Never Too Late

"Well, would you look at that?" Simon wondered out loud.

"I can't look at that, because my son is hogging my Daily Prophet," Hermione pointed out, settling in across the table in the breakfast nook with her cup of tea. "What's so fascinating that I should take a look at it?"

The paper came down, and a scruffy redhead, with a light sprinkling of freckles across the pale skin, popped over the edge. They were clustered particularly around the bridge of the long nose, and as always, Hermione felt a slight pang of bittersweet memory when she realized how much he looked like Ron. "Guess who is going to be at the convention center at the same time you are?"

"I don't know. Marvin the Mad Muggle," Hermione said with a sigh. "Isn't that the only type that would be caught dead within a mile of a professional Arithmancy conference if they didn't have to be?"

"Mum," Simon said in a warning tone. "Be serious. I'll give you a hint. It's a summit on International Wizarding Relations."

"I haven't the foggiest," Hermione insisted.

"Viktor Krum," Simon said. "He's the delegate for Bulgaria. You and Dad used to know him, didn't you? And Uncle Harry? You should look him up."

"Well, of course we did. You know your history. But I haven't seen him since... good grief... must be well over twenty years, now. His wife was expecting their first, then. He probably wouldn't know me from Merlin by now if I did say something to him," Hermione said dismissively.

"Well, what if I want an autograph?" Simon said with a grin. "Oh, come on, I'm only joshing. Seriously, though, you should say something to him if you see him. You're always complaining about how you've lost touch with a lot of the people you used to know. Well, here's a chance to say hello to one of them. And if you happened to get an autograph, I could take it off your hands."

"Your father will never be gone while you walk this earth," Hermione said pointedly. "You are every bit as infuriatingly single-minded."

"Thank you," Simon said tartly. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now, I've got to go to work. You can have your old newspaper back. I'll be back in the morning to see you off. Still planning on taking the new ferry, then the Floo?"

"Yes, I am. Even if it does sound nauseating. The ferry being described as the aquatic equivalent of the Knight Bus does not exactly calm my fears," Hermione sighed, picking up the discarded Prophet. "Or my stomach."

"Thanks for the tea. I'll be sure to come by and water the plants while you're gone," Simon said, ducking to give her a quick peck on the cheek before dashing for the door to the flat.

"You do that," Hermione murmured, studying the front page for a moment before thumbing through it, searching for the article. Sure enough, there it was. In black and white. The summit was to be held in Russia, same week and same convention center as the one she was planning to attend. Skimming through the list of delegates, she let her eyes linger on the line with his name. They hadn't spoken in ages. There had been a few scattered letters over the years after the war, usually with pictures of the children. A touchingly written sympathy card that she had received the day of the funeral. But distance and being busy with their own lives had won out, eventually. They each had their own families to see to. Children to raise. In her case, alone.

Hermione had followed his career in the papers, of course. She felt he deserved every ounce of the success he had. She had even gone along with Harry to his last game at the Bulgarian National Stadium. Hermione had been well pleased that he looked content, flanked by his wife and children at midfield after the match. He had seemed a bit quicker to smile than she remembered, but still uncomfortable with too much attention. Viktor had simply nodded his acknowledgement and walked off the pitch without so much as a backward glance, much as he had done in the first match she had watched. Less battered and certainly cleaner, but apparently no more eager to stick around for the applause. Last she had read, he had accepted a position with the Commission of Magical Games and Sports in Bulgaria. Even that must have been over a decade ago.

There had been no chance at all to speak with him, then. And if there had been, what would she have said? What would I say now, for that matter? How have you been for the last few decades? He probably wouldn't even want to talk to me. And even if he did, the chances of me finding him in that crowd are probably around nil. "Face it, Hermione. Don't hold your breath about getting to speak to Viktor. And what would we talk about, anyway? How many years we haven't talked to one another?" she said out loud, laying the paper aside to concentrate on her tea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You be sure and promise me you'll talk to him if you see him," Simon said, giving his mother a hug, then straightening back up. He tucked his gloved hands beneath his arms in the face of the cold wind off the water.

"Why are you so hell-bent on my talking to someone you've never even met?" Hermione asked, exasperated.

"Look, it took me, Aunt Ginny, Uncle Harry, Gran, Granddad and a partridge in a pear tree to even convince you that getting out and going to this conference would be a good thing for you. And you're always complaining about how you hardly ever see anyone you knew from Hogwarts any more. And you kept complaining about how you wish you had tried to talk to him when you and Uncle Harry went to see his last game. So... talk to him now. Don't go hole up in your hotel room and not say boo to anyone all week. Here's someone you conveniently know, right there at the same hotel. Talk to him. Besides, Uncle Harry is dying to know what he's up to," Simon admitted. "He flipped when I told him you two would be in the same convention center."

"Oh, I see! Harry's putting you up to this, hmm? Well, you tell your Uncle Harry he can do his own nosing instead of sending me to do his dirty work. Does your Uncle Harry want an autograph?" Hermione said, crossing her arms.

"Not that I know of, but I still do," Simon said with a lopsided grin.

"You're hopeless. I'll call when I get there," Hermione said, turning on the dock to face the ferry.

"Travel safe, Mum. And have a good time. Try not to be all work and no play. You are capable of it, you know. And keep warm."

"You're starting to sound like me. Or your Gran," Hermione observed.

"Well, she did knit you that scarf," Simon pointed out, tugging at the end.

"I need to get on the ferry," Hermione said, watching the boarding attendant, who was checking his watch.

"So, get on. I'll take care of your plants."

"That's exactly what worries me. Ginny could-"

"... could kill your plants just as dead as I can," Simon finished for her. "Get on the boat, Mum."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione dropped her bag just inside the door to her hotel room, pausing to look it over. She peeled off the thick cloak and the scarf, draping them on the hook beside the door before ruffling her hair with her fingers. The first session of the conference wasn't set to start for another thirty minutes, but she had yet to find the rooms where the sessions would be held. Hermione ducked into the small bath, after retrieving a brush from the overnight bag, and she hurriedly ran it through her hair. She smiled at herself in the mirror a bit ruefully when her brushing resulted in her hair looking, if possible, even bushier and more untidy. At least when it had been longer, it had straightened slightly under its own weight. When she trimmed it at shoulder length, it seemed compelled to stick up, unfettered, in all directions at once.

Half-heartedly, Hermione tidied a few strands with her fingers, brushing some of them behind her ears. She took a step back and surveyed her clothing. A shade rumpled from the traveling, but they would have to do, as she didn't have time to pull anything else from the bag.

After a short internal debate, she dashed back to the door, retrieved her handbag and pulled out a little used tube of lipstick. After a rushed blotting job with a tissue, she tucked it away again. Silly. Who do I think I'm fixing myself up for? Now I just look rumpled and painted. Simon's got me acting like I'm going to bump into him in the stairwell first thing or something. Silly boy. The chances are slim to none. This center is a few miles long at least. I could hunt for him all week and never bump into him. And why do I keep thinking about bumping into him, anyway? You would think I was fourteen again. And I haven't been fourteen in a very long time. Too long.

"Too long. He probably wouldn't even recognize me. I doubt I would recognize him, either. Simon, your mother is about as likely to talk to Viktor Krum at this conference as Hagrid is to take up breeding fluffy bunnies. Your mother also definitely needs to get out more. She's gone to talking to herself in the mirror and addressing people who aren't there," Hermione added with a sigh. "She also needs to find the room for the first session and lose about ten or fifteen pounds," she said, bending over and rummaging through her handbag for the map of the center that she had received at check-in. After a few moments, she came up with it, studied it for a space, and then tucked it away in her pocket while she pulled out a small pad of parchment and a quill, for taking notes. She took one last rueful look at her thick-soled, scuffed, practical shoes before tugging down on the lumpy brown sweater she wore over her long, matching skirt. She wished there had been time to change, but she shrugged it off and dashed out the door instead, intent on not being late for the first session of the conference.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione stepped out of the room and flattened herself against the wall beside the door, trying to stay out of the stream of people while she tucked her pad and quill back into her bag. Already there had been so many useful things and ideas she wanted to jot down that she felt as though her head were swirling. She stood for a moment, content to watch the crowd filter by and think before making her way back to the room. I'll just order room service, something small. Perhaps a sandwich. No need to go out anywhere... It only nagged at her slightly that Simon would be disappointed to hear she had been nowhere but her hotel room and the conference room on the first day.

The racket in the hall was unbelievable, and it reminded Hermione of the United Nations. Everywhere there was a veritable Babel of different languages, evidence of the wide and varied number of conferences that were scheduled in the center. Over on a bench in the middle of the hall, a couple of witch doctors wearing elaborate headgear chatted away as though they were waiting for the number five bus. Across the way, two French women who had been in the row in front of her during the session made small talk, the occasional word drifting through the thinning crowd. Almost directly across from her, in a side hall, the animated conversation of two dark headed men standing outside a door of their own drifted to her, clearer and clearer as the crowd drifted off to lunch.

Slavic, obviously, judging from the occasional word that reached her ears unimpeded by the other conversations. Russian, maybe. Locals, probably... Hermione thought as the conversation became more and more lively, gathering up her bag and settling it on her shoulder. She was just about to set off back to her room when two words reached her ears, crystal clear and unmistakable. Hogwarts. And Durmstrang. Hermione came up short. I can't have heard what I just heard, she thought. Then it came again. Hogwarts and Durmstrang.

Hermione looked off into the short hall, debating. Apparently, the two men were doing the same, with raised voices and hand gestures to match. It looked friendly enough, but there was definitely some disagreement going on. Hermione drifted over to the hallway entrance, peering down it as though she were interested in the room numbers on the sign above their heads. They paid her no mind at all, so she took the opportunity to study them. The first was of an average height, clutching a half-empty mug of coffee that looked to be in imminent danger of spilling over when he gestured at the taller man.

The second felt oddly familiar just from the little sidelong glances she had been giving him, and it only took a split second for her to recognize him when she boldly and openly looked him over. Especially when he reached up with a long index finger and absently pushed a pair of wire rimmed spectacles farther up the bridge of his prominent nose, settling them above the obvious crook there. Even with the addition of the glasses and a few years since the last time she had seen him, there was simply no mistaking that profile. Hermione crept a bit closer, making no secret of the fact that she was studying him now. He looked little different from the last time she had seen him, save the glasses. The cheekbones were still high and a bit sharp, hair still black, figure still on the thin and angular side, though a far cry from the very thin boy that had gone swimming in the lake in January at Hogwarts. No, no mistaking it. That was Viktor. "Viktor Krum," she found herself blurting aloud, barely audible over the constant stream of patter and the sloshing of the coffee. Viktor held up a finger in her direction, without turning to look at her, acknowledging that he had heard. Obviously flustered, the other man wound up his small tirade with a derisive snort. "Hagrid's going to have to start breeding fluffy bunnies," she murmured half to herself.

The thick eyebrows lowered in a puzzled expression, as though he couldn't possibly have heard correctly, before he snapped his head around to look at her. "I beg your par... Hermione!?"

"Well, I suppose I lost a bet with Simon. I said you wouldn't know me from Merlin if we did manage to run into one another," Hermione said mildly.

"Sim... Of course. Your son. What are you doing here? I'm stuck at this thing, obviously," Viktor said, recovering himself and jerking a thumb at the placard on the easel next to the door. "Besides, I might have glasses now, but I'm hardly blind or senile, yet. I'd know you anywhere. Even with a haircut. Which looks very nice, by the way."

"I'm across the hall, there. Arithmancy conference. Cutting it was a mistake. Gave it license to stick up everywhere," Hermione lamented, running her fingers through it.

"Still haven't learned how to accept a compliment," Viktor replied with a shake of his head. "The proper response is, 'Why, yes, it is fabulous, isn't it? Thank you for noticing.' Or some such."

"No point in lying," Hermione protested.

"Off to another session, somewhere, or lunch?" Viktor asked.

"Oh.... lunch. I was just going back to the room to order a sandwich from room service-"

"Nonsense! Let me take you to lunch, somewhere. I don't have to be back until half past one. When are you due back?" Viktor asked, pulling a small pocket watch out and peering at it.

"Same time," Hermione said. "But I can't let you-"

"I can't let you go back to your room and eat a sandwich, either. Come on, you've got a lot of news to catch me up on, I'm sure," Viktor said.

"They were bringing lunch here..." the other man interjected weakly.

"You eat mine, then, Evtimov. I hardly think they'll miss me. Can't argue with their mouths full. And if I don't get out of there at least a little while, I'll strangle one or two of them," Viktor said lightly, gesturing at the open door and the group milling around inside. "I suppose we had better eat in the center, somewhere. No time to go anywhere else."

"There was a cafe between this section and the hotel, wasn't there?" Hermione suggested, pointing and edging toward the walkway between the two sections. "So, I take it from what you said that this is going about as well as these things ever go?"

"Two steps back for every three steps forward," Viktor admitted. "You get one person to agree with the first person, and by then, the first person has reversed positions, and you have to start all over again. You bicker for an hour and realize you've forgotten what you were bickering about in the first place. And maybe, just maybe, at the end of the day, you've managed to get one thing down on paper that everyone agrees on. In other words, much better than usual," he added, falling into step beside her.

Hermione laughed. "Why is it someone who doesn't care much for talking keeps having his arm twisted to negotiate with a bunch of hardheads?"

"Oh, I'm just as big a hardhead as they are. Difference is that I'm always right," Viktor said with a short laugh. "One of the benefits of being thought of as 'quiet' is the fact that, when you speak, people think it's important to listen. And if you can't get them to listen, you can't get them to agree. Having a name to throw around doesn't hurt either."

"True enough. And what might you be trying to get them to agree on?" Hermione asked as they rounded the corner, slowing to look at the names on the windows along the walkway.

"A load of dreck we should have been able to agree on thirty years ago. That would probably bore you to tears," Viktor said.

"In other words, none of my business?" Hermione replied.

"No, it's everyone's business. It's simply not that exciting. Same old ridiculous arguments. This one okay?" Viktor asked, stopping in front of a smallish restaurant that didn't look too crowded.

"Looks fine to me," Hermione agreed, stepping in when he held the door for her. Within a few moments, the waiter had settled them in at a corner table, leaving them to study their menus.

"How long has it been? Since we talked to one another face to face, I mean," Viktor elaborated, setting the menu aside.

"Don't make me feel so old by asking questions like that. It must have been over twenty-five years. You were expecting your first, whenever it was," Hermione pointed out.

"It's been a good thirty, then, if it's been a day," Viktor said, arching an eyebrow in some surprise.

"Thirty years! It can't be," Hermione protested.

"Do the math. Vladimir's twenty-nine. I'll just have the borscht and the coffee, thanks," he added to the waiter when he returned.

"I'll have the same. He can't be. There's no way," Hermione insisted.

"How old is... Simon, isn't it?" Viktor asked after a moment's thought.

"Twenty-six," Hermione admitted. "That doesn't seem possible, either. It was before Ron and I married, then... Of course, it's why you missed the wedding. What about the rest of yours?"

"Stanislav is twenty-five," Viktor said, leaning back so the waiter had room to set their orders down after fetching them from the counter. They ate in silence for a few moments before going back to chatting as they ate.

