For V/Hr ficathon
Title: Second Christmas
Author: Rachel2205
For: drakelle
Request: fluff and romance ["Reminiscing" of their time in the 4th year] ["Post Book 7"] ["Bit of Angst"] ["Happy Ending"] [No Harry and Ron Bashing]
Rating: hm, mostly PG, with some more adult allusions.
Length: just under 3,500 words.
Author note: this might be rather more angsty and a little less fluffy than you had hoped! It seems that my V/Hr brain doesn’t work with pure fluff too well. There are allusions to character death here - not Viktor or Hermione, don’t worry (and not Ron or Harry either!), and also brief mention of a pairing that I don’t actually ship, but seemed to emerge out of the fic. Hope it’s ok with you!
People were wrong, Hermione reflected. It was the second Christmas that was the worst. Everyone had expected the first Christmas after everything to be difficult. Although it was the first holiday in a long time where anyone had truly been able to relax, free of the fear of Voldemort, last Christmas had been a reminder that there were too many familiar faces missing from dinner tables. Too many empty chairs. The Ministry had even run a special counselling service over that Christmas to anyone who had lost a loved one. But this Christmas was worse, because… it was ordinary. The strange mixture of elation and grief that had followed in the months following Voldemort’s final defeat had dissipated, and now things seemed to be as they were before. But they weren’t, not quite, and it was that gap that hurt. Remembering how things had once been for her, and seeing how they were almost the same… It was painful. Sometimes Harry would laugh, and she would have this wonderful feeling that everything was fine, and that she and Ron and Harry were friends in the same way they ever were, and that no matter what happened, they would have a happy ending. And then the feeling would disappear, as Harry’s smile slipped and he looked - just for a moment - slightly guilty, because he’d been enjoying himself too much. Then the mood would sour, and Hermione’s stomach would clench.
It was that - the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach - that had made her call things off with Ron. It was unbearable, being with him and feeling like that all the time. They had got together, of course, as everyone seemed to have suspected they would, in the last weeks before the final battle. It had been a relationship born out of a kind of terrified passion, along with their mutual friendship, and they had clung to each other at a time when they had needed someone, but afterwards, things had been hard. She spent that first Christmas with him, because she knew it would be hard for Ron - and for the other Weasleys, whom she loved. Two people missing. The dinner table had been very quiet, and Hermione found Mrs Weasley’s quiet sobbing almost unbearable. But far worse was Ron’s set, silent face.
After that he had grown more and more distant, until in February they had both, in quiet voices, agreed that there was nothing left. For the next few months she busied herself with work, which was not difficult. She had missed so much of the last year of school that she had not sat her NEWTS, and so she studied for them privately and took them in March. Her outstanding grades got her an excellent job at the Ministry. Not auror work yet - and Hermione was unsure if she would want to be one, now - but a good starting job all the same. The twelve hour days left her little time to think about her private life, and for that she was glad.
However, now it was Christmas, and her department was closed until the New Year. Hermione had hoped she would be able to go in to the office anyway, but apparently it was being refitted. The obvious question was why didn’t she go home to her parents? She felt too guilty to tell them the real reason, which was that, having spent so many years at Hogwarts, and after everything that had happened, it was hard for her to relate any more to her parents’ lives, and the thought of having a happy family Christmas was just too much for her. So she made a quick visit home a few days before Christmas, leaving presents and excuses behind her. Then she had gone to St Petersburg.
The choice had some logic behind it. It was a long, long way from anyone she knew, and she had always wanted to see the city; all her grief hadn’t dulled her appetite for learning, and St Petersburg, filled with museums and monuments, had enough history even for her.
On Christmas Eve, bundled up against the cold, she had walked away from the sleek glass of the Hotel Corinthia Nevskij Palace, and along Nevskiy Prospect. The sky was the colour of slate, and snow fell in slow, steady flurries, settling on her hat and eyelashes. Blinking snow out of her eyes, she managed to walk into a tall man wearing a fur hat and a long coat.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, then corrected herself. “pros`tite.”
“Is no problem,” said the man, his voice muffled by the scarf that was drawn up to his nose, and Hermione was about to walk on when the man bent his head and said, in a wondering tone:
“Hermowninny?”
