A Visit To Bulgaria

Chapter 7: In Which Viktor Confides In His Diary

Like any day of the time she had been there, the sun rose over the mountains, the mists burned off by late morning, and the crimson curtains of her four-poster bed was the first thing that greeted her eyes. Yet today, when her dreams floated away from her and left her awake, she bolted upright and put one hand to her forehead. Was it really this day already?

Bear up, Hermione. It's only a dance.

Right. So if it were only a dance, why was she getting these stupid butterflies in her stomach flittering around like they were on some sort of illegal club drug? She moved her hand down to her stomach and really could not believe that she was getting queasy about this so quickly. With her other hand she slid open the crimson curtains of her bed. Bold rays of sunlight assaulted her from head to toe. It was pale white sunlight, the kind that casts a spell over everything it touches. She felt alert, alarmingly awake, which was unusual for her in the mornings. From the color of the sunlight it looked to be rather early. Hermione knew very well that she was going to be staying up rather past her usual hours this night, so she was very tempted to fall right back into sleep's crimson-clothed arms. Yet as she moved to lie down again, she heard voices in the hall.

"What do you mean, you did not tell her?" Anastasia. There was no mistaking that high-pitched voice. Strange that such a voice was hellish in Pansy Parkinson but pleasantly lyrical for Anastasia.

"I did not vont her to vorry about it."

"What does she 'ave to worry about?"

"She might not vont to go vith me."

"Mon Dieu, but you are stupid! Of course she would love to go."

"Fine, fine. Do votever you haff to do. Tell her."

Hermione heard footsteps sweeping down the hallway, a very masculine, determined sort of step. As she had expected, she soon heard a gentle rapping on her door.

"Come in, Anastasia."

" 'ow did you know eet was me?" She looked rather puzzled as she closed the door behind her.

"Oh, I heard. You were planning on telling me something?"

Anastasia took a seat near Hermione's bed and sighed dramatically. "Viktor did not tell you about all of ze evening's festivities."

"There's more than the Ball?"

A rather wicked smile crossed her face. "Ze Ball ees only ze beginning, 'ermione. What I mean ees zat zere are ze Revels afterwards."

"The Revels?"

"What do you call eet in Britain...ze "after-party" I believe?"

"Oh. I see. And Viktor wishes for me to accompany him?"

"Oui, but he was such a fool zat he did not tell you. We must start preparing immediately." Anastasia took Hermione's hand and proceeded to drag her out of bed."

"Wait, wait, wait." Hermione held her ground and refused to budge. "Prepare? For what? I've already got robes. And when do these Revels start?"

She rolled her eyes as if she couldn't quite believe just how dim-witted Hermione was. "Well, you cannot wear your robes to ze Revels. You 'ave to wear ze Muggle clothing."

"I have Muggle clothes! I grew up as a Muggle!"

Anastasia patted Hermione's head and gave her a patronizing smile. "Trust me, 'ermione, you do not 'ave ze right ones. Now come avec moi, and we shall get you some proper clothes."

Hermione gritted her teeth and supposed that there was nothing to do but follow Anastasia.

*~*~*~*

For the first time in a very long while, Viktor woke late and savored the morning light. He didn't usually like to relax in the mornings - his days started at dawn or earlier. It was a remnant of Karkaroff's old policies, which had been more than a bit militaristic. But now, he figured that in his postgraduate studies, relaxing in the summer session, finally with a room of his own, he could perhaps let himself enjoy life's little pleasures such as this one. After the small interruption of Stasi wanting to know about the Revels, he had cleared his mind and tried to let his tensions slip again.

It was in those rare times of relaxation that his mind began to muse, and he felt the need to write these musings down. He reached for a slim book under his bed, with a quill tucked into the lock. Tapping the lock with his wand, he took out the quill, opened the book, flipped to the first blank page, and let his thoughts flow away from his quill onto the parchment.