"What about the baby?" Hermione asked. "Still at home?"

"The baby, if you could call her that, is twenty and has a flat and a job," Viktor said with a wry smile.

"Anna? It seems like three weeks ago that you sent me a letter and a baby picture!" Hermione exclaimed. "Or the one where she was missing both her front teeth."

"Tell me about it. It was hard to watch her go. Before, I always had more in reserve. Made the house seem awfully empty," Viktor admitted.

"I know the feeling. You wish you had the peace and quiet, and then when you get it, it's awful," Hermione said.

"You complain about tripping over all their things on the floor, and when they leave for school, you wish you had something to trip over. Never mind when they move out for good," Viktor agreed. "So... what's Simon doing?"

"Works at the Ministry. Made Arthur extremely proud. Now he can brag there's three generations of Weasleys working there, with him and Percy," Hermione said, sipping her coffee. "It's only a little more than an entry level job, but he has a chance to move up, eventually."

"Everybody has to start somewhere," Viktor replied. "Are you still working for the Department of Mysteries, Cursebreakers Division, or will you have to kill me if you answer?"

"I'm still there. And it's not exactly exciting, either. Just theoretical research, mostly. They're footing the bill for this conference. What are your children doing?"

"Oldest one is, if you can believe it, a mediwizard. Probably thought if I didn't retire he could just make his living off of me. Works at the sister institution to St. Mungo's in Sofia. Well, that and... Here, I'll make us both feel really old," he said abruptly, fumbling in a pocket for a moment, then a small wallet, before handing over a photo.

"It's not..." Hermione said after a moment.

"It is," Viktor said with a grin.

"You're not old enough. If you were old enough, that would mean I am!" Hermione protested.

"Hate to tell you, but I am," Viktor said mildly.

"Vladimir's?" Hermione asked, running a finger over the image of the slightly solemn, dark-eyed little girl with coal black hair in the photo before handing it back.

"Evangelina. She's eight months old," Viktor said, tucking it away.

"I bet you're not proud at all," Hermione teased.

"Proud isn't the word for it. Foolish, more like," Viktor allowed.

"You still have the job with the Commission?" Hermione asked.

"For some nutty reason, they made me in charge of the place. If anything ever makes my hair gray, that will be it," Viktor said ruefully. "Or these stupid informal summits."

"Well, congratulations. On both counts. The grandbaby and the job," Hermione said. "Or jobs. What about the other two?"

"Stan works as a wandmaker's apprentice for Gregorovitch. Anna was crazier than the other two put together and she's playing Quidditch. She's a reserve Chaser for Vratsa for the time being," Viktor said, propping his chin in his left hand.

"Not a Seeker?" Hermione said with a raised eyebrow.

"No, thank goodness. Not her style. No unfair comparisons, that way, either. I would have been rotten at being a Chaser. She's not. Don't you dare let it get back that I said this, but another five or six years, she could be as good as Lara was. But she's going to need every year of it. Lara was cagey. That's what made her so tough. You have to get a few years on you to be cagey. Anna's a little impatient. She thinks she ought to be, now," Viktor said.

"Lara?" Hermione prompted.

"Ivanova," Viktor elaborated. "She's still the meanest Chaser, man or woman, I've ever seen. She could burn a defender a dozen ways without even mussing her hair. She made them beat themselves."

"Oh. I see. What about your wife? What's she doing?" Hermione queried, the band on his left ring finger catching her eye. "She used to do some commercial art, didn't she? And portraits?"

Viktor lowered his hand and his eyes. Fiddled momentarily with the ring, clearing his throat. Hermione had just begun considering the possibility that she had put a foot horribly wrong somehow when he looked her straight in the eye and said in a hushed voice, "Magda passed away four and half years ago."

Hermione was horrified to hear herself floundering in much the same way she had hated so, when she had been on the receiving end, after Ron's death eighteen years ago. "I... I didn't know... I'm so sorry... If I had only known..."

"No need to apologize. No reason for you to know about it," Viktor said evenly.

"It's just... you were still wearing your wedding ring, and I saw it and-" Hermione babbled, then stopped herself. "On your left hand. Of course. I'm such an idiot. Slavic. Right hand, married, left hand-"

"Divorced or widowed," Viktor finished weakly. "It's okay. You of all people should know I won't break just because you bring her up," he said more firmly. "I don't get much chance to talk about her, any more. You know how it is. People are afraid to bring them up in front of you," he said, looking at her significantly

"Speaking of which, I never thanked you properly for writing me when Ron was killed on Auror duty. I can't tell you how many times I took it out and read it. It made a difference. Everyone else just wanted to mollycoddle me and 'poor thing' me," Hermione said in a rush.

"I'm still sorry I couldn't make the memorial service. I didn't find out until it was too late to make arrangements, with the kids..." Viktor said softly. "Must have been tough, with Simon so young. And so sudden. At least we had some warning."

"Viktor... I'm so sorry to hear it. How? " Hermione asked gently.

"Cancer. She avoided people in the healing profession almost as avidly as I did. By the time she admitted something was wrong and they found it, it was beyond treating, really. By Muggles or wizards. Well, they could have, but it would have just dragged things out. Even the mediwizard said so, and you know how they are, most times. Come in with a trident through your head and they'll tell you a plaster and a potion will do it. She decided she would rather die at home on her own terms than in a bed that wasn't hers in exchange for living another few weeks or months. So I brought her home and let her die. She was gone in twelve weeks," Viktor said in a flat voice. "Can we stop apologizing, now? I bet we're both sick of the 'I'm sorrys'."

"I'm sorry," Hermione blurted before she could stop herself.

The barest hint of a smile flitted across his face, then he sobered. "I'm not. How can I complain after getting twenty-seven years and three children with her? Tell me you would trade however long you got with Ron for anything else," Viktor said.

"Eleven years. And no, I wouldn't," Hermione answered. "No one ever understands that, do they? If they haven't been through it..."

"Then you understand why I'm not sorry. Even if I didn't expect being nominated into this club for a good, long while yet."

"No one ever does. You always think it can't happen to me..." Hermione said.

"War should have taught us better," Viktor said with a wry smile. "But we're all a bit stupid when we're young, aren't we? Up to your ankles in bodies and you still think, no, they won't get me."

"That could apply to a lot of things," Hermione replied. "War teaching us better."

"Like everything we're debating at that damned summit I need to get back to," Viktor said, glancing at the clock. "I didn't even get the chance to pump you for information about everyone back in Britain. Doing anything for dinner?"

"Not a thing," Hermione admitted, rising and putting down her money.

"I was going to get it," Viktor protested, doing the same.

"It's okay, really, I've got it," Hermione said.

"Then I'll get dinner. What room are you in? I'll come pick you up at seven? That's not too early, is it?" Viktor asked.

"That would be fine. I'm supposed to get out at six. Plenty of time to change into something equally frumpy and rumpled," Hermione said, tugging at her sweater.

"It isn't frumpy. Room?" Viktor countered.

"Room four aught five."

"You're right below me, then. Room five aught five. Walk you back?" Viktor offered.

"Seems logical, since we're right across the hall from one another. Looks like I owe Simon big time, then. Here I claimed I would never run into you. And I do the first day," Hermione mused.

"You're here all week?" Viktor pressed.

"All week," Hermione admitted.

"Me, too. Well, then, that's plenty of time to find out what everyone in Britain is up to. Provided you don't get sick of me, first," Viktor said.

"I shouldn't think there's any danger of that," Hermione said. "Provided I can keep my foot out of my mouth, you mean."

"Your foot was never anywhere near your mouth. You asked an honest question. By the way, yes. Magda painted mostly and did the odd logo, poster or ad. She was never happier than when she reeked of paint, linseed oil and turpentine," Viktor said as they walked briskly back toward the convention center.

"She and Dean Thomas would have liked one another," Hermione said.

"You and Magda would have liked each another. More than you know. It's a real pity you two never really got a chance to get acquainted with one another."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're late," Evtimov hissed under his breath as Viktor sat down next to him.

"Am not. You're a minute early getting started," Viktor insisted, checking his watch. "The old blunderbuss hasn't even gotten up a good head of steam, yet," he added, nodding toward the chair of the meeting, who was still shuffling an impressive stack of parchments on the table in front of him and making a few scattered comments as he had time, over the rustling.

"That 'old blunderbuss' is on the Board of Governors with you!" Evtimov said in a warning tone. "If you want him to agree to any changes at Durmstrang, you had better not let Petrovich catch you calling him that."

"I'm very well aware he's a Governor with me, thank you very much, because he's bored me within an inch of my life at a few of those meetings as well," Viktor replied. "They didn't send you with me because I'm daft, you know."

"True. Crazy, maybe. But not daft," Evtimov responded indulgently.

"Now, then, if we can all settle down after lunch," Petrovich announced in a sonorous voice, "I believe we're ready to hear some thoughts and observations on more permanent inter-Ministerial relations from Germany's esteemed delegate."

"Here go another two hours of our lives we'll never get back," Viktor muttered, rolling his eyes as the German representative stood with a thick bundle of parchment notes in hand. "You take notes this time."

"What are you going to be doing?" Evtimov asked sharply, taking up a quill.

"Staying awake and feigning interest, if possible. You would think we had never fought the damned war," Viktor complained, folding his arms. "Oh. Wait. Most of the people in here didn't. They sent other people to fight it."

"I do hope you're getting all of this out of your system, now, before you take the floor," Evtimov said.

"I wouldn't bet on it," Viktor said with a sigh. "I wouldn't even bet on my turn coming up before the week ends," he added, snapping the pocket watch shut and dropping it back into his pocket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione dug through her bag once more, looking over the meager offerings she had packed. So much for traveling light, Hermione thought. "Leaves you nothing to wear, traveling light does." She considered the blouses and skirts she had placed on the hotel bed once more, pursing her lips. "I suppose this would do, provided I get the wrinkles out, first, and the blue blouse would go-" Why am I babbling? You would think it was the Yule Ball all over again, Hermione scolded herself, shaking her head. Next thing you know, I'll be taking three hours to get ready.

She took up the wrinkled skirt and flicked her wand at it, smoothing out the fabric. She looked over the clock on he bedside table and found she still had plenty of time to change and ready herself before Viktor was due to arrive. In fact, she found herself with a whole five minutes to spare by the time she had nervously checked her hair for the third time and slicked on a fresh coat of lipstick. "I act like I'm in for a job interview," Hermione told her reflection. "Silly goose."

She had just removed her cloak from the hook beside the door when there came a soft rapping. After a quick peek through the peephole, Hermione opened the door. "I hope I'm not too early," Viktor said.

"Not at all. I'm ready," Hermione replied.

"Is that what you're wearing?" Viktor asked, nodding his head at her.

"Yes. Something wrong? Not fancy dress enough?" Hermione said, looking down.

"There's nothing wrong with your outfit. I was referring to the cloak. It gets terribly cold after dark. You're going to get chilled in that," Viktor said, picking up an edge of the fabric draped over her arm, fingering the thickness.

"I'm afraid it's the only one I packed. It's the heaviest one I have, in any case," Hermione explained.

"Here, try this instead," Viktor offered, holding out the thick fur cloak that had been draped neatly in the crook of his arm. "If it doesn't drag the ground, wear it. Shouldn't. It's supposed to be a three-quarter length."

"But, then what would you wear? I can't let you do that just because I didn't come properly prepared for the weather," Hermione protested.

"I've got another upstairs. Always bring a spare. That way, if you've been out in the snow, you don't have to cast drying charms or put the damp one back on next time you go out. It's been known to be so cold you'll have to double up, even. I'll go fetch it. Be back in a minute," Viktor said, walking back down the corridor toward the stairwell.

"I'll remember that for next time," Hermione murmured to herself, putting her own cloak back on the hook. Awkwardly she slipped the borrowed cloak around her shoulders, fumbling with the unfamiliar clasp at the neck. A bit hesitant, she smoothed a hand over the light tan fur, rearranging it around her. Even after a bare moment, Hermione could tell it was a great deal warmer than the thick wool one she had packed.

"You do have gloves?" Viktor asked, standing in the open door once more and clasping another cloak, slightly darker, beneath his chin. "Wouldn't hurt to put them on. Even if it is only a couple of blocks. If you have no objections to going that far... I didn't even ask. That was extraordinarily rude of me," he said, tugging on his own gloves.

"No, it wasn't. I don't know where anything is around here. Besides, Simon made me promise I would at least get out of the convention center at least once on this trip. Promise kept, I suppose," Hermione demurred.

"Wouldn't want you breaking a promise," Viktor agreed. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Hermione replied, stepping out into the hall with him and closing the door to her room behind. They walked in comfortable silence down the stairs, past the front registration desk, pausing near the door to pull their hoods up close to their faces before stepping out onto the sidewalk. Hermione saw immediately why Viktor had been so insistent about the cloak. Even shrouded in the hood, the occasional invading gust of cold air nipped almost painfully at her cheeks, and her breath swirled in a dense fog that enveloped her face.

The town surrounding the convention center was large and well lit, seemingly springing up around the center like a fairy ring. At first glance, it could have been any busy Muggle town, but for some of the people you saw on the streets. Like Hogsmeade and the convention center, the place was exclusively wizard, and you were as likely to see African witch doctors and hags as someone in Muggle garb with a wand discreetly slipped into a pocket. This evening, no matter what the garb, everyone was hurrying to get inside and out of the bitter cold. "Up there," Viktor said in a moment, pointing to the next door. Hermione ducked in as quickly as possible when he held it for her. "Now, you see what we used to put up with at Durmstrang in winter?" he said, stepping in and closing the door behind them.

"No wonder the cloaks were part of the uniform," Hermione said, tipping the hood away from her face. Her cheeks stung slightly when the warm air of the restaurant hit them, and she was certain they were red.

"Sometimes, getting older stinks," Viktor said abruptly, tilting the hood back with one hand, removing his glasses with the other. "Anti-Fog Charm never works properly around here. Temperature difference is too big, I suppose," he griped, holding out the misted over glasses and cleaning them with his wand. "Still, better than last year. I had a lens crack and had to fix that."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "How long have you had them?"

"Two years. Tell Harry I now sympathize," Viktor said, settling them back on. "I never could have played with the damned things. With everything else we can do, you would think we would have eliminated the need for glasses."

"Well, a lot of Muggles do wear contacts," Hermione replied.

"I have a thing about not sticking anything in my eye that doesn't belong there," Viktor admitted as the host returned to the front desk. "Hello, there should be a reservation, under-"

"Krum! Of course! Take your cloaks?" the host offered eagerly. Within a very short time, he had them settled at a table and Hermione finally took a good look around. The decor wasn't quite what she had been expecting.

"An Indian restaurant?" Hermione said, puzzled.

"Don't laugh. It's some of the best Indian food I've had outside of India. Don't even bother looking at the menu. Just tell them you want the mild curry and be done with it. Even better than the ones in Britain. Speaking of which, I believe you still owe me a rundown on part of the inhabitants. Start with Harry. Haven't heard a thing about him in ages," Viktor said.

"You do know that he finally got married? When he was thirty-five and Molly had just about lost all hope?" Hermione asked, pausing when the waiter returned for their orders.

"French girl, wasn't she? Rosaline something or other? Graduated from Beauxbatons?" Viktor asked.

