Phonetics is the branch of linguistics that researches the sounds of human speech. Viktor came to understand a lot about the subject when he discovered that, to fulfil the fucking goal of learning four languages in the shortest possible time, he would need to develop two essential skills: the first was listening (above average, he had always been a great listener), and the second was speaking (prehistoric, he hated interacting).

Refusing to strike up a conversation even with native Bulgarian speakers, but notoriously unaccustomed to giving up, Viktor found in phonetics a third essential-secret skill: observation (transcendental, he was a Seeker, after all). Armed with a detailed and visual understanding of how sounds work in different languages, he learned the basics of communication in French, German, English, and Spanish in record time.

Using auditory phonetics theory, Viktor could examine how his speech was perceived by the interviewers' ears and the time they took to process the information. Thus, he could evaluate how he formulated sentences, control his accent, and notice the need to speak faster or slower, making mental notes for future improvements.

With acoustic phonetics, he studied the frequency and duration of the sounds produced by others. Observing how a vowel could extend over a longer period during a reporter's question, for instance, he could dictate the rhythm of speech and the pronunciation of each word individually, and replicate it easily.

Finally, there was articulatory phonetics, which involved closely observing the speaker's mouth, analysing the movements made by the lips and tongue during word formation.

Viktor was using the third one a lot that day.

"So, each House has its main colours. For Gryffindor, it's red and gold. Hufflepuff, yellow and black. Slytherin, green and silver. Ravenclaw, blue and bronze," said Hermione, gesturing with four fingers of her right hand raised.

He should have been paying attention; she was only explaining the Hogwarts House system because he had asked. But all he could think about was the round shape her mouth took on when she pronounced any word with the vowel O.

"... of course, I understand the need to separate students into Houses, I mean, the alternatives to minimally controlling such a large number of children are somewhat limited…"

Viktor found the Fs and Vs particularly interesting; her lower lip approached her teeth as if it were about to receive a light bite.

"My point is: I don't know anyone in this school who fits exclusively into one House. I almost ended up in Ravenclaw myself! It's a division based on underdeveloped characteristics, no one's personality is formed at 11 years old!"

Her indignant tone pulled Viktor back from wherever he had been (probably lost in the moment when the tip of her tongue appeared between her teeth and brushed her lower lip when she said something starting with N).

"And what is Ravenclaw's characteristic again?" he asked, clearing his throat, knowing she had already provided this information, and hoping the girl hadn't noticed that he was staring at her for the past 20 minutes.

"Intelligence."

Viktor snorted. "That would be presumptuous, if you hadn't just accused them of being underdeveloped," he teased playfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You know what I meant," she said defensively. Yes, he knew, despite having missed half the argument staring at her mouth. Phonetics could be a very tricky business sometimes. "And my only proven quality is intelligence, please don't make me question that."

That couldn't be right. Viktor hadn't known her for that long, but he could already think of at least two more qualities for her: empathy and sagacity.

He should tell her that.

"At least it's one of the most important ones," was what came out. Viktor was an idiot.

Hermione shrugged, resigned.

"Yes, of course," she agreed, with little energy. "But I wouldn't mind having some of the less important ones, for a change."

"Such as?"

She hesitated for a moment, tucking a curl behind her ear. "Well… I think I would like to be pretty."

Pretty. Pretty pretty pretty. A few days had passed since she said that word for the first time; long enough for him to forget how pleasant it sounded, how much he had enjoyed hearing it. Pretty pretty pretty. He wanted her to say it again; he wasn't looking to see how her lips would behave.

It was a strange thing, liking the way someone said a single word. That never happened before and he didn't even know how to name it; the timbre of her voice and the pronounced syllables made his chest warm and erratic.

Viktor rested his elbow on the table, to make sure nothing would start floating. The last time had been quite traumatic.

That was the second day of the week that he had met her in the library; on the first, Yan had come along, eager to return the Shakespeare book and share how much he had enjoyed it. On that occasion, Hermione had welcomed them with a smile and the two had chatted animatedly about The Winter's Tale, while Viktor searched among the thousand available options for a book that detailed previous editions of the Triwizard Tournament (as much as Bukowski was a more interesting read, he didn't have the habit of procrastinating and needed to start preparing for the Tournament somehow).