Hermione looked up as he pulled down his scarf, and felt her stomach lurch.
“Viktor?”
*
After the cold of the street, the coffee house was almost painfully warm. Hermione felt blood rush back into her fingers as she pulled off her gloves, and she flexed them whilst trying not to stare at her companion.
Viktor was, what, nearly twenty three now? thought Hermione. It was hard to believe it had been nearly four and a half years since she had last seen him. In the interim he had grown into himself a little better, now moving his tall frame with the confident grace that had come easily to him in the air but not on foot. His hair was shaggy, touching his collar, and looked a little wild, but Hermione thought it suited him. Viktor, taking off his coat, noticed her peeking at him.
“Vot is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, feeling her cheeks pinken. “Just - your hair. It’s longer.” Well, that was a foolish remark, she thought. Viktor seemed to think so too, because a small smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Iff that is all that is changing in, vot, nearly five years, we are doing well,” he observed, and then turned to a waitress and ordered them tea in what sounded like perfect Russian.
Over tea, Hermione did what she always did when she was nervous - talk. She spent a good twenty minutes telling Viktor about her job, the new Minister for Magic, and the state of the nation, and in asking him a rapid series of questions about the current Quidditch season. Viktor’s answers were polite but short, and at last even Hermione’s restless energy gave out, and she fell silent.
Then Viktor stretched his arm across the table and touched the back of her hand with his fingertips. The touch was very gentle, as was his tone as he said simply:
“You are looking tired, Hermowninny.”
Hermione looked back at Viktor, brittle smile in place, ready to make her customary excuses… And then she met his eyes, and without warning a sob bubbled to her throat. In a moment Viktor was by her side, helping her into her coat, throwing money down on the table, and then she was whisked into a taxi and back to her hotel. In the cab she found her shoulders shaking convulsively as she tried to repress her sobs. Her eyes were completely dry, but her chest heaved painfully. In a few moments they reached the hotel, and Viktor walked through the great glass lobby with a protective arm around her shoulder. In her room he opened the mini bar and turned on the kettle, offering her a choice of vodka or tea. Hermione chose the latter, and at last, fingers wrapped round the hot cup, she found the release of tears.
Through all of this Viktor had been near-silent, waiting for her to finish. At last Hermione’s tears dried up, and she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, saying ruefully:
“I’m so sorry, Viktor. This is the first time I have seen you in years, and I cause a scene!”
“You are not doing that,” he said softly. He took the cup from her and put it down on the table, and then caught her hands in his own. It was not a romantic gesture, but something beyond that; something very intimate and kind, as if he were lending her all his strength through the touch of his hands. Hermione clutched his fingers gratefully, surprised that she was not more embarrassed. Viktor had always had a way of setting her at ease, she remembered. Not when she was with other people, of course; back then she had been so self-conscious about being seen with a boy that she had barely been able to relax, even though she had been happy. She thought back to the Yule Ball and smiled a little. Viktor gave her a quizzical look.
“I was just thinking of another Christmas we shared,” she said. “The Yule Ball. It was such a lovely night.” Then she blushed, remembering that it was that night that Viktor had first kissed her, leaning over before they went into the Great Hall, his lips barely brushing her own.
“It vos a good night,” he said. “You were looking beautiful. You still do,” he added, letting go of one of her hands so he could smooth back a strand of her hair. “That blue dress. Vot did you call it? Pervinks?”
“Periwinkle,” she said, smiling back at him. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“I vill alvays remember that night,” he said, and his tone was so serious that Hermione’s breath caught for a moment. She sat up straighter in her chair and asked brightly:
“But why are you in St Petersburg, Viktor? It’s Christmas.”
“Not here,” he observed.
“Yes, because the Russian Orthodox Church follows the Julian calendar, but Bulgaria doesn’t, does it?” She looked at him intently. His expression had darkened. “Are you avoiding Christmas?”
“Let us just say I am being Russian for this year, yes?” he said, forcing a smile, and Hermione let the subject go. “Why are you coming here, Hermowninny?” he asked. “Perhaps you are avoiding yourself?”