"Nothing wrong with your memory. Chirac. She came over to work for the Auror program, so they met at work. Their daughter Lillian is fourteen and off at Hogwarts. She's her mother all over again. Harry doesn't mind a bit, either," Hermione said.

"Still an Auror? Both of them?" Viktor elaborated.

"Well, Rosaline still works for the Auror program, but in more of an administrative position, now. She didn't really want to leave field duty, but Harry talked her into it when Lillian came along. They don't particularly advise married couples both work in the field, any more. When they do, they refuse to put them on the same teams. Too much potential for orphans, that way. Harry still does field duty. Couldn't talk him into leaving if you tried. Even Ron getting killed on duty didn't scare him out of it. He's good at it. He loves his job. Well, Ron did, too. And luckily, time has rather softened Harry being..." Hermione trailed off.

"It? The Boy Who Lived? Our only hope?" Viktor prompted, raising an eyebrow.

"Exactly. Big weight to have on your shoulders. He's a lot more comfortable in his skin, these days," Hermione said. "He's ... healthier."

"Can't be healthy, growing up like that with those... people... then getting thrown without warning into this world where everyone knows who you are, but you don't. Then they have the gall to dump being everyone's savior on your shoulders, being responsible for everyone's lives before you're even old enough to shave. If that doesn't mar your mental health, what would?" Viktor mused. "He's happy, then?" Viktor added after a long pause.

"I believe he is. It took him a long time. He threw himself into his work and avoided the lot of us as much as possible for years. Molly and Arthur, bless them, didn't understand why he couldn't just be happy. But, I suppose they have no idea what it is to be really, truly alone. To have that kind of responsibility. Even seven children pale in comparison to the rest of the world. I suppose by the time Ron and I started dating, Harry was starting to heal. Really heal," Hermione allowed, pausing while the waiter put down their plates. "I think we're all more resilient at twenty-two."

"Speaking of which, what changed? You and Ron, I mean. Last I talked to you before I went back to Bulgaria, there was nothing going on between the two of you. Except a friendship," Viktor said, smiling softly.

"That's a mystery for the ages. I don't know. I suppose he changed. I changed. We all changed. We went out and got our own lives and took a bit of a break from one another, and it did us all good. By the time we had all finished our job training and started being around one another frequently again, it was like being reintroduced and looking at one another with fresh eyes. We were all different people. Even my friendship with Harry changed. And Ron... well, I can't completely explain it. Things just seemed to fall into place after that, and we let it happen. Sometimes, all the stars align just right, sometimes they don't. If anything had happened any differently, I don't think we would have ended up together," Hermione said with a shrug. "We wouldn't have been right for one another, otherwise."

"I understand. A detail or two different, and your whole life could be different. So. Harry, married, one daughter, still an Auror. Check. You and Ron, Arithmancy and Auror, respectively. How was the wedding, since I didn't make that, either?" Viktor asked pleasantly. "You know, my kids really mucked up what little there was of my social life. Even before they got here."

Hermione laughed. "It was nice. Whole passel of redheads and other friends crammed into a church with far more white netting than should be legal in that small a space. I would say we kept it small, with family and close friends only, but you and I both know you can't possibly call the Weasley clan 'small' with a straight face."

"I'm terribly sorry I couldn't make it, then. But my wife was still about to burst. I couldn't just go off and leave her at home, two weeks overdue and miserable. And to add insult to injury, Vladimir wasn't even born for four more days. I could have gone and been back in plenty of time. And he's been running behind ever since. The word 'hurry' is just not in his vocabulary. If he had come on time, I would have been there, at least," Viktor insisted.

"I'm sorry you couldn't be there, too. I missed having you there. If it's any consolation, we did drink a toast to you, Magda and the baby," Hermione said.

"Well, we drank a toast to you, Ron and Harry four days later. Poor Magda. She pretty much took to the bed for three weeks every time. She once told me that women who are barely over five feet just weren't designed to carry ten-pound babies," Viktor said with a soft smile.

"Surely not. All three of them?" Hermione said.

"Just a few ounces shy, all of them. Even Anna. Magda wouldn't even consider a girl's name when she was expecting her. Couldn't convince Magda that a baby that big might be a girl. All my fault, of course, just like it was my fault they all had big feet. You remember how big she was when you saw her before you and Ron married? That was nothing compared to how big she got eventually. She must have had almost four more months to go, then," Viktor said.

"That's hard to believe. She was so tiny, otherwise. Simon was seven and a half, and that was plenty for me," Hermione replied. "I thought I got pretty enormous, and I was a lot bigger than Magda, and I'm not exactly tall. Even if I did just meet her the once, besides your wedding, at that match in Scotland, I remember her being fairly petite and small boned."

"She still was, everywhere else. Barrel-shaped would not be a completely inaccurate description when she got pregnant, though. There was a lot of hauling her off of and out of the furniture. She would manage pretty well until that last month, and then she would just give it up and start lying around. Not that I blame her. I would have laid myself up for the whole nine months. What about the rest of the Weasleys?" Viktor asked.

"Well, Bill married Fleur, of course, and he still works for Gringott's in Egypt. Charlie's still at the dragon preserve in Romania, and he married a local girl. Percy and Penelope Clearwater married, and he still works at the Ministry. Fred and George still run the joke shop. Three kids apiece. Serves Fred right that all of his are girls. Ginny ended up with Michael Corner. Two boys. Arthur's just about set to retire. Molly clucks and worries over the lot of them like an old mother hen with a brood of chicks, but she loves every minute of it. Anyone else you want to know about?" Hermione said, finishing the counting on her fingers.

"Longbottom. He's at Hogwarts, isn't he?" Viktor said after a moment's thought.

"He took over the Herbology Professor position. He married Luna Lovegood. Frank was the most adorable little boy I've ever seen. Grant you, he's twenty if he's a day by now, and I haven't seen him in at least five years, but I sometimes bump into Luna at Diagon Alley. She manages a shop, there," Hermione said. She drained her glass completely. "Well, if the food is any better in India, I'm half tempted to move there."

"Told you I was always right," Viktor said with a chuckle. "I hate to cut this short, but I need to get some things together for tomorrow."

"I'll let you go if you promise to do more of the talking at lunch tomorrow," Hermione conceded.

"If you buy," Viktor countered.

"It's the least I can do after you picking up dinner," Hermione agreed. "And lending me a cloak so I don't freeze my fool behind off."

"No one ever understands just how cold it is here until they come. Local cloak shop does a booming business when they get some new international convention. They probably rub their hands together in glee at the weather report," Viktor said, standing and putting the money down to cover the bill.

"Are you sure they're not just trying to thaw their hands?" Hermione said, standing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Thank you for dinner," Hermione said. "Here, I had better give you the cloak back-"

"Keep it. You might need it the rest of the week. Can't hurt to have it, anyway. And you're welcome for dinner. You made a better dinner companion than Evtimov. I'll see enough of him this week and he always wants to talk politics. It's good to catch up a bit. McGonagall keeps me up on Hogwarts a little, as she has time, but it's mostly business talk. I imagine she's busy enough being Headmistress without trying to keep me entertained or up on everything," Viktor said.

"You're sure? About the cloak?" Hermione said.

"You can give it back before we leave, if that's bothering you. Or send it back by owl post if it's still cold enough to wear it when you leave. I won't freeze. Certainly not in bed, tonight. See you tomorrow, then?" Viktor asked.

"I'll come interrupt your conversation promptly at lunchtime," Hermione agreed.

"That would be perfect. Most of my conversations so far this week haven't been so pleasant as this evening's. I would probably be eternally grateful," Viktor said.

"Well... goodnight," Hermione said awkwardly.

"Goodnight," Viktor echoed before heading back up the hall toward the staircase. Hermione shut her door when he was out of sight, and hung the borrowed cloak over her own on the hook by the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor hung his cloak on the hook and sat in the overstuffed chair near the bed. He reached for the stack of parchments and correspondence on the bedside table with reluctance. He quickly flipped past the notes that Evtimov had taken, on to the numerous reports the bean counters at the Ministry had insisted on compiling and forcing on him before he left. Cost analyses, time and personnel investment, projections, he skimmed them with little interest. They all struck him as vain attempts to quantify something that was impossible to quantify. The value of having something a little more permanent in place in regard to the Ministries communicating with one another. In case the unthinkable ever happened again.

"Why our memories are so short, I'll never know. What's supposedly unthinkable has already happened twice in my lifetime. If we hadn't left it to Britain alone in the first instance, who knows? Maybe it would have been just the once," Viktor murmured, setting those parchments aside. He scanned the nearly finished letter back to the Commission, took up a quill and jotted a few additional lines about the scheduling of matches for the end of the season and a signature, sealed it and tossed it onto the bed. He would have to run that by the front desk in the morning to be posted. The unopened mail was mostly mundane and routine. Some memos from the office. A quick note, posted from Spain by Anna. She always wrote rather than calling when she knew he was away from home.

The last one in the pile, however, caught his eye. The Hogwarts seal tended to stand out. "Well, Minerva. Speak of the devil," Viktor said aloud, running a finger beneath the seal and unfolding the parchment. Usually, Minerva's letters were little more than news briefings, a bit on the school, how things were running on occasion, a bit of staffing news or inquiries about similar things at Durmstrang. Since being roped into the position on the Board of Governors there, he had been in a rather unique position to provide similar information in kind. This one seemed to fit the norm until he reached the last few lines.

Viktor closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. He reread the last few lines and found them unchanged. He couldn't quite decide if he had wanted them to disappear or not. Either way, they hadn't. They were still there, in Minerva McGonagall's prim, neat hand, in bold, black ink. As the Ministries seem as slow as ever to make progress in establishing ties between countries, I am interested in reestablishing ties at the school level, through once again reviving the Triwizard Tournament. Would there be any interest in doing so at Durmstrang, and would you be willing to work toward the end of convincing your Board? If neither Beauxbatons nor Durmstrang are up to the challenges of hosting, we would certainly be willing to take over those duties once more. I think it preferable if Durmstrang plays host, however.

The Tournament. These days, it tended to be mentioned with equal parts fear, awe and hushed reverence. Every once in a great while, someone would wonder aloud if it would ever be revived again, but no one had seriously put the idea forward. Before now. The fact that most people considered the one Viktor had taken part in the opening salvo of the second wizard war meant that it hadn't been brought up a great deal in his presence. And that had suited Viktor just fine. He had spoken about the events of the Tournament as little as possible.

After a while, the children had just stopped asking about it, curious as they were. Though, whether that was due to the vague answers he usually gave, when he gave them at all, or due to Magda finally telling them the subject was off limits, he still didn't know. He suspected the latter. Viktor had just about held his breath every August, when school letters came, dreading the possibility that the letters to the parents might announce a yearlong hosted event, or worse, ask your permission for your child to participate in a delegation to another campus.

Joining the Board had at least been a small comfort in that regard. The last three years of Anna's schooling had been free of worry about being blindsided in August by a revived Tournament. Things like that didn't just materialize without going through the Board. Otherwise, he probably would have told them to find someone else, at least until Anna had graduated. Cedric Diggory, Harry Potter, Fleur Delacour; to the children, they had just been the names of the other Champions in the Tournament when Tate had been in it, not memories. Not people. To him, Cedric Diggory was the boy who had been both kind and brave when he had no real reason to be. Eternally frozen on the border between childhood and adulthood at seventeen. Eternally frozen in memory as a limp, lifeless corpse with pale lips, lying on the grass outside a maze made of hedges.

That had been the blessing and the curse of coming back to Bulgaria after the war. You got away from it. You weren't forced to deal with it every day, but on the other hand, it was the last memory you had of so many places and people. No newer, better ones to come along and replace them. Maybe that was part of why he hadn't gone back. He had been half afraid there wouldn't be anything newer and better there to replace them with. That everyone involved was still just as broken as when he had left.

All of them had been at least a little bit broken after the war. You couldn't help but be, after that mess, witnessing so much death and cruelty. Finding out just how cruel you could be in return. Even the youngest among them had felt all used up and worn out. All of them had found their temporary outs. It seemed like all of them had wanted to curl up and fend off everyone, cut off all interaction. Perhaps it was the years of forced close quarters. Or the idea that you couldn't possibly trust anyone after witnessing all that. Or the fact that you were overloaded and overwhelmed, and people in general were just too much to handle, never mind trying to manage anything so complicated and sticky as a relationship of any sort with someone. It had been, in one sense, the generation that had avoided one another for as long as they could stand. The two oldest Weasleys had promptly escaped back to their jobs. Most of the foreigners, back into their own countries. A few to different parts of Britain, because home was no better. Harry, Ron and Hermione had thrown themselves into training for their eventual jobs. Some had disappeared into retirement. Others into reorganizing and rebuilding. One or two he could name, into the bottom of a bottle.

He had come back to Bulgaria, which was mercifully removed from most of the fighting and his job. It was easier to forget there. It was a lot easier to clear your head when you were on a broom, doing what you had always wanted to do in the first place. You could almost forget there had been a few years when flying just for the sake of flying had been a near unattainable luxury. You could throw yourself into getting your play, your team, and the league back up to the level it was before. It was welcome respite, focusing on tiny, inconsequential things like statistics, scores and techniques. Things that didn't involve life or death, contrary to what some fans thought.

Viktor hadn't planned to stay away from her. Not for good. It had always been in the back of his mind that going back to Britain for some time would be the plan someday. Or maybe she would come there. Only, a convenient someday never quite came back around. Short visits, that had been all. First few times he had been back, they were both still feeling broken enough that they still didn't think giving a romantic relationship a try was a good idea. Always sensible and honest with one another, maybe to a fault. Each time one of them had brought up the possibility, they had each admitted to not being ready just yet. And by the last time he had visited, Magda had already come into his life. And it had been completely right, if wholly unexpected. Unexpected, unplanned, and eventually, unavoidable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione settled back against the pillow and dimmed the light. Simon had been amusingly smug about her news when she had called on the Floo, and had apparently managed not to kill any of her plants just yet. The thought had flitted through her mind that he might not be so smug if he knew just how possible it was that things could have turned out much different. Not at this conference, but after the war.

A detail or two different, and your whole life could be different, Viktor had said earlier. It certainly wasn't the first time she had considered that. In the first few years after the war, she had often wondered just how different things might have been if it hadn't been for meeting Ron and Harry on the train, or the troll in the girl's bathroom, or if any of the myriad things any of them had said had been worded just the slightest bit differently... It was impossible not to examine every single one of your actions from eleven on and wonder if a misplaced moment or a misplaced word might have been the exact thing that resulted in something terrible years later.

After the war, as well. The ways they had all chosen to heal, the exact timing of letters and visits, decisions and accidents, all of them had played a part in where her life had ended up. Just friends, for right now, they had decided, before the war. Until things get back to normal. How incredibly naive that sounded, now. As though anything could ever get back to normal. It had been both a relief and a burden for the both of them to share that they weren't ready even when things had gotten back to relatively normal. Like most everyone else in the wake of the war, they had been more intent on picking up the pieces and putting them back together rather than seeking one another out. "I can't just yet. I wouldn't even know where to begin," he had confessed on his first trip back. Frankly, he had read her mind. She wouldn't have known where to begin either.