Despite it being a brief interaction, Viktor considered it whole, as well as the day he had put his name in the Goblet, counting up to four since he had arrived at Hogwarts.

Four entire interactions, four moments in which he had looked at her (sometimes for a long time), talked to her and he hadn't thought of Hermione as pretty. How? It seemed the most obvious thing about her: big dark eyes, long and full curls, round face, parentheses-like eyebrows, even the hands with long fingers, small ears, proud neck, everything matched, everything was pretty.

He should tell her that.

"You're not that bad," was what came out. Viktor would make better use of his time banging his head against a wall. Hermione kept her impassive expression, but he knew she was hurt. Who wouldn't be? He hurried to correct himself, feeling nervousness rising in his stomach: "Sorry. That was ride..."

Her eyes widened slightly. Ride? What the hell was that?

"Rude," he abruptly corrected himself, reaching out towards her. "That was rude," he repeated slowly, this time with the right word.

Hermione gave a slightly sad smile and shook her head. "No, it's okay. Actually, that was the closest to a compliment I've ever received."

What? Viktor let his arm fall on the table.

"No, look..."

"It's okay, Viktor."

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Really. I'm used to it."

"I got English-confused."

"You don't have to find me pretty."

Pretty. Pretty pretty pretty. Viktor shaked his head, obliging himself to focus.

He did find her pretty! That's what he was trying to say!

Viktor had never felt so nervous in his entire life. His hands were sweating, and every English word he knew disappeared from his head as if someone had cast an Obliviate spell directly at his temple. He dropped his jaw while he struggled with his own fucking brain.

A wave of giggles broke the tension, and Viktor turned in time to see three heads ducking behind a bookshelf. He sighed, resigned; his fan club had just found another of his favorite spots.

When he turned his attention back to Hermione, she had her eyebrows knitted together and her eyes narrowed, looking just as resigned as he was.

"They're everywhere, aren't they?" she remarked, the second word said with small pauses between the syllables (e-ver-y-where). The rhythm indicated frustration and emphasis, he decided.

Viktor shrugged. "I think it got worse after I was selected for the Tournament."

Hermione seemed slightly agitated by his words and adjusted herself in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, her eyebrows drawing even more together, her eyes dancing for the whole place. She was making a decision, Viktor noted; he could almost hear the girl's brain working. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

"May I ask you something personal?" she finally let out.

As a rule, Viktor didn't like personal questions, but curiosity won this time, and he found himself replying: "Sure."

Clearing her throat, Hermione crossed and uncrossed her legs again. "Why did you put your name in the Goblet?"

No one had asked him that question yet. Not Yan, or Karkaroff, or his agent. Not even his mother. People around him seemed so accustomed to his adventurous approach to life that his entry into the Tournament was treated naturally, a behavior so expected it would be almost strange if it didn't happen. What came were recommendations of care and wishes of good luck, no questions.

But Hermione didn't know him well enough; and the way she was looking at him (apprehensive, wringing her hands on the table) showed that the answer was important for her.

"I like challenges," which was true. "I like testing my skills," also very true. "But, besides that, I want to try for a spot on one of the United Kingdom's Quidditch teams. The Tournament publicity could help," the truest truth of all.

Hermione slowly nodded, considering what he had said, her analytical gaze fixed on his face.

"You seem… fine."

"I am fine," Viktor stated, a little confused. "Shouldn't I be?"

"It's just that… Harry is terrified."

Oh, there was the reason for the question.

"Well, I chose to put my name in the Goblet. That's not what happened to Potter," he explained. "In his place, I think I'd be terrified too."

A happy smile spread across her face. "You don't believe he put his name in the Goblet," it wasn't a question.

Viktor shrugged, feeling the corners of his mouth turn up. "Do you?"

"I know he didn't. Harry is my best friend," her tone was affectionate, almost sibling-like. That was new information, and he considered for a moment Karkaroff's reaction if he knew he was secretly meeting the best friend of his adversary. "He's a fan, by the way."

Something about the idea of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, being part of his fan club made Viktor mentally laugh in disbelief.

"Was he the one who took you to the Quidditch World Cup finals?"