“Oh, no,” she said briskly. “I just fancied a change of scene.” She imagined this was not very convincing, given her tears of only a few moments before, but she was determined not to let herself think about any more painful things, and so she led Viktor into a long conversation about St Petersburg and its sites of historic interest.
After a while, Viktor glanced at his watch.
“Is growing late, Hermowninny. Perhaps I should go?” he asked, standing up gracefully. Hermione felt a sudden sense of panic at the thought of staying alone in her hotel room, left with her thoughts.
“Would you… Would you stay? With me?” she asked hesitantly. Viktor looked surprised. “Not like - I mean, just keep me company,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush. “I… find it hard to sleep, sometimes, but I’m so tired.”
Wordlessly, Viktor bent and unbuckled her shoes, sliding them off her feet, and Hermione lay down on the great double bed. Viktor lay beside her, only a hand’s breadth away.
“Vhy is it hard to sleep, Hermione?” he said, clearly making a great effort to say her name correctly. Hermione was about to say something about stress, but instead found a truth slipping out that surprised her.
“I’m lonely.”
Viktor said nothing for a moment, just looked at her searchingly, and then asked:
“Vhy is that? Could you not be haffing Christmas vith your family, or friends?” No one else had asked the question quite so simply, and so she found herself replying honestly. She told him everything - or as much of everything as she felt she should. About Ron, and Harry, and all they had seen, and what they had lost, and that although neither of her best friends had died, she felt that somehow they were gone. Sometime during this long, painful telling, Viktor had moved her into his arms, and she finished the story with her voice muffled by his thick sweater, tears and mucus staining the wool.
At long last she was done, and she looked up at him, at his dark and understanding face, and she tightened her arms around him.
“I didn’t realise until now how much I have missed you,” she said, and his eyes took on such an intense look that Hermione felt her stomach contract. The weight of his arms around her was terribly comforting, and Hermione had a sudden, desperate desire to be comforted by more of him, to be consumed by his quiet warmth. She lifted her head and kissed him fiercely, with an intensity her fourth-year self had never been able to show.
“Hermyown,” he said thickly, pulling back. “Are you really vanting -”
“Please, Viktor,” she said, meeting his eyes, and then she kissed him, harder. This time he kissed her back.
*
The next morning Hermione awoke to find the other side of the bed empty. Her heart lurched painfully, but her fears were allayed as she sat up and found Viktor on the other side of the room making tea. Seeing she was awake, he brought a cup over.
“Merry Christmas, Hermowninny,” he said, smiling as he passed her the tea, and then he sat on the bed to put his shoes on before shrugging on his coat.
“Where are you going?” she asked, putting the cup down hastily. “I thought -”
Viktor smiled at her again, but this time the smile was sad.
“Hermow - Hermione,” he said, taking her hand. “Last night -”
“Was it not good?” Hermione flushed. “I’m not terribly experienced, but I thought you -”
“Vos good,” he said, stopping her before she had to say anything embarrassing. “Vos… lovely. You are lovely, which is problem.”
“Problem?” she wrinkled her brow. “It’s a problem that I’m lovely?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “This…” He sighed heavily. “I vos glad to be a friend to you last night, Hermione. And I was glad to… console, is that right word?”
“You did more than console,” she said quietly, not daring to meet his eyes. Viktor shook his head.
“All that… vos consolation. For you, anyvay. For me…” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I am vonting more, I find. I thought I had forgotten you, but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “It is seeming not. I cannot just be consolation to you, Hermione.”
“Oh,” she said softly, her face colouring, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself. She had just taken advantage of Viktor’s good nature, and his distance from her problems and the people they involved, so that she could unburden herself. She had barely asked him how he was, or how life had been for him after everything.
Viktor leaned over the bed and kissed her gently, and then stood up and walked to the door.
“Viktor -” she said hesitantly. He turned and looked back at her. “Why… Why aren’t you celebrating Christmas?”
“My father died,” he said quietly. “Goodbye, Hermione.”
The door opened and shut, and Hermione was left with the duvet pulled up to her neck, feeling overwhelmed with guilt.