So, they had agreed to give themselves time. It took time. More than she ever could have imagined, for both of them to be ready. And before they had both been ready, he had made his last visit. He had explained in person. In some ways, it had been a shock, but they had parted on excellent terms. He had been almost apologetic about finding someone else in the meantime, but neither one of them had really regretted it. "We could have worked, if things had been different. They weren't. You didn't find someone else to hurt me. It just happened. You should be happy with Magda if that works. I would be happy for you if it did, because I care about you," she had told him. Hermione had even attended the wedding a couple of years later.

Not too long thereafter, she and Ron had started over, with a different sort of relationship. And it had worked. A detail or two different, and it all might have been a very different life, indeed. Attending Viktor's wedding had probably been the beginning of the end for her second-guessing every move she had made. He was obviously in love with Magda, and friendship seemed like plenty, and they were both at peace with their decisions. He was happy and her time would come sometime in the future, with someone else. At the time, she hadn't known the "someone else" would be Ron.

"A few details different, Simon, and you wouldn't be here. But, then, a few details different, and I might not be here. Or any of us. Once upon a time, your mother seriously considered being more than Viktor Krum's Yule Ball date. It might have been, but we never really tried, due to bad timing. Or perhaps it was good timing, since we seem to have found someone right, in spite of ourselves. And the important thing isn't what might have been. It's what was," Hermione said aloud. "And what is," Hermione added, rolling over and curling up on her side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Have you got something treed in that watch?" Evtimov whispered.

"What are you on about?" Viktor whispered back, not bothering to look up from the page of notes he was jotting down while the Polish delegate jabbered on and on about equitable representation.

"Well, you keep taking that watch out and looking at it, at least once an hour, so I thought that maybe you had something of great interest in it," Evtimov reasoned.

"Just wishing lunch would get here," Viktor muttered.

"Any particular reason?" Evtimov asked, arching a dark eyebrow.

"I skipped breakfast. Took a couple of calls from work. Called home. Talked to the grandbaby. Got a late start, didn't have time," Viktor bit off.

"You're cranky when your blood sugar is low," Evtimov teased. There was no response.

"Yes, was there a question?" the Polish delegate, Czolosz inquired with the slightest hint of indignant reproach, pausing in his rambling.

Viktor looked up guiltily, like a schoolboy caught out talking during the lecture, then sat for a moment, completely silent and still. "Yes. Actually, I do have one. For all of you. If you're all planning to complain before this thing even gets off the ground that you're going to be underrepresented, I want population figures. From all of you. Collection dates, demographics, estimates on minimum per capita representation that you feel is equitable, the whole works. Can any of you actually show me the number of people you claim to represent? Magical folk only, of course."

You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Czolosz blinked in a stunned fashion for what seemed a small eternity. "You want... figures?" he said, as though it were an unfamiliar, untested word.

"Yes. Numbers. I want numbers. You've all tossed around all kinds of numbers, but none of the ones that matter. The ones about people. The people for whom we're supposedly hammering this agreement out. Stop talking 'underrepresented' if you can't back it up. But present it after lunch, because I'm starving, and I'd wager my left arm that you haven't got them on you, now," Viktor shot back.

Petrovich cleared his throat loudly in the long silence that followed. "Well, yes. Excellent suggestion. Excellent. I think we'll dismiss until the afternoon, then, unless anyone has any objection? No? We'll step away, then."

"You should have just apologized," Evtimov muttered through clenched teeth as the others stood and scraped chairs. "We don't have-"

"Relax, the bean counters were good for something," Viktor said, pulling out the sheet of parchment. "That's the only page of figures they gave me that I think is worth spitting over. Now, I'm going to lunch. I could eat a Hippogriff," Viktor called over his shoulder on the way to the door.

"About the figures..." Czolosz said anxiously, loitering in the doorway.

"Call your Ministry and get them to put the numbers together. Most recent ones you have will do. I don't expect you to run out and count noses personally. It doesn't have to be right after lunch," Viktor said with a sigh.

"I thought perhaps over lunch, we could discuss-"

"If I said 'I would love to,' I would be lying. Normally, I would... but I'm meeting a friend. And the last thing I want to discuss right now is this conference and little handshake agreements on the side. Look, if you think I'm always going to side with you just because we're from Slavic backgrounds, you can forget that right now. Back it up or don't bring up the whinge. And right now, I would prefer you back it up out of this doorway. If you want my support, make your argument sensible," Viktor said mildly. "That's a reasonable enough request, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Czolosz said, reluctantly stepping aside. Viktor worked his way across to the other bank of conference rooms, weaving through the growing crowd. Finding the door where he had dropped Hermione off the day before, he slumped against the wall near the doorframe. One of the people filtering by gave him an openly curious look, then looked guiltily at their feet as they hurried on. It was then that Viktor realized he had been glaring. He made an effort to relax his face before the other session let out. He had felt tense and cranky as a sore-tailed cat most of the morning, and the last hour and a half of ridiculous droning on an empty stomach and a poor night's sleep hadn't helped.

The door beside him opened and people began to trickle out. He reached out and latched onto her shoulder when Hermione stepped out. "How was the morning?" Hermione asked brightly.

"Long. Seriously, run, before I go back and throttle one of them with a cost analysis," Viktor said sourly.

"That good, hmm?" Hermione said, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

"I threw 'get me some useful statistics' at them all in desperation. That's how good this morning was," Viktor replied tartly.

"Well, come on, then. Don't want to get you arrested for a throttling," Hermione said, cupping his elbow and steering him toward the walkway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You must be awfully busy. You know, most people have fewer jobs when they retire," Hermione pointed out, cutting into her chicken.

"First career wasn't a job, according to some people. What do you mean you get paid to play? I'd love to have a job like that, where I got paid for nothing but playing. Must be nice to draw a paycheck and not have to do any real work," Viktor said. "Funny, it felt pretty real when I was doing it. Besides... the Board of Governors... I got ambushed into that. I didn't really want it. Not while Anna was still in school, certainly. Last thing I wanted to turn into was one of those parents who hold everything from wages to facilities over the heads of their child's professors. I would have preferred to turn it down, if a few things had been different," he explained, making a face.

"I'm sure you weren't Durmstrang's version of Lucius Malfoy," Hermione said.

"Hell, no. Excused myself from every sports-related decision for three years. Didn't buy the poor, deprived thing so much as a pair of Quidditch gloves or even suggest how often they should trim the pitch. And I made them hold the letter with her class schedule until after we had done all the salary setting for the year. I didn't even want anybody thinking I was trying to pull strings or influence people. Or thinking she was getting preferential treatment, least of all her. Been there, done that, remember? People who favor you do you no favors," Viktor said.

"Enjoy the Commission job?" Hermione asked.

"It has its moments. You get to see a lot of matches. And if all the teams and all the venues hate my guts equally, I know I'm doing my job properly. You would be amazed at some of the things the owners try to strong-arm you with. Give you the most ridiculous sob stories and whine like two-year-olds when they don't get their way. I've even gotten an earful from my own daughter about the input I had on the rankings for the last European Cup. She thinks I shortchanged Vratsa, but if they wanted the higher seed, they should have won their last match. If that's not equity, I don't know what is," Viktor said with a shake of his head.

"How on earth do you put up with that? No one ever being completely happy with the way you do things?" Hermione marveled.

"Easy. Play deaf. Selectively, of course, but play deaf. And know that if someone's a little too happy, you might have made a mistake. Besides, I played. Complain all they like, at least they know I've been on the other side of it, which is more than you can say for some of the Commissioners. And you get used to it. If you're on a team, and not playing well, your teammates and coaches aren't happy. If you are playing well, the reserve who wants your spot isn't happy. If you aren't winning all the time, the fans aren't happy. If you're winning all the time, the opposing teams aren't happy. Or at least, they think they aren't. Sport. The great leveler. Makes most everyone miserable a good portion of the time, but they all keep coming back for some reason," Viktor said with a sly smile.

"I would agree with that. Why Ron tortured himself so over the Cannons, I'll never know. And now Simon's doing it. So, how is it you're keeping the Commissioner job with Anna on a team, when you didn't like being on the Board?" Hermione asked.

"Once you get up to the pro level, Merlin himself couldn't get you on a team if you didn't deserve the spot. No coach or owner is going to waste money on the poorer player on the off chance it pleases the Commissioner. And when in doubt, err on the side of the team that doesn't include your daughter. If you're biased, you're going to hear about it. I trust the rest of the office to keep me honest when I can't decide. Besides, the wonderful thing about sport is that it often boils down so wonderfully to inarguable, uncontroversial numbers. It's the only reason I'm glad of statistics. If you can wave a mathematical formula based on wins, losses, point margins and so on, it helps. And as far as venues go, I spread the wealth. The one with the cold, hard, lumpy seats gets just as many playoff matches as the best one, over the complete cycle. I've found they all get about the same attendance, anyway. People will forego a comfy seat for a good match. And if you put good matches in the venues long enough, eventually they can afford to replace the cold, hard, lumpy seats. It's all very clever and sneaky and so incredibly straightforward that all the other Commissioners would probably laugh right in my face if I told them how we did things," Viktor said conspiratorially. "Don't tell, but I'm trying to get them to make it about that simple for the international decisions. Although I do like the rather clever idea the Japanese Commissioner had about the winner of the World Cup hosting the next one. That could make things interesting. If he ever has the guts to float that idea, I'm throwing my weight behind it. And I had better mean that. He could do it with a straight face this year because Japan doesn't have a prayer of winning the next one, so no one will accuse him of angling for it."

"And you know this how?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Lots of boring old reasons that involve weak reserves, young rookies and veterans hanging on too long before retiring," Viktor replied. "One of their Beaters was there before I entered the international league. That tell you anything? And you know how the Japanese are about elders. No one has the cheek to ask him to retire. And the reserve behind him has been there just about as long. The rest of their league's Beaters still need someone to show them how to hold the club. Not a one of them over twenty-one. Chasers have a field day with all the Japanese teams. Even if they manage to hit you, it's not all that intimidating. Wears their own Chasers out, since they have to tackle like mad just to prevent you racking up two hundred points before the first jockey for the Snitch."

"That's not so young, is it? I should think compared to seventeen, it's positively ancient," Hermione said with a laugh.

"Problem is, twenty-one seems younger and younger the farther this side of it you get," Viktor said. "Never mind seventeen. Seventeen was a million years ago."

"Skip breakfast?" Hermione asked, giving his already empty plate a pointed look.

"As a matter of fact, I did. By the time you do your job back home, call your sons and your granddaughter, you don't have time for breakfast. Anna's in Spain, or I would have called her, too, but then I probably would have been late. May I just say that I sympathize with Molly and Arthur a whole lot more than I used to? Three qualifies as a brood, to me. One's enough to drive you crazy. Three, it's guaranteed," Viktor insisted.

"But it's a nice kind of crazy, isn't it?" Hermione said indulgently.

"Oh, absolutely. And the grandkids are even better. I mean, you hear all these dotty old grandparents going on and on about how wonderful it is, and you think they must be positively mad, and before you know it, you are one of those dotty old grandparents going on about how grand it is. Nice thing is, you can just borrow them for the fun bits and hand them back for the messy bits, and the parents can't complain when you do it. Because you've done your time. And when they get a little older, you can have all these grand conspiracies," Viktor explained.

"What do you mean by conspiracies?" Hermione asked, puzzled.

"I imagine I still don't know the half of what my parents put my kids up to or did with them behind my back. I'm not sure I want to know. I think I'm better off not knowing. And I don't even want to think about what Magda's parents let the little heathens get away with. I think they lived on nothing but sugar when they were over there. And you had better believe I plan to put the lot of them to shame. See, the thing is, when you're a parent, you have to be the parent. You can't be their friend. You're not supposed to be their friend. It's not your job to be their friend. With grandchildren, all those rules go right out the window. You can be a total reprobate because you're supposed to be. Within reason, of course," Viktor added.

"You make it sound so all out wonderful, I'm almost prompted to ask how I go about acquiring one," Hermione said with a laugh.

"Oh, that's the best part. You don't do a blessed thing. They just fall into your lap," Viktor said with a laugh. "Simon not married?"

"No. I don't think he's even considered it, yet. Not that I'm pushing. I would rather he wait than rush into something and regret it. He's dated around a bit, but no one serious," Hermione said. "What about Anna and Stan? Either of them married?"

"Stan's a little... shy about women. Hardly said boo to a girl all through school," Viktor said. "Girls usually had to ask him for dates."

"Wonder who he inherited that from?" Hermione shot back.

Viktor snorted indignantly. "Certainly not his mother. I don't know... he hasn't dated anyone in particular very much. I rather suspect he's a touch moony over this girl that works across the street, but hasn't quite gotten up the nerve to say anything to her about it just yet. He mentions her a lot. I've heard more about Mila and what she ate for lunch while sitting on the stone bench by the fountain in the square than is likely to be healthy for a person. Either he really likes her or he's seriously considering a career as a luncheon chef all of a sudden."

Hermione laughed, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. "And Anna?"

"Anna's awfully... intense. I'm not sure most men would tackle her off the field. Besides, she's only twenty. I'm sure she hasn't given it much thought. She wasn't exactly the boy crazy teenager, either. She keeps to herself a lot. Always did. On the one hand, that means she's probably not going to be overwhelmed by a number of potential suitors. On the other hand, if a woman's a shade daunting, you're not likely to approach her or stick around unless you're serious. I've only felt daunted by two women in my entire life, and both of them were downright formidable. Ended up marrying one of them," Viktor mused, finishing off his coffee.

"Really. Who was the other one?" Hermione asked curiously, putting down her own empty cup.

Viktor looked surprised for an instant, held his cup in front of him, looked her straight in the eye, then replied frankly, "Why... you." After a moment's awkward silence he added, "We're both going to be late if we don't go in the next few minutes."

"Oh... of course... my turn to pay," Hermione said breaking the eye contact and fumbling for her purse as he finally put his cup back in the saucer.

"Dinner?" Viktor said tentatively.

"What?" Hermione said, distracted, counting out the bill and tip, laying the money in the center of the table.

"Did you want to have dinner? There's actually a Greek restaurant in the other direction. Besides, I have to make up for eating half my weight at lunch today by paying for dinner. Well, that and rambling. I think it's from being cooped up all morning and wanting to scream," Viktor said, his tone suddenly apologetic.

"It wasn't rambling. It was grand... Greek would be lovely for dinner. Just lovely. Same time as last night?" Hermione asked.

"Give or take a few minutes. I hope. Assuming I haven't created a monster by asking for figures," Viktor said, rising.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where are you running off to like a Hippogriff with its tail on fire every time we get out of here?" Evtimov demanded when the gavel came down, ending the session for the day.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Viktor said, scooting his chair back under the table.

"Well, normally, you suffer fools a little more gladly than you have the last two days. Even Czolosz. You haven't suffered them at all if you can help it, especially this morning. This morning, with asking for the figures, either you made everybody in this room hate you or love you. I'm not sure which. And you looked like you would just as soon knock Czolosz down if he didn't back off at lunch. What's going on?" Evtimov asked, keeping his voice low.

