The Prophecy

CHAPTER THREE

It didn't matter to Viktor that it took almost twice as long to get back to Durmstrang as it had to leave it in the first place. He was looking forward to seeing his parents again, but school was the last thing on his mind.

Viktor felt like someone had taken away his ability to fly. Right now, sitting alone on his bed, he was certain that could willingly give up flying for her. He would give anything if it meant that he would be able to spend more time with her.

Time. It's such a treasure, he thought. All you need is time, and love.

He had thought that the best feeling in the world was when he was on his broom, soaring high and feeling free and reckless. He had been wrong. To be in love, to be loved, to love someone, was the greatest thing that he had ever experienced. He felt a hard lump form in his throat, and he laughed at himself bitterly.

He had been all smiles and reassurances when he was saying his goodbyes. He had been too comfortable in his knowledge of Dumbledore's offer; he hadn't considered the reality that he would be separated from Hermione for weeks, possibly even months. He understood now the futility of telling her not to cry. His eyes filled with moisture, which he wiped away with shaking hands. She had made him soft.

The irony was atrocious. Here he was, the image of toughness and strength, reduced to tears by a fifteen-year-old girl. No one would ever believe it.

All of the newspaper articles written about him over the years had been portraying him as someone that he wasn't. It was sad in a way, that no one really knew him. No one had wanted to know the real Viktor. Until her. Hermione was the only person that had really taken the time to get to know him. He missed her so much already that it almost physically hurt. But he knew that he had to focus on what was ahead. The future.

Viktor knew that if he set his mind to something, it was almost impossible not to achieve it. He had strived so hard in to be the best in Quidditch, in school, in life. He wanted to accomplish the impossible.

This was just another goal. Only this time, he would be working towards something that defined him much more deeply than his profession. This wasn't a sport; it was his life. He needed to clear his mind and focus once again.

The abrupt stop of the ship almost caused him to fall off of his bed. They were home.

He wondered if there were any changes already being made, now that it had been made known that Karkaroff was not returning with them. He was hoping for a much nicer Headmaster. On that criteria alone, anyone would do. There couldn't be anyone more loathsome than he had been, Viktor thought to himself as he grabbed his trunk. He proceeded off the ship with his fellow students.

Home.

Cold, dark, snowy skies.

He thought of Hermione. He hoped that she was staring at the same sky tonight.

***

"Viktor, I have made something to eat. Please come inside," his mother pleaded.

He had been sitting in the garden all day, by the cherry tree. This had become typical of his days at home. When he wasn't in the garden, he was on his broom, flying around God knows where. Since returning from Durmstrang, he had become silent and withdrawn. He spent most of his time outside, either flying or staring into the sky. He rarely ate anything, even his favourite meals. He hadn't volunteered much information about his experiences at Hogwarts, but his mother knew more than she had let on.

She tried to engage him in conversation, but all she got in response for her efforts was, "Yes mother," "No, mother," and "Thank you, mother." She worried about him, and about what had really happened during the year that he was away. She knew about the Tournament, and about Karkaroff, and even a bit little about Hermione that she had gleaned from various sources.

She knew her son very well. Just by looking into his eyes, she was able to sense his pain, his sorrows. It wasn't the same gift that her grandmother possessed. It had nothing to do with magic; it was a mother's intuition. She felt for him. He wasn't five anymore, when she could have taken him in her arms and hugged him and assured him that everything would be better. He was a man now. She watched him slouch slowly towards the house, and she sighed.

She wondered, not for the first time, if it had been a good idea for Ada to tell him about the prophecy and his fortune. At the time, it seemed that he was mature enough to handle it and draw his own conclusions. But now he looked so pale and sickly, a shadow of his former self, and she knew without a doubt that it had something to do with her grandmother's words.

He was in Bulgaria, but his mind and his heart were somewhere else. That much she could tell.

His heart was with Hermione.