*
Hermione spent a lot of time thinking during the rest of that holiday. There were so many things that she had left for too long, and so many things she had been afraid to deal with. Now she realised that if she did not face the past, she would not be able to leave it. The next few days were painful, but at the end of them, watching St Petersburg disappear through the aeroplane window, she felt as if at least part of the weight had been lifted.
She arrived back in London on New Year’s Day, and knew she had to see Ron and Harry. It didn’t take long to work out where they would be, because it was where they always went on special occasions.
The cemetery stood only a mile or so from The Burrow, and Hermione walked across the frosty grass, knowing who she would find on the hilltop. Both Harry and Ron had their backs to her, but as she approached Harry said:
“Hello, Hermione.”
She reached his side.
“How did you know it was me?”
He turned and smiled at her.
“Who else would it be?”
They touched hands briefly, and Hermione looked over at Ron. He mouthed a “hello” at her, his expression preoccupied. He glanced over at Harry, who nodded. Ron shifted from one foot to another.
“Hermione, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.”
“I’ve got something I need to talk to you about, too,” she said. “Both of you.” Harry and Ron exchanged worried glances. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I know… I know things have changed. For us. But -” She swallowed. “I miss you. I want us to be friends again. Maybe we can’t be friends in the way we were, but I think we can be good friends. I need you both, still. Ron,” she said, looking directly at him. “I know it’s weird, because of… Everything,” she said, feeling her neck flush, “but that doesn’t matter now. I just want you to be my friend. And I think I might be in love with Viktor Krum,” she added, and then clapped a hand over her mouth, startled. Even the past few days of solid introspection hadn’t made her realise that.
Ron blinked at her.
“Blimey,” he said, but instead of anger there was a strange look of relief on his face. “Right then.” And then, somehow, he and she and Harry were all hugging one another, and Hermione suspected that it wasn’t just she who was crying.
After a moment she drew back.
“S’pose we’d best go back to the house,” Ron said. “Mum’ll be wanting to make tea.” He smiled at Hermione, one of the first real smiles he’d given her in months. “D’you want to join us?”
“Not this time, I don’t think,” she said, smiling back at him. “But - soon.” She nodded, and found she really meant what she said.
“We’ll see you later then, yeah?” said Harry, and she nodded again. Harry put a fond hand on one of the headstones, looking at it for a moment longer, and then he and Ron turned to walk down the hill. The daylight was already fading, but Hermione could swear that Ron had his hand in Harry’s coat pocket.
Suddenly a lot of things - Harry’s guilt, Ron’s uneasy expression around her - made a lot more sense. Oh. For a moment she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, but as Harry and Ron disappeared into the gloom of a January twilight, she found it made some sense. They shared a common grief, after all. Hermione knew from recent experience that consolation came in many forms.
Smiling wistfully to herself, Hermione headed down the hill, a plan beginning to form in her mind.
*
It was January 7th, and the air in Sofia was bitterly cold. Hermione walked through the dark streets with her head bent, trying not to let her face get wind chapped, and trying to make sense of the confusing street names. At long last she found the right apartment block - or at least, she hoped it was, Cyrillic letters not yet her strong point - and identified the correct door. With her palms clammy and her throat tight, she pressed the buzzer.
For a while there was no answer, and Hermione was terribly afraid that maybe she had the wrong address, or worse, that he wasn’t at home, but at last the door opened.
Hermione had expected her heart to leap when she saw him, but she had not anticipated the great wave of feeling that swept over her as she saw Viktor, standing in a casual shirt and jeans with his feet bare. She tried to say something, but found that her voice had got trapped somewhere in the middle of her throat.
“Hermyown,” he said, clearly startled. “Vot - Vhy -”
Hermione delved into her bag and pulled out a brightly wrapped parcel.
“Happy Christmas!” she said, thrusting the present at him.
“But Christmas is over,” he said.
“Not, um, Russian Christmas,” she said. “I thought - Maybe we could try having another Christmas. A new Christmas. Without… so many memories.”
“Ve?” he said softly.
“We,” she agreed seriously. Viktor gave her a long, searching look, and then, clearly finding what he needed in her expression, he pulled her inside and shut the door.