"Look, work didn't stop happening back home, I still have a family that I kind of like talking to when I get the chance. And I've got to consider whether or not I'm going to bring up an issue that likely won't make me very popular with some members of the Board of Governors at the next meeting. I'm busy enough without making this thing my entire life, even just for this week. Besides, Czolosz isn't so much a fool as he is in love with figures and the sound of his own voice. And he definitely isn't the only one. And I'm meeting someone. I was lucky enough to run into someone I haven't seen in decades, and I'm catching up on all I missed, if that's fine with you. I'd rather talk to her. She'll probably keep me from killing someone this week. Knowing you, you would encourage it," Viktor said.

Evtimov's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the word 'her', but he quickly recovered. "Her? That woman that came up to you in the hall? With the... bushy hair?"

"Don't tell me you're still so wet behind the ears that the name doesn't ring a bell at all... What the hell do they teach you whippersnappers in History of Magic these days when they cover the modern era? I know I'm older than you are, but not so old that my friends qualify as ancient history. Hermione. Hermione Weasley?" Viktor said impatiently. Evtimov shook his head helplessly. "Her name used to be Hermione Granger..."

"Oh! Granger! Of course! That's... her?" Evtimov asked, sounding vaguely disappointed.

"What were you expecting, exactly? Don't tell me you're one of those kids that thought all those names you read had to belong to people who were somehow bigger than life and intimidating? I hate to disabuse you of the notion, but we were all pretty ordinary, as people go. Dumbledore, God rest his soul, was not, in fact, seven feet tall and able to bring down buildings with a crook of his little finger. He was a rather nice, friendly looking old gentleman who came up to about the top of my forehead without his hat and he almost always looked like he was having a private joke on you or with you. Doesn't mean he wasn't intimidating or scary as hell when he needed to be, but he wasn't quite what some people make him out to be. Neville Longbottom was a slightly pudgy, somewhat forgetful, nervous teenager until he got his growth at seventeen, Ronald Weasley was about as overgrown and gangly as I was, and had ginger hair you could spot a mile off. Hermione Granger, when I first met her, had oversized front teeth, a habit of quoting books at you about every subject that could be equally endearing and annoying, a concern about house-elf welfare that was just as important to her as Voldemort. And Harry Potter was a scrawny, underfed, messy-haired runt. With glasses. Sorry we aren't what you were expecting," Viktor said with a subtle smile.

"Well... I... You weren't... certainly," Evtimov said haltingly.

"Wasn't I? What were you expecting?" Viktor asked mildly, looking amused.

"I don't know... big name... sports hero... war hero... sports hero again... all that... diplomacy... maybe less... humility. More intimidating. More arrogant. More... flash," Evtimov said after some consideration.

"Hero," Viktor said with a derisive snort, "I wasn't a hero. I was just some kid that really loved being on a broom and was lucky enough to be good at it and stupid enough to keep practicing it. And if not for some twinkly old man with a nose even more crooked than mine making sure I understood that heroes are made mostly by circumstance and choice is what really makes us who we are and a bushy-haired girl who treated me like nothing more than a teenaged boy when nobody else did... who knows?" Viktor shrugged in an exaggerated manner. "Sorry, I'll try to cultivate more of an ego for you, Evtimov."

"It's just... I never expected you to really ask my advice on anything. I figured I would be nothing but a 'step-and-fetch-it'..." Evtimov said.

"The Ministry hired you because you're good at this, Evtimov, not because I need a babysitter. I can ask you things like what the real ramifications of extended diplomacy to, say, Belgium, are and get a sensible answer that even I can understand. I can go pour my own coffee. Now, can I go? I have a dinner appointment to keep so two unimpressive old folks can talk about our unimpressive lives," Viktor said.

"Of course. Sorry to keep you," Evtimov blurted out.

"What are you, Evtimov? Thirty-two?" Viktor asked, pausing and looking at him curiously.

"Yes, sir," Evtimov answered.

"Wow. You really are a baby, then. I'm fifty-nine. I'm old enough to be your father. And old enough to know people are just people. Keep that in mind. Prevents you from being disappointed when they prove it by their actions," Viktor said, reaching out and giving Evtimov's shoulder a squeeze before turning and heading for the door. Halfway there he paused and looked over his shoulder. "And I thought I told you to stop calling me 'sir', I feel old enough without you doing that."

"I'll stop that right away, sir," Evtimov said with a mischievous grin. Evtimov shook his head as he watched Viktor go. He certainly hadn't been what Evtimov had expected. Not at all. When he had accepted the appointment a few years ago to be the official tagalong whenever the Ministry sent their special envoy to international events, he had done so with equal parts nervous anticipation and an overabundance of eagerness. It hadn't helped that he had been ordered not to waste the time of a Very Important Man by spending longer than necessary getting acquainted before being sent down.

He had gone down to the Commission offices with sweaty palms, his heart lodged firmly behind his Adam's apple and a curiously tight feeling in his chest. He had rehearsed his own introduction a couple of dozen times on the way down in the elevator, and had a hundred small panic attacks about how this man was going to react to an inconsequential eager-beaver Ministry lackey being assigned to him, with the ridiculously unwieldy title of Personal Assistant to the Special Ministerial Envoy.

By the time the elevator doors had opened the final time, Evtimov had been convinced he would be considered good for nothing but fetching coffee and running errands, like most of the other employees his age that had found themselves in similar assignments. But at least he would get to meet him. Maybe shake his hand. That was something. A step up from occasionally glimpsing him in the lobby or the hallways, certainly.

Therefore, it wasn't too surprising that Evtimov could have been toppled over with a feather when he stepped into the Commissioner's office, was greeted warmly by name without having to introduce himself, seated in the comfortably overstuffed armchair directly in front of the desk, and the Commissioner and Special Ministerial Envoy dropped what he had been doing in favor of fetching the Ministry lackey a cup of coffee. It had been just as surprising when said Very Important Man had settled back into his own chair, given Evtimov an open appraisal, smiled warmly and said, "You can close your mouth, now. There aren't any flies about."

"Sorry, sir. Absolutely, sir. Won't happen again, sir," Evtimov had stammered.

"Sir?" Viktor had said, sounding incredulous and laughing openly. "Only call me sir if you're trying to date my daughter. Or in front of my wife, if you want to feed her rather weak delusion that I'm an adult. Every once in a great while, I like to try to fool her into thinking I'm a real, live grownup with a real job and authority and everything. I don't think she's buying it for a minute, but she sometimes plays along to humor me," Viktor had said, propping his chin on his right hand, wedding band visible. "How about you just drop the 'sir' thing and try Viktor, Krum, or some combination of the two, Evtimov? Sir makes me feel faintly ridiculous, like I've garnered a knighthood or something."

And so it had happened that Evtimov had fallen into the rather curious situation of almost always addressing his superior as Viktor, less often as Krum, when they were in public at events, and having Viktor stick almost exclusively to calling him, with the utmost respect, Evtimov. Viktor had insisted that if he called Evtimov by his first name, Ilian, others might treat him with something less than the respect he deserved, baby faced as he was. Some of his fellow Ministry employees had nearly gone apoplectic the first time Evtimov had called him Viktor in the hallway. Evtimov had never quite gotten rid of the suspicion that Viktor actually enjoyed making a few people at the Ministry apoplectic. In fact, he wouldn't entirely put it past Viktor to have insisted on the informality for just that reason.

But, then, Viktor didn't tend to stand on ceremony, much. He had made a practice of having Evtimov over to his home almost from the beginning, which was nearly unheard of for someone considered a senior Ministry official, inviting a very junior Ministry employee, and he and Magda had both welcomed Evtimov warmly. Evtimov had soon grown to consider the two of them as much friends as superior and spouse. Evtimov had worried about the older man a great deal when he had taken a leave of absence to be at home with Magda, before her death. He had been frankly and openly devastated for some time after returning. He had seemed worryingly adrift for a few months. For a good year, there had been a distinct difference in him, not nearly as quick to smile, certainly. Maybe even a touch of reluctance to go home at the end of the day when Anna was off at school once more. For the first time, Evtimov had found himself having to occasionally point out that it was well past time to be going home, and whatever was currently on the desk would keep. "Is it, Evtimov? I apologize, I hadn't noticed," Viktor had said the first time. Usually Viktor was more likely to harangue at him about leaving on time.

They had seemed, at first glance, such an oddly unmatched pair, in a way, his boss and his wife. When he stooped, she could just about kiss him without standing on her toes. She was forever going off to open venues in winter with neither mittens nor gloves, and he would always end up handing his over, the enormously oversized things flapping as she talked in what would have been a patently ridiculous fashion on any other woman. But somehow, with Magda, it was expected and right that she was always wearing Viktor's gloves.

This beautifully delicate little woman with a porcelain face who barely reached her husband's chest, who had an open manner and an easy, pealing laugh, who talked with her hands animatedly, as though she were putting every word on an invisible canvas that only she could see and this tall, often inscrutable man who could and often did shut himself off behind a completely unreadable expression and gave absolutely nothing away. And Evtimov had heard that the game face had softened considerably over the years, before he had met Viktor. Looking back at a few old posters, he was inclined to agree. But he had seen Viktor put on the absolutely formidable negotiator front enough times at these things to know it could still be pulled out of the mothballs when necessary and used to great effect. He had seen Viktor get his own way without saying a word more times than he could count. He could simply back an unprepared negotiator down with that look that conveyed he was still skeptically waiting for the punchline.

Magda had been one of those rare women who was gorgeous, knew it, and somehow managed not to come off as conceited or vain in spite of it. Perhaps because she had been charmingly lacking in pride over her appearance, content enough in the fact that her husband considered her beautiful regardless of her appearance. Once, when Viktor had invited him home to dinner, Magda had greeted them in a pair of ragged and stained jeans that showed her knees, a long painting smock that Evtimov strongly suspected had once been Viktor's shirt when it had seen better days, her dark hair in a bedraggled ponytail. She had spent a whole ten minutes enthusiastically talking to the two of them before Viktor had wordlessly reached out with a long forefinger and scrubbed a simply enormous streak of blue paint from the bridge of her nose. Magda hadn't even paused in her talking, as though she were used to Viktor having to clean her up in that fashion.

If there had been one thing the couple had in common, besides Magda's rather surprising and unexpected enthusiasm for and knowledge of Quidditch, it had been lack of artifice. They had both been plainly and openly what they were, and faintly surprised when anyone made them out to be special. Viktor had laughed whenever Magda made reference to the number of women that would have strangled their sisters to be in her place. Magda had laughed just as incredulously when Viktor had marveled in front of her that such a beautiful woman had deigned to marry him. "Ridiculous man," she had said dismissively and fondly, pausing on her way into the kitchen long enough to plant a kiss on Viktor's temple, "no matter how smart any of you are, you never understand what drives a woman to love."

Evtimov laughed out loud now, in spite of himself, drawing a few curious looks from the rest of the delegates still loitering when he remembered what Viktor had answered. "Thank God. I think we would all be driven mad if we had half a clue, wouldn't we, Magda?" He composed himself and headed for the door, wondering if there might be just a bit of the old game face involved when Viktor mentioned these appointments with this Hermione at lunch and dinner. Evtimov found himself hoping fervently that there was. He thought it would do Viktor a world of good, even if there was no replacing Magda.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Is it my imagination, or is it even colder than it was last night?" Hermione said, rubbing her hands together vigorously, even though she was still wearing her gloves.

"I think it's more than your imagination. Here, hold these," Viktor said, thrusting something into her hand while struggling to pull the restaurant door together against the frigid, howling wind. "Blast it, I knew I should have just put them in my pocket," he muttered, tugging at the door with both hands and leaning back.

Hermione held up her hand and examined what he had handed over. "Oh... my... I think you... should have..." Hermione gasped between peals of laughter.

"Laugh while you've got the chance. Give it a few years, you won't be laughing so easily," Viktor grumbled good-naturedly, taking his glasses back. Each lens was frosted over with a thin shell of rapidly melting ice, and marred by a network of small, spidery cracks. Viktor let them dangle from his gloved hand for an instant, regarding them with disdain. "Reparo. I don't know about you, but I can't feel most of my extremities, assuming they haven't cracked and fallen off. I believe we now officially require booze to thaw out."

"I wouldn't complain if I had an Irish coffee. Think they serve Irish coffee in a Greek restaurant?" Hermione asked.

"I'll bribe them to go out and get the whiskey, if nothing else," Viktor said, brushing the snow from his hair and cloak.

"Where may we seat you?" the host interjected.

"Preferably near the fire and I think we'll keep the cloaks for a few minutes, thanks," Viktor said.

"Well, all our tables for two in that area are currently taken. One might open up soon or we may have had a cancellation, I'll have to check-"

"Let me put it this way. There will be something in it for you if a table for two within fifteen feet of that fireplace over there happens to become available in the next five minutes. Something bigger if it happens to be the one right smack dab on the hearth," Viktor said slowly.

"I'm sure there may have been a cancellation, I'll just run and check," the host said, darting off.

"Why do I get the feeling you've negotiated for that table before?" Hermione said, rubbing her upper arms.

"Because I have? Funny, there's always a mysterious cancellation when it's cold enough to freeze your ears off. I'm sure they'll just happen to find some whiskey right at the back of the liquor cabinet, too. Bribe and ye shall receive," Viktor mused, rubbing at his face, which was still red from the cold.

"You'll never believe it, sir-" the host began.

"There was a cancellation earlier in the evening? What a surprise," Viktor finished for him, settling his repaired spectacles back over his ears. "I'm shocked beyond belief. That never happens," he deadpanned, while Hermione covered her mouth and laughed behind her hand.

"We'll positively burn up over here," Hermione said once they had been seated, taken the special for the evening, and sent the host off to see if there just might be the makings of an Irish coffee right at the back of the liquor cabinet.

"Not if you don't get drunk enough to fall in. Take you a good ten minutes to feel your toes again. I hope you have thick socks. Wouldn't be at all gentlemanly of me to take a lady out to dinner and get her a case of frostbite," Viktor said, tucking his hands beneath his arms and huddling up.

"Two pairs and some warming charms thrown in. And I still can't feel my feet, but I think the lady's toes are safe. How on earth did you cope at Durmstrang?" Hermione said, wriggling her toes inside her boots.

"A wonderful combination of layers, youth and not knowing any better. We do allow them fires, now, you know. Nay, encourage them! Working fireplaces in every blasted room. Doesn't make it any warmer outside, but at least they can get thawed out when they come in," Viktor said, pulling his hands out from beneath his arms and tugging his gloves off. "More than paid off in that it cut way down on the number of people they see in the infirmary every year. I know cold doesn't make you sick, but it sure doesn't exactly boost your immune system to be freezing and damp all the time during winter."

"The luxury!" Hermione exclaimed, pulling her own gloves off. "I hear that isn't the only change that's been made."

"Curriculum has been reworked a shade. Faculty changes. Greater cooperation with surrounding academies. Even a few little invitational Quidditch matches, just to get them on one another's campuses a bit. Still haven't made the change I want them to. Oh, the old stalwarts justify it by crying 'tradition' these days, but it's still the same, stupid restriction. Pure-bloods only," Viktor explained, resting his hands on the table.

"Rome wasn't built in a day," Hermione said with a shrug.

