a gallant bastard, then, no?"
"No comment."
"None needed. No, now we must prepare you! When was the last date you went on? That polska back in fourth year? Druzylla?"
"Druzjanna."
"Is that a yes?"
"I know how to escort a witch, Niko."
"You know how to escort a rich, traditional witch. Not a muggle-raised blood-witch."
Had Viktor been standing still, he might have shifted uneasily.
Seven years at Durmstrang had opened his mind quite a bit, but taking the boy out of the Church was much easier than excising all the insidious tendrils of the Church from the boy.
"You know what Meister Vilkas says," he replied. "All witches are blood witches."
Grönlund hummed. "It still bothers you, though."
Viktor shrugged.
"…intrigues you as well, doesn't it. How different she is from the sermons. Or, you know, the Sisters."
An involuntary shiver shot down Viktor's spine. Some of Durmstrang's apprentice hematurges were otherwise normal mages. Others… really leaned into it.
"You've seen the amulets her friends wear," he said. "I'd bet she used the Acromantula to enchant something similar."
"Probably for Potter," Grönlund agreed.
"So," Viktor went on, "she braved a swarm of man-eating monsters so that she could perform some sort of ritual that's probably very illegal here, potentially risking soul-sucking hell-prison, to protect a friend. On school grounds. Without getting caught. Aren you not intrigued?"
"Like I said, Sparrowhawk: you know how to pick'em. Now —hear me out— are you aiming more for 'gallant escort' or 'torrid liaison'?"
"Please stop."
December 25th, 1994
For a moment, standing atop the grand staircase in the type of clothes she never wore, shoulders and throat and just a little too much chest exposed to hundreds of eyes, Hermione thought she might vomit. For a moment their attention pressed in on her like a smothering curse, and Viktor's solid arm was the only thing keeping her steady, the only thing preventing her from freezing up entirely—
Then came the applause.
It filled the vast, vaulted space of the great hall, louder than the pounding of her pulse, rolling over her in a tingling wave that reminded her of nothing more than holding her wand for the first time. She was fairly certain she heard a Quidditch-whistle or two.
"This is your night." Viktor's voice was a gentle rumble, his breath warm on her ear and neck. "Not theirs. They cannot touch you."
And she knew that —no one would dare point a wand at her with foreign dignitaries and Aurors all over the room, but—
"Also, you're radiant."
Oh.
"You said that already," she murmured back, cheeks burning.
"Would you like me to stop?"
Her face heated further. "No."
They started down the stairs, towards the wide open floor, hundreds of people watching her every move…
And Viktor's.
Viktor, who had chosen her over all of them. The know-it-all teacher's pet mudblood, on the arm of their idol.
Now that she looked, she could see the red flickers of anger in the steam-like sea of overlapping auras… but brighter and more widespread were the sunset hues of attraction, and an odd sort of forward rippling, as if their magic was reaching for her.
Like flowers towards the sun, she thought, immediately flushing at how vain it sounded— and at the warm rush of something it brought.
On their way across the floor she glanced at the crowd, glimpsed slack jaws and pink cheeks and wide eyes and narrowed, glaring eyes… but for the first time she could remember, the stares made her feel bigger.
She had won their stupid game, and there was nothing they could do but watch.
.
.o.
Distantly, dimly, like music through a wall, Parvati knew Krum's presence was a boon. They weren't children playing dress-up anymore. There were journalists present. People would be taking note of what they wore, who they danced with, who they sat with, who they stared at— but as long as everyone was staring at Krum, they wouldn't notice who was staring at his date.
Which did not make it any easier to watch them all but glide towards the high table, looking for all the world like a knight and his princess. Hermione's hair was woven into at least a dozen dark, lustrous braids adorned with little silver cuffs, the warm golden-brown of her neck and bare shoulders and collarbones rendered all the warmer by her that sky-blue gown— just as Parvati had told her it would be before the fact that she'd be wearing it for him had sunk in like a lump of lead.
Circe's teats.