Author: Rachel2205
For: drakelle
Request: fluff and romance ["Reminiscing" of their time in the 4th year] ["Post Book 7"] ["Bit of Angst"] ["Happy Ending"] [No Harry and Ron Bashing]
Rating: hm, mostly PG, with some more adult allusions.
Length: just under 3,500 words.
Author note: this might be rather more angsty and a little less fluffy than you had hoped! It seems that my V/Hr brain doesn’t work with pure fluff too well. There are allusions to character death here - not Viktor or Hermione, don’t worry (and not Ron or Harry either!), and also brief mention of a pairing that I don’t actually ship, but seemed to emerge out of the fic. Hope it’s ok with you!
People were wrong, Hermione reflected. It was the second Christmas that was the worst. Everyone had expected the first Christmas after everything to be difficult. Although it was the first holiday in a long time where anyone had truly been able to relax, free of the fear of Voldemort, last Christmas had been a reminder that there were too many familiar faces missing from dinner tables. Too many empty chairs. The Ministry had even run a special counselling service over that Christmas to anyone who had lost a loved one. But this Christmas was worse, because… it was ordinary. The strange mixture of elation and grief that had followed in the months following Voldemort’s final defeat had dissipated, and now things seemed to be as they were before. But they weren’t, not quite, and it was that gap that hurt. Remembering how things had once been for her, and seeing how they were almost the same… It was painful. Sometimes Harry would laugh, and she would have this wonderful feeling that everything was fine, and that she and Ron and Harry were friends in the same way they ever were, and that no matter what happened, they would have a happy ending. And then the feeling would disappear, as Harry’s smile slipped and he looked - just for a moment - slightly guilty, because he’d been enjoying himself too much. Then the mood would sour, and Hermione’s stomach would clench.
It was that - the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach - that had made her call things off with Ron. It was unbearable, being with him and feeling like that all the time. They had got together, of course, as everyone seemed to have suspected they would, in the last weeks before the final battle. It had been a relationship born out of a kind of terrified passion, along with their mutual friendship, and they had clung to each other at a time when they had needed someone, but afterwards, things had been hard. She spent that first Christmas with him, because she knew it would be hard for Ron - and for the other Weasleys, whom she loved. Two people missing. The dinner table had been very quiet, and Hermione found Mrs Weasley’s quiet sobbing almost unbearable. But far worse was Ron’s set, silent face.
After that he had grown more and more distant, until in February they had both, in quiet voices, agreed that there was nothing left. For the next few months she busied herself with work, which was not difficult. She had missed so much of the last year of school that she had not sat her NEWTS, and so she studied for them privately and took them in March. Her outstanding grades got her an excellent job at the Ministry. Not auror work yet - and Hermione was unsure if she would want to be one, now - but a good starting job all the same. The twelve hour days left her little time to think about her private life, and for that she was glad.
However, now it was Christmas, and her department was closed until the New Year. Hermione had hoped she would be able to go in to the office anyway, but apparently it was being refitted. The obvious question was why didn’t she go home to her parents? She felt too guilty to tell them the real reason, which was that, having spent so many years at Hogwarts, and after everything that had happened, it was hard for her to relate any more to her parents’ lives, and the thought of having a happy family Christmas was just too much for her. So she made a quick visit home a few days before Christmas, leaving presents and excuses behind her. Then she had gone to St Petersburg.
The choice had some logic behind it. It was a long, long way from anyone she knew, and she had always wanted to see the city; all her grief hadn’t dulled her appetite for learning, and St Petersburg, filled with museums and monuments, had enough history even for her.
On Christmas Eve, bundled up against the cold, she had walked away from the sleek glass of the Hotel Corinthia Nevskij Palace, and along Nevskiy Prospect. The sky was the colour of slate, and snow fell in slow, steady flurries, settling on her hat and eyelashes. Blinking snow out of her eyes, she managed to walk into a tall man wearing a fur hat and a long coat.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, then corrected herself. “pros`tite.”
“Is no problem,” said the man, his voice muffled by the scarf that was drawn up to his nose, and Hermione was about to walk on when the man bent his head and said, in a wondering tone:
“Hermowninny?”