"It's been a lot longer than a day. Muggleborn and half-blood aren't dirty words any more, but fat lot of good that does the students if they barely even meet anyone with a Muggle in their immediate family tree before getting out of school, much less share classes with one," Viktor said, sighing. "Make the school exclusive if you must, but don't base it on who your grandmother married. At least base it on something with some merit."

"Are you, or are you not the same person who got me to see that trying to go right from square one to totally free wage earners with house-elves in a fell swoop wasn't a bright idea? Baby steps, remember?" Hermione said encouragingly, patting his hand, withdrawing it quickly so the waiter could set down their orders. "Most of them are on pension plans and get days off, by now, half are accepting some wages, and it's built in to the plan to have the majority on regular, minimum wages in another ten years. You don't change an ingrained culture overnight. At least they aren't foaming at the mouth at the very idea, right? It really is a desire to stick with tradition?"

"I think so. If they're racist, they hide it very well. No fair throwing my own advice up in my face," Viktor said with a smile.

"It was pretty good advice. Have a little patience," Hermione said.

"According to Magda, I do have a little patience. A very little. She swore I forgot that other people don't always run on my timetable," Viktor said.

"Personally accused of the exact same thing by Ron. He used to say I wasn't very patient or understanding when people didn't meet my expectations of them," Hermione replied. "And he was right. It's very frustrating when people don't see what's glaringly obvious to you, or fail to meet your standards," Hermione said, smiling weakly.

"The curse of the demanding of self," Viktor murmured.

"The what?" Hermione asked curiously.

"That's what Magda used to say. She said I was so used to demanding so much of myself that I sometimes forgot other people didn't always maintain the same standards about everything. Used to royally get my goat when I thought someone else on the team wanted to call it quits too early at practice. Or when a coach or a trainer said good enough and I didn't think it was. Thankfully, she worked a lot of that out of me. Her and the children. My goat's not so easily gotten about that, these days," Viktor said.

"Kids do tend to do that for you. It's hard to be such a perfectionist when you've got someone to take care of who is so new and unpracticed at absolutely everything. It's a good distraction. Keeps you outside of yourself, for a change," Hermione mused. "Sometimes, when you need it most."

"Agreed. Hard to be completely in the gutter even when you want to be. With children," Viktor replied.

"Simon was only eight, but I reckon he took care of me as much as I did him. After Ron died," Hermione explained.

"I doubt you needed much propping up," Viktor said. "You never did. You were always doing most of the propping."

Hermione shook her head ruefully. "Oh, but I had let my guard down by then. Funny, how you can lull yourself into thinking all is good and right in the world, and nothing can ever go wrong ever again, because you've paid your dues. When the knock came at the door, I figured it had been a slow night and he had come home early. He did, sometimes. Then I thought he had forgotten something and sent them after it. I think they were a good three quarters of the way through explaining what had happened before it ever registered that they were telling me he was dead. I couldn't cry for a week. I told myself I was being strong and holding it together for Simon... but I just... couldn't. If I started..." Hermione said, shaking her head again, slowly.

"You might never stop," Viktor finished in a low voice. "I know."

"Exactly," Hermione said, meeting his gaze for a few moments. "You should remember quite well what I'm like when I get started crying, even over nothing. Maybe especially over nothing. Like I'm a banshee," Hermione joked half-heartedly. "Ron hated the waterworks. Even after we married. He would head for the hills at the slightest sign of a good cry. Harry, too."

"You did tend to get awfully moist around the edges," Viktor said with a soft smile.

"Got everyone else awfully moist around the edges, you mean. I probably drenched you more times than you care to remember, and you never once told me to shut up and stop being such a silly girl," Hermione said.

"I hardly think it was silly, under the circumstances. If what we all went through didn't get you wrought up, nothing would. Better than Tonks kicking the tree. Which seems like a really great idea right up until your foot actually makes contact with the tree," Viktor said.

"Are you positive she actually meant to kick the tree, or did she trip?" Hermione asked with a laugh.

"Considering the string of obscenities she was lobbing at said tree, I'd say it's a pretty good bet," Viktor replied. "I don't think my ears have ever been quite the same since. I guess she would have kicked Charlie and me, too, for laughing at her, if the tree hadn't gotten the better of her first."

"Tonks is still an Auror, you know. Still every bit as clumsy," Hermione said. "She drops by the office occasionally and lets me in on a bit of the gossip. Keeps me up on the department. They were awfully generous. They take care of their own, certainly. It's a terrible bit of gallows humor, but the joke is that you can earn just about as much dead as alive if you become an Auror. Pity that pension program gets such a workout, even now."

"How many?" Viktor asked quietly.

"I can name three others that entered the force the same year Harry and Ron did," Hermione said, picking at her plate with her fork. "That's probably not all of them. I don't know all the younger ones. I remember reading about one a couple of years back... around Simon's age... but I didn't know the family. There are more Muggleborns in that profession these days. Suppose they think it's like playing cops and robbers, only with wands. Exciting stuff until you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. Simon remembered him from Hogwarts," Hermione explained. "They weren't close, but they were acquainted."

"I'm a little surprised Simon didn't want to become one... what with Harry and Ron..." Viktor said, his voice tentative.

"I discouraged it. I'm a thoroughly selfish mother. I didn't want him going into that job, neither did Molly, and frankly, I think even Harry had a hard time making it sound overly glamorous. Considering. Maybe I deprived the world of a fantastic potential Auror, but I'm relieved he didn't seriously consider it," Hermione admitted. "Oh, he said it a bit when he was smaller, about how he wanted to grow up and be an Auror like Dad, but I think he changed his mind soon after going off to school. Much to my relief."

"Must not have been what his passion was, then. Because children don't tend to discard their dreams that easily. Even to please their mothers. Or fathers. Or maybe it's just especially stubborn ones that don't," Viktor allowed.

"Why do you say that?" Hermione asked.

"Primarily because we didn't do anything to discourage Vladimir from going into healing, or Anna from going into Quidditch, but we didn't exactly encourage it, either. In fact, I think Magda would have just as soon they had picked something else. I know I would have. I mean, it makes you wonder when your oldest makes a beeline straight for the one profession you've avoided as much as possible your whole career," Viktor said, making a face.

"I'm sure he did it on purpose," Hermione teased.

"Wandmaking is innocuous enough, I suppose. Actually, it kind of suits Stan. He got that from his mother, working on a thing with his hands, down to the last detail until he's satisfied with it. There's art in wandmaking. He always was a craftsman. He would spend hours blending colors to get them just right when he was filling in coloring books. But then your youngest goes and picks your career. When they've seen it, up close, warts and all, most of their life. You find out it's not so easy, being in the stands. Especially not when it's your child out there. When you know exactly what they're putting up with, and what it's like... it's worse. Let's just say my mother and father telling me I deserved to know how they felt, some day, wasn't exactly an idle threat. You know what, though? You live. Your child comes in and gushes about how much they love it, and then you don't have the heart to tell them they're making you a nervous wreck. You just smile and nod and bite your tongue. I bet you would have, too, if Simon had decided he wanted to be an Auror," Viktor said.

"Maybe," Hermione agreed. "But, surely Vladimir becoming a Mediwizard isn't quite the same as Anna going into Quidditch, is it? I mean, I can understand you saying that about her..."

"Consider this. Your child, responsible for life and death decisions and complex treatments. The same child you had to pester weekly to stop daydreaming during Potions in third year and remind not to keep sitting on his wand. Working on real, live people with real, live problems. Tell me that wouldn't scare the bejeezus out of you. Because it doesn't matter that he's gone on to be a responsible adult who scored quite well in Potions. In your mind, he's still the nine-year-old that used the entire bottle of apple vinegar and trussed his younger brother up in enough bandages for a full mummification in response to a skinned knee, because he thought it would be, get this, fun and incredibly funny. Evidently, Magda didn't agree, because I don't remember her sounding the least bit amused when she called me up in China at three in the morning local time. She gets me up after a thirteen-hour exhibition match that didn't end until two in the morning to recruit me to give him another raking over it. She felt one was insufficient," Viktor said. "I rather suspect Stan was similarly unamused."

Hermione laughed. "Apple vinegar? The smell alone... must have been like a salad vinaigrette! Surely it wasn't that serious an offense, was it? For a transcontinental scolding at three in the morning?" Hermione asked, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "Surely she just forgot the time difference, didn't she?"

"That woman never forgot a time difference. She could have told you the local time in Bangkok or Bangor without blinking. She knew what time it was. Have you ever tried to console a kid that's been doused in an entire bottle of apple vinegar, wrapped up so tight he can't move and then teased about it for a half hour? Then you have to try to clean said squalling child up, doctor a knee that looks like hamburger and has been covered in vinegar, and then try to figure out how to handle the one who thinks this is all a big joke. They just don't cover that in the parenting books," Viktor paused to dab at his own eyes. "Besides, Magda was definitely not in the mood at the time. It was right in the middle of a record hot spell, it was sweltering, I was gone for five days for exhibition play and she was almost eight months gone with Anna. Magda wasn't feeling particularly charitable toward any of us right then. Judging from the 'why on earth do you males do insane things like this' rant I was on the receiving end of while still in my pajamas and half-awake at best, I think a little of it might have been frustration over thinking she was about to be stuck with yet another boy. I do believe she was getting a shade impatient for a girl, for a change. Delusions of 'girls aren't like this', you see. Miss Anna was not doing the rest of us any favors by constantly planting the big feet she so unfortunately inherited from me into her mother's kidneys, and giving Magda the worst case of chronic heartburn known to woman, evidently. It was a crazy four months or so. I guess the boys were pretty needy and acting up a lot more to get some attention. New baby coming, and all."

"You're beginning to make me grateful I just had the one," Hermione said, trying to catch her breath. "You think they did things like that because they were jealous?"

"Well, that, and because kids are kids and they do kid things. We once caught Stan pinching Anna to get her to cry so he could ask to rock her in the cradle to make her stop crying, because he loved her so much that he wanted to help. I mean, how can you argue with logic like that? We had to have a little talk about how pinching hurts, so perhaps it's not a good idea to pinch the baby and give her the idea that she can pinch you when she gets a little bigger, because nobody likes being pinched. In fact, that's why babies cry when you pinch them, and they already cry quite enough on their own," Viktor explained. "Of course, then Anna turns out to be a hair-grabber, instead. Real hair fiend. Latched on like a crazed Jarvey every time you got within reach. You had to pry her fingers loose to put her down. I have to say the boys were awfully patient with that. In other words, they did some things because they were jealous, some because they meant well but were misguided, and some things probably just because it occurred to them to do it. Children are regular little Sir Edmund Hilarys about everything. Why did you do that? Because it was there. They were no worse and no better than any other three children in the same house. Don't tell me Simon didn't get some of that with all those cousins."

"Well, sure, but it was in carefully measured small doses. And mostly at Molly's. They weren't all around each other constantly," Hermione said. "Simon tended to be so glad to have someone to play with for a change, that I think they all strove to get along a little better than most. That, and Molly ruled with an iron hand when it came to the grandkids fighting. A hand of iron for her, anyway. The grandchildren all knew she was more bark than bite just like Fred and George did. They had their fair share of dustups. Simon once got a black eye over a set of Quidditch cards for which the ownership was in dispute, but I can' t say there was all that much bodily harm due to ill intent."

Viktor waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, it doesn't have to be from ill intent. I've got you beat, there. Mine tended to hurt each other worse when there wasn't any ill intent. Maybe Vladimir went into healing because he thought he was going to have to help out with the family medical bills if they were all any nicer to each other. Anna gave Vladimir two massive shiners when he got the bright idea to show her how to use a Beater's club. He showed her, all right. Maybe a little too well. He got too close when she was practicing her swing. With everything she had in her, evidently, because my six-year-old daughter nearly broke my fifteen-year-old's nose and gave him a mild concussion. Do you know... how hard... it is... not to... not to laugh when you explain that to the mediwizard? I think I nearly bit my tongue in two," Viktor explained between fits of laughter. "And Anna wasn't helping matters, because she just kept sitting there on my lap, wailing to beat the band and saying, 'But, Tate, he told me to swing hard, and I did! I can't help it his face got in the way!' over and over. Stan either. He couldn't stop giggling and I couldn't look at him. I don't know whether to be peeved or grateful that Magda was out shopping with her mother that day. I suspect if the two of us had been together at the time, we wouldn't have been able to stop laughing long enough to take the boy to the mediwizard. We laughed in bed that night until we cried and our sides hurt, like a couple of complete loonies. Might not have happened if the poor boy hadn't had a nose almost as big as mine. That's not entirely my fault, though, because Magda had a 'Roman' nose, too, you know," Viktor concluded. "Hers just wasn't quite the size of Rome."

"And to think, I used to worry that Simon might have been healthier with some siblings. I used to worry that him being an only child and spending all that time alone with his books might be detrimental. Sounds like it saved me a lot in insurance and medical bills," Hermione said, wiping her eyes again. "Paper cuts and deciding to try out things he read in books were about the only things I had to worry about. There was the time we had to leave the house to air out for a week when he tried out a Potion he read in a storybook, without knowing what it was. Turned out to be do-it-yourself Dungbombs, more or less."

"Well, one thing about it. If you can survive your family, you end up a lot tougher. Sure was different for Magda and me. We were both only children. It was a circus, certainly, but it was a pretty entertaining one. I don't mean to make it sound like they were complete heathens. They surprised us a lot with how tender they could be with one another. It's gratifying to catch your eleven-year-old reading to the toddler without anyone asking him to. Or consoling his brother about a scraped elbow. Probably because we were out of vinegar and bandages, but still... They're all a lot closer than I figured they would be, given the age gap. Poor Anna, she had it worse than Ginny. And she was mad about her brothers. You would have thought Christmas had come early whenever they came home for breaks and holidays. Didn't keep her from wanting to kill them occasionally, but then, to be fair, it didn't keep Magda and me from wanting to kill them a few times," Viktor said with a shrug.

"Three is a pretty impressive brood," Hermione murmured.

"It's even more impressive when you know we didn't plan to have any," Viktor said.

"What? How do you accidentally have three children?" Hermione said with a short laugh, then she sobered when she realized he was serious.

"Oh, Magda and I talked about it. We were still undecided when we got married, so we put a moratorium on even talking about it for a while. Eventually, we weighed the pros and the cons, and we thought it over for months, about a year, actually, and we came to the conclusion that we were too busy and selfish to be good parents. We traveled too much, we were both a little too absorbed in what we did for a living, we didn't want the responsibility, we weren't prepared, so on and so on. So, we made the very mature, sensible decision that we shouldn't be having any children, at least not at that stage of our lives, that was that, and if either of us changed our minds later, we could always reopen the subject. And all that debating became completely moot three months later when Magda unexpectedly turned up pregnant. Oops. We were a mix of horrified, petrified and elated, but after that first one, a couple more aren't too scary. We went from 'None, thanks,' to 'Well, one's not so bad. Actually it's kind of nice, and having a sibling might not be a bad idea,' to "We would like to try until we get a girl, wouldn't we?' in less than a decade."

"So, Vladimir was an accident, but the rest weren't? I can understand that. We were completely paralyzed for about a week after finding out Simon was coming. And we had been planning him," Hermione said. "Ron literally stopped talking for about three days. He just went off and had quiet little panic attacks about money, bills, feedings at three in the morning, and names."