The thought was as much Padma's as it was hers, a phantom nudge, the little push she needed to stop bloody staring and pay attention to her own date— Jatin Agarkar, fifth-year half-blood Ravenclaw, polite and respectful in that timid boyish way, and Marathi to boot. Her unremarkable, unobtrusive non-statement choice of escort, staring at Krum as…
No. Not at Krum. Not with surprise so plain on his face, as if he'd seen a flower turn into a dragon, instead of simply bloom—
Suddenly, he didn't seem quite so unobjectionable anymore.
Delacour and her date were a welcome distraction… until she started wondering what the Veela's power looked like to Hermione, remembering how Hermione blushed and stuttered for her—
Padma pinched her elbow, this time. She also helped ensure Parv sat with her back to the head table, and got Jatin rambling about astrocryptography, which was actually interesting… or at least would have been under normal circumstances.
Parvati smiled and nodded and made appropriately encouraging noises, her neck stiff with the effort of not turning her head.
Then the dancing began.
.o.
.
Hermione felt positively buoyant.
And only a little bit because of the butterbeer.
For the first time in her life, the stares meant nothing but victory. They didn't press or pierce or weigh her down— only slid off of her like so much mist. For once there was no later, no what if, no just to be safe. There was only Viktor and his solid arms, his strong hands, and his shy smile, looking at her like she was the only girl in the world as they spun around the hall. His grip was a bit tight, but she didn't mind; he was probably more used to gripping brooms than girls— and brooms were his claim to fame. His passion.
She was flushed and giddy by the time the first dance ended, heart pounding warmth through her body.
…maybe she had drunk a bit too much butterbeer.
"Drink?" Asked Viktor, a rough edge to his voice that did odd things to her pulse (the apparent location of it, specifically).
"Not the punch," she replied. The Twins might have only put alcohol in it, but that was a risk she was willing to let other people take.
They had just started towards the tables when she felt an all-too-familiar phantom caress, a gentle pull on her attention. She must have slowed or hesitated, because Viktor paused, arm still linked with hers— "Maia?"
She hadn't told him about the magesight— thought this perfectly exemplified why sight was an inadequate descriptor—
"Ah! Zere is ze 'andsome couple."
Hermione would have like to take a steadying breath before turning. It might have left her capable of speech as Fleur glided over in a strapless, curve-hugging gown complete with bloody opera gloves.
"Mademoiselle Delacour," said Viktor with a bow.
"Monsieur Krum." She stopped just within arm's reach, and briefly looked him over before pinning Hermione in place with her gaze. "And 'iz lovely companion. I can look after her while you fetch ze drinks, oui?"
Ah.
Hermione felt more than saw Viktor look to her for direction. She had no idea what the smile she showed him looked like, but with a polite nod, he was off.
She wasn't sure how she felt about him leaving, but it did make for a fine sight— which she had only a moment to appreciate before the gentle press of Fleur's hand to her lower back stole her ability to focus on anything other than Fleur's hand on her lower back.
"May I 'ave zis dance, ma chere amie?"
Oh God.
Hermione cast a frantic glance around the dance floor, but the few not focused on their dance partner were sneaking glances at Fleur, not her— and there were a few girls dancing together, though in that silly playful sort of way rather than—
Than what?
"Unless you're already tired."
"No," said Hermione, far too quickly, half-turning to face her.
The power of Fleur's smile seemed to increase exponentially with proximity. The satin of her gloves belied the steadiness of her grip. Beneath the soft skin of her shoulder lay wiry strength. Her hair gleamed like spun gold in the magelight and Hermione was staring like an idiot— like a boy— she needed to say something—
"Is this how you feel all the time?"
…alright, not the worst she could've done, but…
"Zis?" Asked Fleur.
"Buoyant," Hermione said— in Français, to avoid confusion, then added: "Untouchable."
Fleur leaned ever-so-slightly closer, and quietly asked: "Powerful?"
"What?" Hermione hesitated. "No, I…"
She knew what power felt like— like a hearth in her chest and sparks dancing down her fingers, spells breaking on her shield…
"Perhaps not the sort you're used to," Fleur said easily, as flawlessly superior as ever, and Hermione couldn't take it anymore.
"Will you just— turn it off for a minute?" She blurted.
Putain.
Fleur's left eyebrow arched elegantly. "It?"
"Your— I don't know the proper name. Your aura? Your… halo?"
Fleur's perfectly moisturized lips quirked in amusement. "Does your sixth sense not work after a few drinks?"