"Actually, our friend Ronald Weasley took us. He's also a fan," she made a face. "A bit overly, if you ask me. He idolizes you. Spent hours picking out only clothes in Bulgaria's team colors."

An image suddenly forged its way into Viktor's mind: rosy cheeks of excitement, a broad smile, the scarlet and black scarf of the Bulgarian National Team wrapped around his neck, curly hair bouncing harmoniously around…

"Did you root for Bulgaria too?"

"Ireland."

With the green and white colors, the image was not as interesting anymore.

"Ouch!" Viktor protested, but laughed slightly at her sincerity.

Hermione made an apologetic face but feigned indifference. "We won, didn't we?"

"They won," Viktor corrected. "You don't even like Quidditch."

She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. "Lucky you. Otherwise, I might be squeezed behind a bookshelf right now, and our conversations would be reduced to autograph requests."

Another image suddenly forged its way into his mind: Hermione smiling, blushing, flirtatious, holding out a photo or shirt for him to sign, touching his arm…

Viktor shook his head, dispelling the idea. What the hell was wrong with him? She'd probably rather die.

"Well, I can give autographs for your friends," he offered, knowing she'd never ask, but willing to sign anything she handed him.

Hermione shook her head. "Harry is too shy, especially now that you're competing together in the Tournament. And Ron doesn't deserve it. Besides, I'd have to explain how I got the autographs, and they don't know we're meeting."

Meeting. They're meeting. Her lips pressed together to pronounce the M, and he found it so charming he almost lost the part about her not telling her friends. Almost.

He had many questions but decided to start with the simplest: "What did Ronald do?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated. "Ronald doesn't believe Harry didn't put his name in the Goblet. They've had a big falling out over it lately, can't even be in the same room without sniping at each other. I hate being in the middle of it."

"Can't you pull away? Stay with your other friends?"

Hermione blushed, her cheeks turning redder than he'd ever seen before.

"I don't have other friends."

Viktor smiled at her, deliberately. With teeth and all. A miracle. "Yan is my only friend," he confided.

She looked utterly disbelieving. "That's impossible."

"Why?"

"What about your teammates? Or the other Durmstrang students? You're a Quidditch star, you're popular," the way she said that sounded like an insult. "There are people after you all the time."

Fair enough.

Viktor shrugged, embarrassed to admit it. "I'm not good at making friends. Interacting with people makes me uncomfortable."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious: "You're interacting with me now."

"Sweating like a pig, but yes."

"Pigs don't really sweat much."

"Then why do the British say that?" he grumbled, huffing. "Sweating buckets then," he conceded, knowing she could retort that sweating a whole bucket was humanly impossible.

"Are you really?"

"You're very intimidating."

"A pity," she said, sarcastic. "I thought we could be friends."

Viktor held back a grimace. Friends didn't sound as nice as pretty.

"Even after I called you ugly by accident?"

Her laugh was only not louder because they were in a library at noon.

"Friends don't have to find their friends pretty."

But he did! He should tell her that.

"True. But I do, you know?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Do what?"

"Find you pretty."

Fucking finally! It hadn't been that hard, had it?

For someone so concerned with keeping everything grounded, Viktor hadn't foreseen that her full smile would throw him against a wall. Maybe if he hadn't been so insistently staring at her mouth, the effect would have been lesser.

He coughed and grunted to disguise his own discomfort and averted his eyes from the pair of smiling lips, hoping the sensation would pass.

Viktor decided that a change of subject might help: "May I ask you something personal?"

Hermione stopped smiling, switching to a neutral expression, and he almost sighed with relief. She shrugged. "I suppose that's fair."

"Why haven't you told your friends that we're meeting?"

She considered the question for a moment, as if she hadn't thought much about it before.

"Because they wouldn't believe me, and they'd probably make some annoying joke," her tone was of someone who had witnessed that behaviour many times. "I don't blame them, I mean, I didn't expect to meet you and have so much to talk about. And for you to still be here. It's not the sort of thing that happens to me, I mean, people like you don't pay attention to me."

Viktor nodded but frowned. "People like me?"

Whatever his tone suggested, it made Hermione agitated. She began gesturing towards him. "You know… Athletic, famous, older, handsome."