"I had a few panic attacks, too. I imagine every father does. It's scary, being handed this thing that's so completely out of your control. You just stand by and watch for nine months and feel completely helpless and useless. Then you get this tiny little creature that doesn't come with instructions and you feel twice as helpless and useless. But Vladimir was a happy accident. Fitting. It was something of a theme with Magda and me. Happy accidents," Viktor mused.

"How's that?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Get me to tell you sometime about how I met Magda in the first place. Our entire relationship seemed to be based on bodily injury and accidents. Hadn't we better be getting back? I hate to call it a night, but it's not going to get any warmer," Viktor said, sounding reluctant.

"Put your glasses in your pocket, this time," Hermione reminded him with a smile.

"See, you obviously made a good Mum. Next, you'll be telling me I need a scarf when I go out, or I'll catch cold," Viktor replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Evtimov, there had better be a darned good reason you're camped out in front of my hotel room at this time of night," Viktor said in a low voice, opening the door and waving Evtimov in ahead of him.

"You're the one who stayed out until this time of night. Must have been some dinner," Evtimov griped back. "I thought you might be interested in discussing something, Viktor."

"Ilian, I'm frozen half to death, not quite drunk but I'm a little past tipsy, and I'm not really in the mood. I just want to go to bed. Can't it wait until morning? I really need to write a quick note," Viktor said, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, pausing in taking off his winter gear.

"It was evidently a good move to ask for figures. From what I hear, it's gotten them to consider this thing more seriously. Makes it more real. There was a frenzy of owling to Ministries for reports and such after the session ended today. Some of them weren't really seeing it as a serious possibility before. So... good move," Evtimov said, hovering nearby.

"You didn't have to come back to check up on me, " Viktor said mildly. "And if it had backfired, which it very well might have, you would be up until three in the morning trying to figure out a way to fix the damage. So don't go complimenting my genius on that score."

"I wasn't," Evtimov protested defensively. "Checking up on you, I mean. I thought you would want to hear. Oh, and Czolosz already figures you've got something up your sleeve about convincing Romania and Transylvania. They make their statements tomorrow. Everybody knows they're going to be the real holdouts. Isolationists. Do you?"

"The hell you weren't checking up on me. If you were any more transparent I could examine your insides, and right now I couldn't find my own sleeve, much less pull anything out of it, I'm so tired. But since you're here, I have a job for you. Do two things for me, Evtimov. Wait, make that three," Viktor said, holding up three fingers.

"I wasn't, and of course. What do you want?" Evtimov asked.

"One, write Headmistress Minerva McGonagall on my behalf and tell her the matter is being looked into, I'll write personally when I have more time and information. She'll know what you're talking about. Second, don't let me catch you in front of my door when you could be doing something far more sensible, like sleeping, in your limited spare time at this thing. You're sweet, Evtimov, but you've already got the one child, don't try to make it two by adding me. Third, draft up a short... proposal... study... analysis, whatever you want to call it about the logistics of hosting the Triwizard Tournament at Durmstrang," Viktor said, sinking wearily into the armchair beside the bed. "History books should be of some help. Nothing too detailed, just a preliminary look."

"The... Tournament? You want a proposal on reviving the Tournament?" Evtimov asked incredulously.

"I haven't gone completely mad, Evtimov. McGonagall suggested it, I've thought it over and figure it would most likely be a good idea, since things like this are liable to take the rest of my lifetime, and I just want some more information on the possibility. Nothing's set at all, Ilian. I'm just considering how crazy I would have to be to suggest it to the Board of Governors. Or how drunk. Now, could we please both get some sleep? Or was there something else?" Viktor asked when Evtimov didn't move and looked as though he wished to say something else.

"Well, where are your glasses?" Evtimov blurted out.

"In my cloak pocket. I didn't want the blasted things freezing to my face. Now, go to bed. Shoo," Viktor said mildly, waving a hand at him. "Oh, and Ilian?" Viktor called after him when he was nearly to the door. "Yes, it was."

"Yes, what was what?" Evtimov asked, sounding thoroughly flummoxed.

"Some dinner. Now, would you please stop fretting over me like a broody Chinese Fireball, Evtimov?" Viktor said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"I'll try. You'll have your proposal as soon as I can get it together-"

"No rush, Evtimov. When you have time. Wait until we get back, in fact. And when you've had some sleep," Viktor added. "This won't go at the glacial speed of Ministry business, but it's not going to happen overnight, either."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm sorry, could you tell me the time?" Hermione whispered to the young woman next to her. She had searched the room in vain for a clock and she had forgotten her own watch in her sleepy haze this morning. Finally, in desperation, she decided to throw herself on the mercy of this woman who looked like she couldn't even be as old as Simon.

"Fifteen minutes until we're due to break. Don't worry, you won't miss your husband," the woman murmured distractedly, still watching the lecturer.

"Husband?" Hermione said blankly,

"Yeah. Isn't that guy you meet every day for lunch your husband?" the younger woman asked, turning to look at Hermione.

Hermione looked at her blankly for a moment, almost nodded, rather than explain the truth. "He's... not my husband. He's... a friend," Hermione stammered, cursing the embarrassed flush that she could feel creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

"Could have fooled me. Might make your husband jealous to see the two of you together, then. You rushed out of here yesterday like you had a hot date," the other woman joked.

"I'm widowed," Hermione blurted out without thinking, unconsciously touching the ring she still wore on a chain around her neck.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize," the woman said, looking stricken. "I was only joshing. It's just... you mentioned a son when we were talking yesterday and I assumed you were married to that man, and-"

"It's okay. You don't have to apologize. It was an honest mistake, and my husband's been gone a long while. Really," Hermione assured her, turning her attention back to her own lecture notes. She studied them closely, but didn't take in a single word more of what the lecturer was saying. She looked up only when the chairs began to scrape and protest around her in the shuffle to leave.

"Look, I really am sorry. I put my foot in my mouth clear up to my knee. Goes to show you shouldn't make assumptions. It's just that he looked familiar, somehow, and I figured the two of you must have been at the conference in Brussels last year and I had seen you two out and about together there. If it's any consolation, I thought the two of you made a really cute couple," Hermione's seatmate offered in a conciliatory tone. "That's sweet how he walks you back after lunch."

"I didn't attend last year. He's an old friend I haven't seen for years," Hermione said. She almost added nothing more, but then stopped herself. "We've been catching up."

"That's nice. Have a good lunch with your friend, then. See you in the afternoon sessions," the younger woman said, nodding and hurrying to the hall.

Hermione paused and looked over her scattered belongings on the table. Why did I do that? Blush and stammer like a schoolgirl? It's not as though I haven't had to disabuse plenty of people of the notion that I had a husband waiting for me... Maybe because I didn't want to disabuse her of the notion. Maybe I wanted, just for an instant, maybe I wanted... something-

"Something the matter?"

"Eh?" Hermione asked, starting guiltily and meeting Viktor's gaze.

"Lost something? You look like you're cataloguing the contents of the table," Viktor said, gesturing toward the quill, ink, parchment and handouts in front of her chair.

"Lost something?" Hermione echoed. "Yes. My mind. I started out this morning by forgetting my watch," she said, scrambling to gather her things and toss them into her satchel.

"You're sure it's nothing more serious? That was some heavy duty frowning you were doing at that table," Viktor said, picking up the stack of handouts and tapping the edges against the table to neaten them.

"Trying to figure out why today has mostly gone all pear shaped, I suppose," Hermione said with a heavy sigh.

"Know what will make a bad morning all better?" Viktor said, examining her over the top of his glasses.

"No. What?" Hermione asked.

"Buying me lunch," Viktor deadpanned.

"And how exactly does buying you lunch make things better?" Hermione said, smiling slightly in spite of herself.

"Two ways. One, I never said it would make things better for you, but it sure will for me. And two, by the time we get done eating it, it won't be morning any more. It will then, officially, be a pear shaped afternoon. Come on, if it doesn't look better after lunch, I'll buy you an ice cream on the way back," Viktor cajoled.

"And if it does look better?" Hermione asked.

"I'll still buy you an ice cream," Viktor replied.

"So an ice cream is supposed to cheer me up, hmm?" Hermione said skeptically. "If I didn't know better, I would swear you were trying to bribe me into a better mood."

"I think we've already established last evening that I'm not above petty bribery in negotiations. It usually costs me a lot more than an ice cream, but I don't think there are any liquor stores between here and the ice cream parlor. I'm going with the most available option. If you want liquor, you're going to have to wait until dinner, assuming you don't think dinner with me would put you in an even fouler mood," Viktor said.

"It's not really a foul mood, it's just an odd funk. Everything's been all... off, today. Especially me," Hermione admitted.

"Shall we run you back to the hotel so you can try getting up on the other side of the bed?" Viktor asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Ice cream's closer and I'm lazy. Besides, you owe me a story," Hermione said, hooking her arm through his, nudging him toward the door.

"A story?" Viktor asked.

"Yes. You promised last night, remember. One of happy accident and bodily injury. How Viktor met Magda," Hermione explained.

"Oh, that one. Over soup? There's a cafe right across from the ice cream," Viktor offered.

"Soup would be lovely. Soup it is," Hermione said as they walked toward the dining pavilion. She could feel her mood brightening considerably already.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, out with it," Hermione said, blowing on her spoonful of vegetable soup. "Let's hear this highly romantic story."

"If you're expecting something romantic, I imagine you're going to be mightily disappointed. I guess if you were being really generous, you could say I swept her off her feet right from the beginning, but that's heavy editing. I met my wife because I'm the world's biggest, most inconsiderate klutz on the ground, plain and simple," Viktor said.

"You're not," Hermione protested.

"I was that day. Or perhaps it should be because I'm such a tall bastard. She kindly pointed both of those things out at top volume while she was giving me what for," Viktor said with a chuckle.

"I'm sure I have no idea where this is going, so do share," Hermione said.

"I was... supposed to be going to a match against Iceland at the Bulgarian National Stadium, and we were required to be there an hour before the match started, or you could be fined, according to your contract. So, of course, I oversleep for about the first time ever, and I detest being late anyway, and I was damned if I was going to be late, so I Apparated up as close as I could get, then ran as hard as I could go for the stadium. If I hurried, I still had a chance to make it on time. So, I'm barreling around the stadium, heading for the back player entrance, and all of a sudden, blam. I've obviously run into something. Actually, it turned out to be someone. A someone who I have managed to knock completely off their feet and flat onto their back. I have also gifted said person with a humongous bruise right below their eye, a scraped arm, and one whale of a knot and a huge purple bruise where I have planted my bony damned knee into their thigh, as I am so helpfully told right after. Next thing I know, I'm getting called out about watching where I'm going in the loudest way possible in some of the filthiest Bulgarian you've ever heard. Would have made a locker room blush. It was the woman I ended up marrying," Viktor said.

"So... just to be clear here... Magda..." Hermione said, letting the sentence dangle.

A slow smile spread across Viktor's face and he nodded. "Was the someone I flattened. Never even saw her until she started letting me have an earful over it. So... there I am, I've just bowled over this teeny little woman, and she's cursing me like I deserve and we're starting to draw a crowd. I help her up and fall all over myself explaining and apologizing, and she will... not... shut... up. She's cataloguing her injuries out loud to anybody within a three-mile radius and calling me eighteen different kinds of fool and she will not be shushed. Then she recognized me, and that did not help. In fact, it just gets her started all over again, asking me who the hell I think I am and why was I late in the first place and did I think I was too good to show up for matches on time. So, in desperation, I promise to get her into the top box for the match and I promise I'll make it up to her, somehow. Of course, the top box turns out to be completely filled, so I have to talk the coach into letting her sit on the bench with him. That downgraded her to just glaring a hole through me for the duration of the match, at least."

Hermione could stifle her laughter no longer. "And this... this turned into a relationship how?"

"After the match, which was, thankfully, one, a victory, and two, kind of long, I went to see if I could get this annoying, screeching little harpy off my back about running into her. I was about as mad at her about giving me a hard time over it as I was ashamed that I had done it. I tried talking her into seeing the team mediwizard to get patched up, and she flat out refused. In fact, she looked at me like I had suggested she kiss a Basilisk. I asked her what would help make up for it, and she told me she didn't know. So, again, in total desperation, I asked if I could treat her to dinner and maybe she could think it over while we ate, assuming I didn't manage to kill her on the way to the restaurant. Well, at least she laughed. A little," Viktor said, rolling his eyes and pausing to take a drink of his tea. "While I was in the locker room, cleaning up, the coach and the reserves kept drilling me about why I had come in dragging this woman who looked like she had been through the wars, who the heck was she, how did she know so much about Quidditch, and all that. That's when I realized I didn't even have any idea what her name was. I hadn't bothered to ask."

"She didn't give you her name?" Hermione asked.

"She gave me several names, but she was using all of them to refer to me, and none of them are repeatable in polite company," Viktor said with a laugh. "Needless to say, I was a mite intrigued by the knowing so much about Quidditch remark, so I asked what they meant. Turns out she was critiquing every aspect of the game, in detail, and very well, I might add. She even very helpfully pointed out a minor mistake I made three quarters of the way in that the coach missed. Magda's father was a real Quidditch fiend, and she hung with her father like there was a Permanent Sticking Charm involved, so she picked it up from him. Anyway, armed with absolutely nothing but the knowledge that she knew Quidditch when she saw it, I went skulking back out to the bench to collect her and take her to dinner, half hoping she would have changed her mind in the meantime."

"Daddy's girl, hmm? And skulking? Skulking?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Oh, I skulked. I must have. She told me to stop doing it and to stop looking at her like I wanted to strangle her since I had already tackled her. I told her if she wanted that, she would have to stop acting like she was asking for it, because as I had already explained a hundred times, it was an accident. This tiny little thing, all of five foot nothing, about a hundred pounds soaking wet, and with an upper arm I could wrap my fingers around, managed to get up my nose in about a dozen ways in less than ten minutes. And I know what you're thinking. Easy target. But Magda went right for the jugular. I offered to let her pick the restaurant, and she immediately goes right for the most expensive, exclusive place in the entire city of Sofia. And she has the gall to tell me she's doing it. 'Korrina's. And yes, I know it costs an arm and a leg, and I know you'll have to pull strings to get us in tonight, and I don't care. You owe me that, at least,' she says. And she insists on going as is, grass stains, bruises and all," Viktor explained.

"Then what?" Hermione pressed, listening intently.

"We went to dinner and managed not to kill one another. I got us in, after resorting to a liberal combination of bribery and tossing my name around, which I hate, in less than an hour, and we called a truce and ate together. I think she picked Korrina's just to see if I would renege, and she was a little surprised that I didn't. While we were waiting, I found out such vital information as her name and that saying she knew a lot about Quidditch was a major understatement. And she wasn't such a screeching harpy when she had cooled off a shade and talked about Quidditch. She was fair and balanced, and pretty keen in her assessments. And I held off as long as I could on playing the 'do you know who I am' card. I only did it when it looked like there was going to be a three hour wait for someone who wasn't 'somebody' and turned about forty-nine shades of red while doing it, so she cut me a break. Figured the arrogant bastard who ran her over must not be so arrogant if he couldn't even pull the 'let me give you my name anyway, just in case a table comes up' trick without looking sheepish when the host is practically angling for it, anyway. I just about died of embarrassment when he made me give him an autograph," Viktor said, shaking his head. "I think I kept praying for the floor to open up and swallow me."