Journal-

I dreamt again last night. Technically, I know that people have to dream every night for their brains to be working. Something about cycles of sleep. But for me, there were many years when, if I dreamed, I never remembered a single moment of them, good or otherwise. And now that I can remember, now that I sometimes can even sense myself when I'm dreaming - now that is an amazing experience.

Yet, like all people, my dreams slip quickly from me. So, before I forget them, before they fade, I try to write them down, somewhere, even if I lose the parchment. Just to make a memory of it, just to say that I dreamed, because for me I think that's a huge accomplishment.

Last night, soon after I closed my eyes, the music of a harp woke me to my dream. It was a beautiful harp, silver, playing such a beautiful melody as I have never heard before. I have never been much of a devotee of music but once I heard this music I felt as if my soul were being carried away. I cannot really express through this feeble quill and these feeble words the emotion I felt.

This harp music carried my consciousness to a field, in my dream. The sky above me was blue, but a dream sort of blue, not too harsh and yet not the mild blue that is so susceptible to clouds. The grasses were tall, but not too tall that I could not spot the wildflowers among them. The field stretched around me seemingly for forever, only broken in the distance by the muted crashing of a waterfall. That harp kept playing the same melody, the kind of music that, as I have said, is indescribable, and for some odd reason breaks your heart, though you have no sorrow.

And I was alone, for a few minutes, left to soak up the beauty of this, and wonder why I had been given such an amazing dream. It was actually more like a vision than a dream, the sorts of things that those Seers I've read about had. I lay down in the grasses and the sun neither burnt me nor let the breezes chill me. It simply warmed me.

However, soon I heard the sound of laughter - not the soft giggle that some people have, but full, unabashed laughter, the kind of laughter that truly vibrant people have. Through the ground, I could sense approaching footsteps, so I sat up and gazed about, and there she was, running towards me. But there was no danger; she was running from happiness, not from fear. Her hair was curled slightly, just enough to give it waves that the breezes caressed. But what I noticed first was that she was so unashamedly happy.

She reached me and flopped down in the grasses next to me, still laughing, and then she quieted. We began to speak, and to tell the truth I have little memory of what was said, only that we talked of delightful things, and no mention of anything worrisome entered my mind or hers. Unlike many dreams, where the landscape shifts for no particular reason, the field stayed the same, the same little winds always crossing it, the clouds drifting across the perfect aquamarine sky.

I remember telling her some joke that made her laugh the same way she had when she had been running towards me, and then she jumped up and I sensed that she wanted me to come run with her, to come chase her and let her chase me, through the fields. So I rose, and ran after her, and that laughter that came so effortlessly from her began to come from me too. I never tired, but always ran with her, until eventually I caught up with her and pulled on her dress and we both tumbled into the grasses, her hair a messy wavy halo around her head.

She was wearing the oddest dress, and I think of all the details of the dream that was what I remembered most. It was almost Grecian in style, and seemed to be made of flowers, with a skirt that coursed out behind her when she ran. It was an entirely enchanting dream, and I think when I woke up I desired no more than to return to it, and to her.

But enough of the dream. I can't live in my dreams. Like I said, they fade quicker than ink does when wetted. Outside my door earlier in the morning I heard Stasi taking Hermione over to the sixth years' tower to prepare for something. I suppose it was for the Revels. I know that I really should have told her about it, rather than let Stasi do it, but Stasi knows what to do in these sorts of situations. I hate to admit it, but she's my fashion advisor, on events that she deems fashion necessary for me. Of course, I couldn't care less whether my robes are from the best Italian designers or hand-me-downs from my father. But according to Stasi, things like this do matter. I think that Hermione and I have a similar view on fashion. I suppose it will be amusing to see what Stasi picks out for her for tonight.

Speaking of tonight, I confess that I can't wait to see what her dress robes look like. I've already seen Stasi's - they're made by some French couturier, LaReine Witch Wear or something equally ridiculous. Of course she has to set the latest trends, so she had hers custom-made on her last trip to Paris. They're very Stasi, a deep violet color accented with gold. I'm sure Alexei will be pleased.