Hermione looked up as he pulled down his scarf, and felt her stomach lurch.
“Viktor?”
*
After the cold of the street, the coffee house was almost painfully warm. Hermione felt blood rush back into her fingers as she pulled off her gloves, and she flexed them whilst trying not to stare at her companion.
Viktor was, what, nearly twenty three now? thought Hermione. It was hard to believe it had been nearly four and a half years since she had last seen him. In the interim he had grown into himself a little better, now moving his tall frame with the confident grace that had come easily to him in the air but not on foot. His hair was shaggy, touching his collar, and looked a little wild, but Hermione thought it suited him. Viktor, taking off his coat, noticed her peeking at him.
“Vot is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, feeling her cheeks pinken. “Just - your hair. It’s longer.” Well, that was a foolish remark, she thought. Viktor seemed to think so too, because a small smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Iff that is all that is changing in, vot, nearly five years, we are doing well,” he observed, and then turned to a waitress and ordered them tea in what sounded like perfect Russian.
Over tea, Hermione did what she always did when she was nervous - talk. She spent a good twenty minutes telling Viktor about her job, the new Minister for Magic, and the state of the nation, and in asking him a rapid series of questions about the current Quidditch season. Viktor’s answers were polite but short, and at last even Hermione’s restless energy gave out, and she fell silent.
Then Viktor stretched his arm across the table and touched the back of her hand with his fingertips. The touch was very gentle, as was his tone as he said simply:
“You are looking tired, Hermowninny.”
Hermione looked back at Viktor, brittle smile in place, ready to make her customary excuses… And then she met his eyes, and without warning a sob bubbled to her throat. In a moment Viktor was by her side, helping her into her coat, throwing money down on the table, and then she was whisked into a taxi and back to her hotel. In the cab she found her shoulders shaking convulsively as she tried to repress her sobs. Her eyes were completely dry, but her chest heaved painfully. In a few moments they reached the hotel, and Viktor walked through the great glass lobby with a protective arm around her shoulder. In her room he opened the mini bar and turned on the kettle, offering her a choice of vodka or tea. Hermione chose the latter, and at last, fingers wrapped round the hot cup, she found the release of tears.
Through all of this Viktor had been near-silent, waiting for her to finish. At last Hermione’s tears dried up, and she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, saying ruefully:
“I’m so sorry, Viktor. This is the first time I have seen you in years, and I cause a scene!”
“You are not doing that,” he said softly. He took the cup from her and put it down on the table, and then caught her hands in his own. It was not a romantic gesture, but something beyond that; something very intimate and kind, as if he were lending her all his strength through the touch of his hands. Hermione clutched his fingers gratefully, surprised that she was not more embarrassed. Viktor had always had a way of setting her at ease, she remembered. Not when she was with other people, of course; back then she had been so self-conscious about being seen with a boy that she had barely been able to relax, even though she had been happy. She thought back to the Yule Ball and smiled a little. Viktor gave her a quizzical look.
“I was just thinking of another Christmas we shared,” she said. “The Yule Ball. It was such a lovely night.” Then she blushed, remembering that it was that night that Viktor had first kissed her, leaning over before they went into the Great Hall, his lips barely brushing her own.
“It vos a good night,” he said. “You were looking beautiful. You still do,” he added, letting go of one of her hands so he could smooth back a strand of her hair. “That blue dress. Vot did you call it? Pervinks?”
“Periwinkle,” she said, smiling back at him. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“I vill alvays remember that night,” he said, and his tone was so serious that Hermione’s breath caught for a moment. She sat up straighter in her chair and asked brightly:
“But why are you in St Petersburg, Viktor? It’s Christmas.”
“Not here,” he observed.
“Yes, because the Russian Orthodox Church follows the Julian calendar, but Bulgaria doesn’t, does it?” She looked at him intently. His expression had darkened. “Are you avoiding Christmas?”
“Let us just say I am being Russian for this year, yes?” he said, forcing a smile, and Hermione let the subject go. “Why are you coming here, Hermowninny?” he asked. “Perhaps you are avoiding yourself?”