Hermione missed a step.
How—?
"Have I missed the mark? Is there some other reason you spend more time looking around me than at me?"
"I—"
"Shh." Fleur gave her hand a soft squeeze. "I haven't told anyone yet, and I don't intend to. Now look."
Hermione looked.
Her aura was— smaller, almost placid extending no further from her body than a normal persons', tendrils nowhere to be not-quite-seen—
"I'm already making enemies of plenty of girls, wearing this dress. The slight discomfort of restraining myself is worth a bit less drama. I relaxed a bit to get your attention, but other than that…"
Oh.
Oh God.
Veela only effected people already attracted to their gender. Now Fleur would know— would gossip to her runway-model friends, and they would gossip with theirs until the whole school—
"Oh dear," she cooed. "I just keep stumbling upon your secrets, don't I?"
Hermione tried to glare up at her. She wasn't sure she quite managed it— not with her heart trying to slam its way out of her chest and panic fizzling through her.
"I'm so glad this is amusing for you," she hissed.
"Only for your fierceness, Lionette." Fleur pursed her lips for a moment, leading Hermione through another turn. "You must take one of mine."
"What?"
"My secrets. It's only fair. You don't know me well enough to trust me with yours, non? So I will tell you mine, and we will be even. Let's see…"
Feeling as is she were (unwittingly) speaking a different language from those around her was not something Hermione was unfamiliar with, but it had been quite a while since she last felt it so acutely.
"I would sometimes rather dance with a woman than a man myself," said Fleur, as if remarking on the bloody weather. "And not just because they are more considerate even when besotted, yes?"
Hermione opened her mouth, and promptly closed it again.
"It is less scandalous in France— and even less than that on mamán's side of the family, of course."
There was no judgement in Fleur's expression, no disgust or suspicion that Hermione could see, but—
"Oh, and I mostly complain about how dreary it is here to humble all these 'pure-bloods' you somehow put up with."
"I have very good outlets," Hermione managed to murmur.
"Also," Fleur added, "I am, as you suspected, rather more empathetic than the average mage— when I want to be. It's very useful sometimes."
"I can imagine."
Something subtle changed in Fleur's gaze, something Hermione didn't recognize.
"Can you?" She asked.
Hermione… wasn't so sure, all of a sudden.
"Anyway, I think I would trade it for your sight, if I could."
"What? Why?"
Fleur gave an elegant shrug. "I think it would be less… intrusive."
Oh. "Is that how you knew? That I—"
Fleur watched her for a moment, then asked: "That you…?"
"You know."
"I do," she said, sounding almost... disinterested? "And yes, it is."
"So I'm not obvious?" Hermione said as quietly as she could while still audible over the music and chatter. "To— people who aren't you, I mean."
"Given that I haven't heard any nasty gossip about your tastes, I suspect not."
…well, now she felt stupid. It would be obvious if she were obvious; when had the little beasts she was forced to share a castle with ever been subtle about their prejudices?
It took a bit of effort not to slouch in relief, and Fleur must have felt it, because she tightened her grip ever-so-slightly, drawing Hermione slightly closer— close enough to catch a teasing hint of sandalwood-and-honey, to feel her composure start slipping yet again, to which her jerk reaction was, of course, to blurt.
"Why do you let people think that you're—" She barely caught herself in time.
"That I'm…?"
"I-I just mean that you're— you're skilled and perceptive and open-minded."
"Flattery will get you nowhere in public, Lionette."
"I'm not— what?"
"Why do I let people think that I'm what?" The amusement was back in Fleur's smile. "Stuck-up? Vapid? Just a pretty face and a nice pair of tits?"
Hermione's face was on fire. "That's not— I don't—"
"I am not a mind-mage," Fleur said firmly. "People will see what they want to see no matter what I do. Why waste time and effort bombarding a shield when its caster has left you a perfectly good blind spot?"
Viktor returned with their drinks before Hermione could even start to think of a good reply to that, and muttered something about Grönlund being a pest. She didn't really hear the words Fleur used to excuse herself either; the gentle squeeze of her hand was louder by far.
She pondered that strange wisdom as they found their seats, and as her friends trickled in off the dance floor. Thankfully most of them were too focused on the Quidditch Star to ask her anything that required much thought— except for the Coven, of course.