However, I did tell Hermione that I would be mature and grown-up about the whole Stasi and Alexei issue, and so I won't vent about it here too much. I think I've got enough to be worried about anyway. I always get nervous about these stupid balls and dances and receptions because I feel like they're all the same. I have to go because of who I am, and I have to attempt to socialize with boring, pretentious people who think that because they have money it makes them better than everybody in the world. It's so unreal because I know they only like me for two reasons: the Quidditch and my money. I'm sure that they think I'm a very gruff and dull person. Most people think that. But just because I can do a damn Wronski Feint I'm their hero. Sometimes I wish Josef Wronski had just been born a Squib.

I don't think I've ever told anybody this, but I'm sick of Wronksi Feints. The coaches expect me to do them every game because they're so spectacular and the crowds really like to see them. Personally, I don't give a damn what the crowd really wants to see. I know this sounds selfish, but I play Quidditch for myself, not for other people. It was the one thing that was entirely my own, until people discovered I was good at it.

I hear a knock. Sounds like Alexei's. More later.

*~*~*~*

"Viktor? Wake up! It's nine in the morning!" Alexei Poliakoff rapped impatiently on his friend's door. Usually Viktor was up and looking moody and the breakfast table by six in the morning. It was something that they were all used to, except for Stasi. Thinking of her, he smiled wistfully. He was looking forward to the coming night's festivities. Unlike most of the students he knew, Stasi had never been subject to Karkaroff's regime and as a result, had a lighter, happier personality, and never seemed to be weighed down as Viktor did.

He knocked again. "Are you in there?"

The door opened and his friend looked down at him, still disheveled from sleep and with a rather dreamy look on his face. "Vot is it, Alexei?"

Poliakoff raised an eyebrow and peered around Viktor into his room. "How late were you up last night?"

Viktor stood aside to let Poliakoff into the room. "I vos not up late at all."

Poliakoff smirked. "Oh really? Then why did you sleep in four hours past your usual time and answer the door looking like someone's just invented the perfect broomstick? Don't think I can't guess what you were doing last night."

Viktor laughed, and Poliakoff stared at him. This is just getting odder and odder. First he wakes up late, then he actually laughs...I haven't heard him laugh in years. "No, no, Alexei, it's not vot you think. I vood not do that."

"Then why are you so happy?"

"I just had the most amazing dream."

"You remembered your dreams?"

"Isn't it great? I haff not remembered a dream in five years!"

"So what was this dream about?"

"Vell, here. I wrote all about it the instant I voke up." Viktor picked up his journal, flipped it open to the right page, and handed it to Poliakoff.

Poliakoff took it with a little trepidation. "You have a diary?"

"Oh, just read it." As Poliakoff did, shaking his head a little in disbelief, Viktor crossed to his closet to pick out some clothes for the day. To his surprise, on an impulse he skipped his usual black robes and went to the section of his closet where he kept clothes that Anastasia had thought sufficiently fashionable.

Poliakoff, always a lightning-fast reader, soon finished the dream entry and shut the book. "You're making it up."

"I am not!"

"This is unbelievable. You're becoming a mushy romantic. And now you're actually wearing clothes that look halfway decent. Has Hell frozen over?"

"A mushy romantic? Not as much as you," Viktor retorted as he took out his Quidditch clothes. "And I'm only vearing my Quidditch uniform. I intend to practice today. Hopefully, since it's unplanned, those girls vill not show up."

Poliakoff just rolled his eyes and made for the door. "You're insane. But get dressed quickly. We need to go to Zagorlo to get clothes for tonight."

"I've already got dress robes. Nice try."

"Haven't you heard? None of the guys are wearing real robes this year. The ninth years are all dressing up as wizards from five hundred years ago."