“Oh, no,” she said briskly. “I just fancied a change of scene.” She imagined this was not very convincing, given her tears of only a few moments before, but she was determined not to let herself think about any more painful things, and so she led Viktor into a long conversation about St Petersburg and its sites of historic interest.
After a while, Viktor glanced at his watch.
“Is growing late, Hermowninny. Perhaps I should go?” he asked, standing up gracefully. Hermione felt a sudden sense of panic at the thought of staying alone in her hotel room, left with her thoughts.
“Would you… Would you stay? With me?” she asked hesitantly. Viktor looked surprised. “Not like - I mean, just keep me company,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush. “I… find it hard to sleep, sometimes, but I’m so tired.”
Wordlessly, Viktor bent and unbuckled her shoes, sliding them off her feet, and Hermione lay down on the great double bed. Viktor lay beside her, only a hand’s breadth away.
“Vhy is it hard to sleep, Hermione?” he said, clearly making a great effort to say her name correctly. Hermione was about to say something about stress, but instead found a truth slipping out that surprised her.
“I’m lonely.”
Viktor said nothing for a moment, just looked at her searchingly, and then asked:
“Vhy is that? Could you not be haffing Christmas vith your family, or friends?” No one else had asked the question quite so simply, and so she found herself replying honestly. She told him everything - or as much of everything as she felt she should. About Ron, and Harry, and all they had seen, and what they had lost, and that although neither of her best friends had died, she felt that somehow they were gone. Sometime during this long, painful telling, Viktor had moved her into his arms, and she finished the story with her voice muffled by his thick sweater, tears and mucus staining the wool.
At long last she was done, and she looked up at him, at his dark and understanding face, and she tightened her arms around him.
“I didn’t realise until now how much I have missed you,” she said, and his eyes took on such an intense look that Hermione felt her stomach contract. The weight of his arms around her was terribly comforting, and Hermione had a sudden, desperate desire to be comforted by more of him, to be consumed by his quiet warmth. She lifted her head and kissed him fiercely, with an intensity her fourth-year self had never been able to show.
“Hermyown,” he said thickly, pulling back. “Are you really vanting -”
“Please, Viktor,” she said, meeting his eyes, and then she kissed him, harder. This time he kissed her back.
*
The next morning Hermione awoke to find the other side of the bed empty. Her heart lurched painfully, but her fears were allayed as she sat up and found Viktor on the other side of the room making tea. Seeing she was awake, he brought a cup over.
“Merry Christmas, Hermowninny,” he said, smiling as he passed her the tea, and then he sat on the bed to put his shoes on before shrugging on his coat.
“Where are you going?” she asked, putting the cup down hastily. “I thought -”
Viktor smiled at her again, but this time the smile was sad.
“Hermow - Hermione,” he said, taking her hand. “Last night -”
“Was it not good?” Hermione flushed. “I’m not terribly experienced, but I thought you -”
“Vos good,” he said, stopping her before she had to say anything embarrassing. “Vos… lovely. You are lovely, which is problem.”
“Problem?” she wrinkled her brow. “It’s a problem that I’m lovely?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “This…” He sighed heavily. “I vos glad to be a friend to you last night, Hermione. And I was glad to… console, is that right word?”
“You did more than console,” she said quietly, not daring to meet his eyes. Viktor shook his head.
“All that… vos consolation. For you, anyvay. For me…” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I am vonting more, I find. I thought I had forgotten you, but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “It is seeming not. I cannot just be consolation to you, Hermione.”
“Oh,” she said softly, her face colouring, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself. She had just taken advantage of Viktor’s good nature, and his distance from her problems and the people they involved, so that she could unburden herself. She had barely asked him how he was, or how life had been for him after everything.
Viktor leaned over the bed and kissed her gently, and then stood up and walked to the door.
“Viktor -” she said hesitantly. He turned and looked back at her. “Why… Why aren’t you celebrating Christmas?”
“My father died,” he said quietly. “Goodbye, Hermione.”
The door opened and shut, and Hermione was left with the duvet pulled up to her neck, feeling overwhelmed with guilt.