Handsome. Handsome, handsome, handsome. Viktor hadn't thought that any word could be more interesting than pretty, until he saw handsome on her lips. The movement was simple, short, discreet; a blink of an eye, and he wouldn't have seen the lips form a circle, an 'O' coming and going. The object of the word elevated its charm to alarming levels: the poem was pretty, she was pretty, but handsome was for him. He was handsome.

The table began to float. Viktor placed both elbows on it. No. Not again.

"It's not a secret. Nor something I'm ashamed of," she was saying, studying his expression carefully, looking worried that she had offended him. The face he was making couldn't be the best. Viktor wanted to say that he wasn't offended, that he didn't know what he was, but it definitely wasn't offended. "It's just that… well, I prefer not to share it with them yet. It's something that's just mine."

Oh, fuck.

The table remained in place, under Viktor's firm grip, but it was too late for the rest. The books came out one by one from the shelves, quills and parchments began to float, and the air was filled with small floating objects, inkwells, bags, hats, as if Wingardium Leviosa were being cast by every wizard and witch in that library at the same time.

And although nothing was really floating (of course not, what nonsense was that?), Viktor felt as if he were half a meter off the ground.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Viktor tried to be reasonable. He tried to force himself to stop. Hermione wasn't talking about him. That wasn't what she meant.

"I'm not much older than you," was all he managed to mumble, the only thing that came to mind to comment on, and he hoped it had come out in English and not Bulgarian.

He had no idea of the tone or language he had used, but it was enough to convince Hermione that he wasn't offended. She let out a low, relieved laugh.

"You're right. Three years isn't much."

Three years?

Everything fell to the ground, and Viktor almost expected to hear a great crash of objects that had suddenly stopped floating.

He did the maths quickly. "You're fourteen?"

Hermione looked at him as if he were mad. "Yes?"

No. That didn't make any sense.

"How?"

"How what?"

"I thought you said you were in sixth year."

"I never said that."

Of course, she hadn't. Viktor had assumed she was older the first day they met simply because she seemed mature. The margin of error would be a year more or less, he had imagined.

Fucking wrong, that's what he was.

The truth crushed him suddenly, and Viktor felt his face turning red and hot: he had spent the last hour looking at the mouth of a fourteen-year-old girl.

No. No. No.

No.

The floating had to stop. Now.

October 12th, 1994

Mr. Krum, how are you?

I am writing to inform you that I have spread the word about your intention to join the Quidditch teams in the United Kingdom. The Tutshill Tornados and the Pride of Portree have already sent me letters showing interest in negotiating your participation starting in the second half of next year, as soon as your academic duties are complete.

I have taken the liberty of sending both some essential contract terms: we can consider the best option based on your interests and priorities. Your fame precedes you, so I have hope (and almost certainty) that the responses will be quite favourable.

I take this opportunity to congratulate you on entering the Triwizard Tournament. Unfortunately, the news of your participation was overshadowed by the scandal involving Harry Potter. I hope it is a temporary issue; this publicity could be used in favour of your career, especially at this moment of transition. I have some contacts at the Daily Prophet; would you like me to activate them? We can arrange an article about you quickly.

As soon as I have news about the Tutshill Tornados and the Pride of Portree, I will contact you again.

Your coach asked me to remind you to follow your diet and exercises. It might be a good idea to send him a letter, assuring that everything is under control.

We will speak soon,

Nikolai Ivanov

Viktor spent a full two minutes reflecting on his agent's proposal before writing a brief response on a small piece of parchment under the patient gaze of the waiting owl:

Nikolai,

Do not call the Daily Prophet. My training and diet are regular, but I will send a letter to my coach. If I can choose, I prefer to play for the Tutshill Tornados; I trust in your negotiation.

Viktor

He also wrote a quick note to his coach before dispatching the owl out of the ship's window.

The Tutshill Tornados were one of the most well-known and successful teams in the British and Irish Quidditch League. Viktor admired their fast and efficient attacking skills and identified with their main strategy of maintaining a dynamic and aggressive game. Between the two teams his agent had mentioned, the Tornados were definitely the best choice for him.

Once the task was completed, Viktor took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself to meet Karkaroff. The Headmaster had finally requested his presence in his office to "discuss his future in the Tournament." Although he knew this moment would eventually come, he was not at all ready to spend the next hour listening to complaints about Harry Potter and discussing strategies to restore his supposed hero reputation.