And Ronald.
He glared until Viktor set off again to fetch some schoolmates, and then…
"—He's competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You're— you're—"
Apparently having his lips confiscated wasn't a clear enough lesson.
"—fraternizing with the enemy, that's what you're doing!"
Hermione just… stared at him, for a moment.
Ronald crossed his arms.
"The enemy?" She asked. "Would this be the same enemy whose arrival you fell all over yourself trying to get a better view of? Don't you have a poster of him in your dormitory?"
He seemed to consider glaring harder a sufficient response, because the next words out of his mouth were: "I 'spose he asked you in the library?"
Despite herself, Hermione felt her cheeks heating up again. "In a study hall, actually."
Ginny snorted into her goblet.
"And he was very proper and respectful about it."
"'Course he was," Ron sneered.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Obvious, isn't it?" He looked to the others as if for support of all things— "His Headmaster's a bloody Death Eater. He knows who you hang around with— he's just trying to get closer to Harry, to get information on 'im— or to curse 'im!"
"For your information, he hasn't asked me one single thing about Harry, not that it's any of your—"
"Then he's hoping you'll help'im with his Egg!"
"Ron," Ginny hissed, "can you not do this—"
"I bet you've been putting your heads together during those cozy little library sessions—"
"Ronald!"
"The only things we've— put our heads together about are history and politics," Hermione shot back, struggling to keep her voice level— "Some of us are actually taking advantage of the opportunity to learn about the wider world and befriend foreign mages, which is what the whole Tournament is supposed to be about!"
"No it isn't!" Ron shouted. "It's about winning!"
People were starting to stare.
"Ron," Harry said quietly, "this is Hermione. She'd never do anything to put me in danger—"
"Or be stupid enough to do it accidentally," Ginny added—
"Not even if she's getting handy little secrets out of it?" asked Ron. "Learning some nasty new tricks?"
Hermione's hands balled into fists beneath the table.
"I bet that's why she started talking t'him in the first place— s'not like she even cares about Quidditch! New spells, on the other hand—"
"Ron." Ginny was reaching for her wand.
"—well, Durmstrang teaches all sorts of things, doesn't it?"
Hermione forced her hands to be still, to not reach for her own. To not blurt the first half-formed thing that sprang to mind.
She had stood her ground in front of Walburga Black's portrait.
This was nothing.
"Yes," said Viktor, laying a hand on the back of her chair. "It does."
Ronald somehow got even redder.
"I do not care if you hev problem vith me," Viktor went on, "but Hermione—"
"Hermione," said Hermione, "doesn't particularly care either. But it's not either of us you really have a problem with, is it, Ronald? Not really."
He faltered, glancing between them.
"It's the fact that a girl is so much better than you at magic," she pressed, "and how afraid of her you are."
Ron's face screwed up even more than it already had been, hands balling into fists at his sides. "Afraid of you? You been drinking up at the head table?"
Hermione stared at him for a moment, watching more sickly-pale red shiver out across his aura.
Then she lifted her right arm over the table, drew her wand with a flick—
And Ron flinched back.
Hermione felt her lips curl into something that wasn't quite a smile.
She cast a cooling charm on her drink, and set her wand down beside it.
Ron looked at Harry. Harry looked at Ron, Hermione, Viktor, then Ron again— just in time to watch him storm off.
Harry hissed something under his breath, and hurried after him.
Ginny aimed a half-hearted glare at Hermione, then slouched back with a huff and surveyed the others.
"Anyone wanna find out what my other idiot brothers spiked the punch with?
They did. Hermione was as surprised as anyone at the Twin Terrors' apparent respect for the occasion, until Ginny pointed out that the occasion was attended by a higher-than-usual concentration of people who could make problems for anyone who mucked it up too badly.
.
By the time they all straggled back up to the Tower, Hermione had forgotten all about everything but Fleur's insight, Ron's fear, and Viktor's steady presence at her side. They climbed the stairs arm in strong, solid arm, through lantern-light that seemed unusually soft and draughts that seemed unusually mild.
It was Hermione that paused first in front of the painting, and the watchful woman in it. She also noticed a non-McGonagall cat perched on the next staircase, though there was something funny with its aura that she was willing to bet had something to do with the Professor.