"I don't dress up. This is ridiculous."

"You are dressing up, even if I have to drag you to Zagorlo. And you're forgetting the Revels."

"Oh, damn it. The Revels."

Poliakoff only laughed. "Get dressed quickly. You'd better be glad you've got a charge account at nearly every store in that town."

Viktor smirked. "They're not my charge accounts, they're Stasi's. Now get out."

With a chuckle, Poliakoff went, closing the door behind him.

*~*~*~*

Journal-

When I got back from Zagorlo, I saw this note slipped under my door:

Your sister practically abducted me this morning because she thought that I didn't have proper clothes for the Revels. I hope you're pleased, because I spent two hours with her trying on everything from formal ball gowns to dresses that couldn't have had an area of more than a square foot. She's says that you'll be very pleased with the results, and I daresay that you had better.

Well, it was a very Stasi thing to do, and compared to what I went through in Zagorlo it couldn't have been that bad. Alexei and I spent nearly four hours finding ourselves clothes that he thought would be appropriate, and coincidentally clothes that I look very, very stupid in. First we went to Gladrags Wizardwear, but the clerk told us that they were completely sold out of Renaissance period mens' wear, even when Alexei got up in his face and snapped, "Do you know who we are?" Even being who I am, the shop was totally void of what we needed.

Next, Alexei and I tried Vladimir's Costuming. Again, no luck, no matter who we were or how much money we had. After repeating this experience about five times, Alexei sat down on a bench off the main street and looked pensive for a few minutes. Eventually he got up and said, "Well, that settles it, then."

"You mean I'll get to wear clothes that don't make me look like an idiot?"

"No. We'll just have to go to Constantine's tailor shop."

So off to Constantine's tailor shop we went. It turned out to be a tiny hole-in-the-wall place, much like that pub in London that Hermione told me about as being the entrance to Diagon Alley. Constantine himself was ancient, wizened like Hogwarts' Charms professor. He took our measurements and then asked us what sort of clothes we wanted. Alexei did all the talking for me.

"We need two Renaissance costumes by five o'clock this afternoon."

"Ah. For the Midsummer Ball, I presume?"

"Correct. And money is not an issue. Charge mine to the Poliakoff account, and my friend's to the Krum account."

"As you wish. Would you like them to be sent to Durmstrang?"

"The ninth years' tower, please. Thank you."

Alexei left, and I followed him, a little dumbstruck. "You didn't even tell him what colors, or fabrics, or even what to make!"

"Trust me. Constantine and I are good friends. He can do a very good job in a pinch. I'm sure you'll be happy with the results."

"I'll look like a moron."

"Fine. But Hermione will be happy with the results."

At this I quieted, as I knew he'd expected me to. Perhaps I shouldn't have let him read about my dream. But done is done, and I think he had a rather good idea of my feelings before anyway. Alexei's a good judge of emotions - sometimes too good.

It's almost five o'clock now. I have no idea what Hermione's been doing today, but I can only hope that Stasi hasn't been subjecting her to any odd French beauty spells or charms. I don't think I'd like it if she showed up for the Ball looking like the "Fan Club" as she puts it. In my opinion, makeup and other such things are totally unnecessary. People are always so much more beautiful without it.

I confess that although I'm very excited, I'm also nervous. I don't know what's going to happen. I can only hope that it goes as smoothly as the Yule Ball of nearly two years ago. However, this time there will be the Revels, and who knows what Alexei has got planned. Of course, even if you try to plan the Revels, they always tend to take on a life of their own. I've never really liked them much. Last year I went because Alexei dragged me, and I didn't have much fun. I didn't take anybody along, because the only semi-sane girl in Durmstrang is Stasi and she's my sister. I just sort of sat on one of the logs by the bonfire and...well, looked grumpy, I guess. Hopefully this year I'll enjoy myself more.

There's a large delivery owl thumping at my window. Looks like he has a large package. Here goes nothing.