Even so, Viktor left his room and went to meet him.

The Headmaster's office was in a needlessly large room for the amount of things it actually housed. Besides a wide wooden desk with a high-backed green-cushioned chair and a pair of locked cabinets (the sturdy locks didn't lie) on either side of the enormous window, nothing else occupied the room.

Karkaroff did not raise his eyes from the parchment he was noisily marking with the quill, not even when Viktor stood in front of the desk and bowed respectfully.

"Posture," he said, and Viktor straightened his shoulders. "I thought I had ordered you to be here at four in the afternoon."

The man's desk clock read four o'clock and two minutes.

"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Karkaroff placed the quill in the holder, clasped his hands on the desk, and intertwined his fingers.

"I hope you are taking the Tournament seriously, Krum."

"I am, sir."

"Being late when I called you here specifically to talk about it is not the best way to demonstrate that. I suppose this is your strategy to make an impression on the journalists in the first task," the headmaster finally raised his eyes to him, and his mouth twisted with what could only be defined as disgust. "You almost don't deserve the information I have."

Viktor remained silent, holding Karkaroff's gaze carefully so as not to seem arrogant. He realised now, perhaps a bit too late, that participating in the Triwizard Tournament would mean strictly following other people's rules: Nikolai, Karkaroff, the Daily Prophet, even Bartemius Crouch who authorised the participation of a 14-year-old boy in deadly tasks. He had new eyes watching him, and for the first time, none of them were interested in his skills as a Quidditch player.

Image. Publicity. Reputation.

Tired of being observed from above by his student, Karkaroff stood up and began walking slowly, circling the desk.

"I assume you're not thinking much beyond your own nose, Krum, so I'll help you: you are not representing yourself in this Tournament. You are representing Durmstrang. Your loyalty is to the institution. Your colleagues are counting on you. Everything you do can and will reflect on all of us," Karkaroff advanced towards him, each word punctuated by a step, until he stopped right beside Viktor, his face inches from his. "Can your empty head understand that?"

Viktor clenched his hand into a fist but did not look at the headmaster. He stared at the window with determination, trying to control his voice when he replied, "Yes, sir."

A sarcastic smirk appeared on Karkaroff's face.

"Good," he approved, moving back to the other side of the desk. "We need you to make a good impression in the first task. And that's why I took the liberty of finding out what kind of challenge we are facing."

Of course. Karkaroff was a man with contacts, means, and access that Viktor could not even imagine, not even in his darkest dreams.

He waited, but the Headmaster said nothing. Viktor wondered if he wanted to know; technically, any information about the tasks was against the Tournament rules. He would like to win on merit, he would like to face the challenges with the same cards as the other participants.

Yan's words about his moral fibre echoed in his head. Merlin, he needed to stop that.

"And what would it be, sir?" he finally asked.

Karkaroff's smile widened. A horrendous sight.

"Dragons."

The hairs on Viktor's neck stood on end. Dragons. He had never even seen one in real life, let alone interacted with the creature.

All his knowledge about dragons began flashing through his mind: strong, excellent flyers, and, of course, fire-breathing. There are several species, each with unique characteristics; Hungarian Horntail, Antipodean Opaleye, Welsh Green, Hebridean Black, Norwegian Ridgeback, Swedish Short-Snout… Some are considered less aggressive, but there was no way to know which species had been chosen for the Tournament.

They are regulated by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so the Ministry's access to them was no surprise. Eggs and scales are valuable, heartstrings are commonly used by wand makers, but none of that was useful, none of that helped.

Every cell in Viktor's body screamed danger.

"Think, Krum," ordered Karkaroff, noticing the growing panic on the usually controlled boy's face. "What is the only penetrable part of a dragon?"

Viktor considered that word. Penetrable. The thick skin, scales, claws, all those were defence mechanisms. In Quidditch, it would be equivalent to protective gear: ankle guards, chest protectors, elbow pads, gloves, even helmets… If a Beater wanted to cause substantial damage to another player, they had to aim for the face.

A dragon's face was where the mouth was, the flame exit. But it was also where the eyes were.