*
Hermione spent a lot of time thinking during the rest of that holiday. There were so many things that she had left for too long, and so many things she had been afraid to deal with. Now she realised that if she did not face the past, she would not be able to leave it. The next few days were painful, but at the end of them, watching St Petersburg disappear through the aeroplane window, she felt as if at least part of the weight had been lifted.
She arrived back in London on New Year’s Day, and knew she had to see Ron and Harry. It didn’t take long to work out where they would be, because it was where they always went on special occasions.
The cemetery stood only a mile or so from The Burrow, and Hermione walked across the frosty grass, knowing who she would find on the hilltop. Both Harry and Ron had their backs to her, but as she approached Harry said:
“Hello, Hermione.”
She reached his side.
“How did you know it was me?”
He turned and smiled at her.
“Who else would it be?”
They touched hands briefly, and Hermione looked over at Ron. He mouthed a “hello” at her, his expression preoccupied. He glanced over at Harry, who nodded. Ron shifted from one foot to another.
“Hermione, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.”
“I’ve got something I need to talk to you about, too,” she said. “Both of you.” Harry and Ron exchanged worried glances. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I know… I know things have changed. For us. But -” She swallowed. “I miss you. I want us to be friends again. Maybe we can’t be friends in the way we were, but I think we can be good friends. I need you both, still. Ron,” she said, looking directly at him. “I know it’s weird, because of… Everything,” she said, feeling her neck flush, “but that doesn’t matter now. I just want you to be my friend. And I think I might be in love with Viktor Krum,” she added, and then clapped a hand over her mouth, startled. Even the past few days of solid introspection hadn’t made her realise that.
Ron blinked at her.
“Blimey,” he said, but instead of anger there was a strange look of relief on his face. “Right then.” And then, somehow, he and she and Harry were all hugging one another, and Hermione suspected that it wasn’t just she who was crying.
After a moment she drew back.
“S’pose we’d best go back to the house,” Ron said. “Mum’ll be wanting to make tea.” He smiled at Hermione, one of the first real smiles he’d given her in months. “D’you want to join us?”
“Not this time, I don’t think,” she said, smiling back at him. “But - soon.” She nodded, and found she really meant what she said.
“We’ll see you later then, yeah?” said Harry, and she nodded again. Harry put a fond hand on one of the headstones, looking at it for a moment longer, and then he and Ron turned to walk down the hill. The daylight was already fading, but Hermione could swear that Ron had his hand in Harry’s coat pocket.
Suddenly a lot of things - Harry’s guilt, Ron’s uneasy expression around her - made a lot more sense. Oh. For a moment she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, but as Harry and Ron disappeared into the gloom of a January twilight, she found it made some sense. They shared a common grief, after all. Hermione knew from recent experience that consolation came in many forms.
Smiling wistfully to herself, Hermione headed down the hill, a plan beginning to form in her mind.
*
It was January 7th, and the air in Sofia was bitterly cold. Hermione walked through the dark streets with her head bent, trying not to let her face get wind chapped, and trying to make sense of the confusing street names. At long last she found the right apartment block - or at least, she hoped it was, Cyrillic letters not yet her strong point - and identified the correct door. With her palms clammy and her throat tight, she pressed the buzzer.
For a while there was no answer, and Hermione was terribly afraid that maybe she had the wrong address, or worse, that he wasn’t at home, but at last the door opened.
Hermione had expected her heart to leap when she saw him, but she had not anticipated the great wave of feeling that swept over her as she saw Viktor, standing in a casual shirt and jeans with his feet bare. She tried to say something, but found that her voice had got trapped somewhere in the middle of her throat.
“Hermyown,” he said, clearly startled. “Vot - Vhy -”
Hermione delved into her bag and pulled out a brightly wrapped parcel.
“Happy Christmas!” she said, thrusting the present at him.
“But Christmas is over,” he said.
“Not, um, Russian Christmas,” she said. “I thought - Maybe we could try having another Christmas. A new Christmas. Without… so many memories.”
“Ve?” he said softly.
“We,” she agreed seriously. Viktor gave her a long, searching look, and then, clearly finding what he needed in her expression, he pulled her inside and shut the door.