"Maia?"
Oh, but the way that accent shaped the sound was nice— not a lazy shortening of her name, but a fond veneration. She took his arm in both hands, smiling up at him. "Viktor?"
He ducked his head, cleared his throat, and glanced at the others —Parv and Jatin having what looked like a very polite conversation over by the handrail, Harry and Gin blushing at each other by the portrait— before meeting her eye.
"Thank you, again, for accompanying me," he said in Français. "I… had a good time. Did you?"
How was it that his bashfulness could be just as alluring as Fleur's confidence?
No! Bad. Focus on your actual date.
"I had a wonderful time," she replied, too warm and content to even care how breathy it came out. "Which, I should point out, is not technically over yet."
Viktor blinked and stared at her for a moment. Then his eyes widened—
"Ah."
—and flicked down to her lips. "True."
She gave his arm what she hoped was an encouraging squeeze.
He glanced at the portrait. Hermione frowned. He noticed her frown, and his trademark Seeker's focus returned, all intense and serious and—
Oh.
Hermione's eyes fluttered shut, breath caught in her chest as his lips pressed carefully to her own. The clean, woodsy scent of aftershave stirred something in her, pulled her in like a summoning charm, her hands settling on his chest as he... pulled back.
She blinked.
That was it?
Hermione, to her retrospective pride and embarrassment, hesitated for only a heartbeat before gripping his lapel and dragging him back down for a much longer, more thorough kiss. A snog, if you will. There was— tongue. Tongues, really, one rather more deft than the other despite continued shyness, and one large hand cupping the back of her neck while the other slipped around her waist and pulled her up against his firm—
"Ah-hem."
Viktor's hands dropped away. Hermione jolted back, heart pounding and cheeks burning, to the sight of the Fat Lady's reproachful stare. She glanced at the others, found Ginny and Harry looking rather pointedly away, Jatin gone, and Parvati standing with her back to them.
Viktor cleared his throat again, hands clasped behind his back. He was blushing. Hermione failed to stifle a grin.
"I…" he wet his lips —or re-wet them, rather— "I'll see you later?"
"I-if you want," Hermione managed— and with another burst of courage: "Come find me in the library."
"I will," he said with the solemnity of a promise. It sent a shiver through her.
The phrase glowing with happiness no longer seemed quite so hyperbolic on her way up to the dormitory. Parvati entered first, resplendent in her Gryffindor-themed sari and gleaming bangles.
"Have I told you how fantastic you look?" Hermione asked. "If not, it was a horrible oversight."
"Oh." Parvati headed over to her bureau without looking at her. "Well, you were rather preoccupied. No harm done. Thank you, though."
There was an odd tension in the set of her shoulders.
"Parv?" Hermione started to follow, then second-guessed herself. "What's wrong? Did something happen with Jatin?"
"What?" Parvati stopped in front of her bureau and started unwrapping herself. "No, he was perfectly polite."
"…which was the point, right?"
"Exactly. Pureblood nonsense, you know."
Was it just the punch, or was her tone odd as well?
"No public snogging for us."
Hermione bit her lip. She hadn't meant to— to flaunt it or something...
Had it been inconsiderate of her, to—?
"Anyway, you look lovely as well," said Parvati, without so much as a glance. What Hermione could see of her face was expressionless.
It sent an unpleasant pang through her, a phantom pain that lodged in her throat.
"…thanks."
She woke the next morning with hair in her mouth, and a fuzzy memory of emerging from the lav to find Parvati's bedcurtains shut.
She was, of course, promptly distracted by less fuzzy, more enjoyable memories of Viktor's arms. And his hands. And his mouth. They lifted her out of bed, carried her through her toilette and down into the common room— where she pulled up short at the sight of Harry sitting in front of the hearth, staring sightlessly into the dying flames… several hours before he was usually up and about.
Hermione walked over and sat down next to him, hoping this wasn't about the penultimate Weasley. Scaring him like that might've been a little mean, but honestly— 'fraternizing with the enemy'? She didn't even hex—
"I overheard Snape talking to Karkaroff last night," said Harry, turning to meet her eye. He didn't looked like he'd slept much.
She supposed things had been going suspiciously well of late.