"How could she think you were arrogant? If I've ever met anyone less full of themselves, I can't think who it would be," Hermione said soothingly.

"I seem to recall someone announcing very loudly in a school library that I wasn't even that good looking and those silly girls only liked me because I was famous," Viktor said, propping his chin. "Before they met me, anyway."

"You heard that?" Hermione asked guiltily, turning red.

"Sound carries in that library. And you made the mistake of saying it during a break in the giggling. Besides, you were right. It's a very silly girl that only likes you because you're famous. People make assumptions about you if they recognize your name, remember? Obviously you can't have a public job nor be a good athlete without an ego the size of Gilderoy Lockhart's. Heaven forbid you be a well-known athlete. You need to rent out a country estate for your ego to roam free. I simply hit it lucky that Magda was just as astute as you were about seeing through all that bull. I... surprised her. And not much surprised Magda. And she... surprised me," Viktor said softly, pausing for a long while. "Once she stopped grinding her teeth at me... she was... interesting and about four different kinds of confusing. She would bounce back and forth between dissecting Japan's defense and talking about current events or her family, or what was in the newspaper and... She didn't let me get away with anything."

"Get away with anything?" Hermione echoed.

"Magda never let me get a lazy answer by her," Viktor clarified, looking distant and turning his cup between his fingers. "I couldn't just nod and smile and hope she let it go if she asked what I thought about something the Ministry was doing, or if I liked a certain museum, or what I thought of a certain team's Chasers. She would run me to the wall and pin me down about it, and demand an answer that satisfied her. Yes and no wasn't good enough. Everything had to be why and where and how, and somehow, it didn't annoy me when she asked for it. She didn't do it to be nosy, but she did it to understand you. When she asked, you could tell she really cared what the answer was. She wanted to know. She's the first person who dared ask me much about what went on in Britain. She made me explain why I loved flying. And by dessert, she was on about painting and I didn't stand a chance from there on out," Viktor said.

"Painting? What got that started?" Hermione prompted.

"Museum talk, I think. Magda asked about whether I had seen this painting at the national museum in Sofia, and before I knew it, she's talking about light and color and composition and texture... and she really comes alive. She's talking my ear off about things I don't understand, mostly, and I don't care, because she's got this look on her face... this... pure... beatific... I... I don't have the words to describe it even. It was this plain... unadulterated... passion for a thing, and I understood that. That I understood. Because Magda looked... the way I felt about flying. And it took my breath away," Viktor murmured, raising his eyes to meet Hermione's. "Does that sound as insane as I think it does?"

"I think you underestimate the romance of this story," Hermione replied in a low tone.

"It wasn't love at first sight. Don't think that. I didn't fall in love with her then and there. I was just... stunned. And... confused. When the meal ended, she said she would take another meal someplace a lot less fancy and a good, round debate on who had the best chance of taking the European Cup, and we would call it even. So, we did that. Only we weren't done arguing by the time the meal was over. So we had to set up another one. And another. I think it took me five meals together to realize she was that pretty. Well out of my league, certainly. A good dozen before either of us realized we were, technically, dating. Probably twenty before either of us would admit we were dating. Even to ourselves, much less each other. Dating her scared me. It felt... disloyal. I wrote you and you said you still weren't ready... and I figured it would never last. I couldn't be that lucky. To encounter two females who were willing to really get to know me and stick around in spite of it? It would never happen," Viktor said, slowly shaking his head back and forth.

"I think you always underestimated yourself," Hermione said quietly, but with conviction.

"A woman that pretty, she could have anybody she wanted. All she would have to do is crook her finger at them, and most men would probably fall all over themselves to do whatever she asked. But I didn't. I don't know why, but I didn't. Maybe because I could never quite convince myself she would ever want me in the first place. I was probably just there until something better came along. Why on earth would she want a moody, disagreeable, cantankerous man who didn't agree with her all the time and clammed up when he didn't want to talk, traveled extensively most of the time, preferred books to people and packed enough emotional baggage to clog up the Danube? I still don't understand why she loved me. I know she did, because she said it, and Magda never said a word in her life that she didn't mean, but I still don't understand why. I damned near swallowed my tongue when she said she did," Viktor elaborated.

"She did because she did," Hermione said, shrugging her shoulders. "You can't explain love. If you could explain it, people would bottle it and sell it. You loved her and the timing was right. It's obvious. It was when you told me the first time. Why?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know," Viktor said weakly. "I just know that after a while, I wanted it and I felt ready," He looked directly into Hermione's eyes. "And before I knew it, she was like air. Necessary. You two... were so much alike. You got that same indescribable look about books, you know."

"Did I?" Hermione asked, surprised, unable to look away.

"I still owe you an ice cream, now the story's out of the way," Viktor said, idly fiddling with his teacup once more. "Collect your bribe. You deserve it for letting me ramble."

"It's not a bribe, by the way," Hermione said, snapping out of it. "This afternoon is not going to be pear shaped. I've said it, and that's the way it's going to be."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sister, but you're a terrible liar," Viktor said, smiling softly.

"Speaking of sleep, could we push dinner back an hour? I'd like a nap before we head out. The sleep deficit is getting to me. I realize I get out earlier than you do, anyway, but I need a little rest before dinner," Hermione admitted.

"Sure," Viktor said, looking slightly surprised. "I'll call home and check in before we go."

"Work? You hopeless perfectionist, you," Hermione scolded mildly.

"Grandbaby. I'm starting to suffer withdrawal," Viktor admitted. "I hardly ever go three days without seeing her. I keep her sometimes when they're hard up for a sitter. I sacrifice myself," Viktor said, laying the back of his hand to his forehead in mock fatigue.

"Mmm," Hermione said, pursing her lips. "Why do I get the feeling that child won't be worth two Sickles?"

"I prefer the term priceless, myself. If we're going to get ice cream, we had better be hurrying," Viktor said, checking his watch.

"Oh, all right. Someone would think you had to be somewhere," Hermione said, rising and pushing her chair back under the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor pulled his cloak off the hook and draped it over his arm. He had just ended the last call back home, somewhat reluctantly, and checked on everyone in the process. Stan had assured him that Anna was packed and ready to come home from Spain, he had gotten the daily lunch report on Mila, Vladimir had been nearly ready to leave for a shift at the hospital and his daughter-in-law, Nikolina had been feeding Evangelina her dinner. He glanced at his watch a final time, and decided it was late enough to leave. By the time he made it downstairs, to Hermione's door, it would be time to go.

He hesitated when he raised his hand to knock, checked the watch a final time, and then rapped softly. There was no response, no noise from inside the room. Viktor waited a short while longer, then rapped a shade louder. Still no response. He put a finger to the doorbell, and listened to the chime echoing on the other side. Finally, a frantic rustle of activity, distant, but definitely audible from inside the room. Viktor stepped back slightly when the door was flung open hurriedly from the other side. "I'm so sorry! I hope you weren't out there long! I overslept! I forgot to set an alarm or anything!" Hermione panted breathlessly, clinging to the doorknob as though she were anchoring herself in a gale.

"It's okay," Viktor assured her. "I've only been out here a minute," he added, struggling not to laugh when he realized she was still in a rumpled pair of pajamas, her feet bare and her hair mussed.

"I'm not even ready for dinner." Hermione looked down at herself, suddenly feeling faintly ridiculous in her faded blue pajamas. "Obviously..." she added lamely, her cheeks flushing.

"It's fine. If you would rather rest, I understand," Viktor said.

"No, no. Come on in, at least. Don't hang about out in the hall. Come in and we'll figure out what to do about dinner. I can... I can... I could throw something on if you want to wait a few minutes..." Hermione said distractedly, running her fingers through her hair and pacing after shutting the door behind him.

"Would you prefer to just eat in? Dress code's not a problem, that way," Viktor said, the corners of his mouth twitching subtly.

"You can stop laughing at me in my pajamas. I know they're not exactly haute couture," Hermione said, planting her hands on her hips.

"I'm sorry... I was just thinking I hadn't been greeted at the door to a hotel room by a good looking woman in her nightclothes in a very long time," Viktor said, losing the battle to keep a straight face.

"You!" Hermione scolded good-naturedly, tapping him on the arm.

"I feel I've seriously overdressed for dinner, now. I hope you can forgive me my fashion blunder. My sleeping attire is unavailable at the moment, and I fear the cloak is complete overkill," Viktor said, laughing.

"I'll overlook it. Here, let me at least hang up your cloak. Well, your other cloak, that is," Hermione said, sounding slightly exasperated. "Really, I'm so sorry. I just forgot to set an alarm before lying down, and the travel-"

"No, I'm sorry. If I had known you were sleeping, I wouldn't have rung the bell. In all seriousness, I'll shove off if you want to go back to bed," Viktor offered, sobering.

"No. I'm awake and hungry, now. We might as well have dinner together. You've seen me in far worse states, I'm sure," Hermione said, looking down and tugging at her baggy pajama top. "Are you sure you don't mind eating in?"

"Prefer it, actually. I don't mind skipping the slog in the cold. We'll have them put it on my room tab. I'm up for a good lazing if you are. Anything in particular you fancy?" Viktor asked, reaching for the room service menu lying on the coffee table in the sitting room area.

"Sorry, I'm being rude. Sit down. What's on there? I haven't even looked at it since I've been here," Hermione admitted, sitting on the sofa and tucking her legs beneath her.

"Pretty standard fare, looks like," Viktor said, sitting next to her, tilting the menu toward her. "Sandwiches... pasta... soups... Ooh, steaks. Would it be really awful of me if I twisted your arm for steaks? A filet with sautèed mushrooms and onions sounds terribly appealing. I'd hate to order that and have them hold your order while they fix it, though, if you're really hungry."

"Baked potato and salad?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. "I would wait for that. Especially if there happened to be ranch dressing on the salad and sour cream and chives on the potato."

"I imagine that could be arranged. And to drink?" Viktor prompted.

"Red wine?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"A big slab of red meat, a baked potato and red wine. At this time of night. We'll be passed out before dessert," Viktor said.

"Be worth it, wouldn't it?" Hermione said with a soft smile.

"Well, I never said it wouldn't. Just stating facts," Viktor said, patting her knee before rising. "I'll go put it in," he added, heading for the hearth. "There we are. The damage is done and should be arriving in twenty minutes or less," Viktor said, returning and putting the menu back and sitting down on the sofa once more.

"Call home?" Hermione asked, ruffling her hair absent-mindedly before propping her head against her hand and her elbow against the back of the sofa.

"Yes. Anna's back tomorrow morning, Stan was in from work and Vladimir was just leaving. All's right with the world, I suppose," Viktor murmured.

"So... how come I'm not convinced when you say that?" Hermione asked after a moment's consideration.

"Maybe all is right is a bit of an exaggeration. It could still use some improvement," Viktor said, smiling weakly. "How are things back home for you?"

"All the plants are still clinging to life against all odds, Simon's fine, Molly and Arthur say everyone else is fine, and you're changing the subject," Hermione said shrewdly.

"I'm trying, but you're not cooperating," Viktor replied.

"None of my business?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows in a questioning look.

"Yes... No... I don't know... I'm thinking about something. I have to be crazy for even thinking it, but I'm thinking it. It will likely make me about as popular as the plague for even suggesting it, but I think I have to. And it's all your fault. Yours and Minerva's," Viktor said in a flat voice.

"And how exactly do we merit the blame?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"If I hadn't bumped into you this week, I might could have happily told Minerva to forget it. Find herself somebody else to champion that cause, wait another two hundred years, or whatever. But you had to go and say hello and remind me," Viktor said, plucking at the hem of his robe.

"Could I at least know what I'm getting part of the blame for?" Hermione asked.

"Reminding me how much benefit it would really be if we revived the Triwizard Tournament. Again," Viktor said, shaking his head.

"The Tournament! She's... suggested taking up the Tournament again?" Hermione said, knitting her brows together. "What have I got to do with that?"

"Well... seeing you reminded me just how much value there might be in it, much as I hate to admit it," Viktor said, looking back up at her once more. "Let's face it. If we wait for the Ministries to actually finish the job of bringing everyone closer together, we're all likely to die of old age waiting for it. Forget waiting for the Ministries to put ink to parchment and cement something formal and real and lasting. That's all well and good, but it's sort of coming at the problem backwards. It's not even really about getting the schools closer together and more familiar with one another. It's got nothing to do with the schools really. It's getting the students together in one place. Long enough for them to do something worthwhile," Viktor said, trailing off quietly.

"And what would that be?" Hermione prompted.

"If just one real, lasting friendship gets formed, who knows what impact that would have down the road?" Viktor said with a shrug.

"So, you're thinking it would be better to cut out the middle man, hmm?" Hermione said, pursing her lips. "Students don't have as many reservations as formal delegates. It would be nice if perhaps a future Minister of Magic had old friends tucked away in remote parts. There's always value in having friends far and wide, and all the other cliches?"

"Exactly. Wonderful thing about being young, they're likely to cut through all the idiocy and figure out that foreigners are pretty much the same underneath the strange clothes and the funny accents without too much fuss," Viktor said. "I'll give Dumbledore this, he was a right sneaky old bugger that way. I suppose that was the right way to go about it. When you can't convince the stodgy old stalwarts, go right for the young ones. They're the ones who are going to have to fix what the stodgy old folks mucked up in the first place. I suspect he knew what he was doing, throwing all of us together for a year. If that Tournament hadn't happened, I imagine there would have been no foreign legion whatsoever. And Heaven only knows where Durmstrang would have landed if Karkaroff hadn't exited when he did. Though I doubt Albus planned that."

"You didn't have strange clothes and a funny accent," Hermione protested, laying a hand on Viktor's arm.

"Who was talking about me? I was talking about you," Viktor said, looking amused. "Convince me it's a good idea," he added, sobering.

"I can't make up your mind for you. I know you didn't used to like talking about it. You still don't want to think about it, do you?" Hermione asked softly.

"Honestly, no. Much less bring it up at a Board meeting. Saying 'You know, I think it would be a good idea if we got together with the other academies within easy traveling distance for the occasional Quidditch game,' is a very different prospect from suggesting we revive an event that involved fatalities the last two times it was held. I'm suggesting we involve people's children, here, and while that's all well and good in theory, this isn't theory. Maybe I'll feel differently after I actually get into the nuts and bolts of it," Viktor said. "Know why I didn't tell the Board to shove their invitation to join someplace the sun doesn't shine?"

"Because it's not polite?" Hermione asked with a suppressed laugh.

"Because I lived in an absolute horror of getting a letter about that Tournament every damned August. At least being on the Board assured me I wouldn't be blindsided by it if it happened. Magda never did understand that. Why I wouldn't talk about it. Or the war, much," Viktor murmured.

"Not even with her?" Hermione asked, shaking her head.

"Not even with her," Viktor echoed, shaking his own.

"I thought you said she pinned you to the wall until she got an answer that satisfied her," Hermione said.

"She did. Problem is, there are some things for which there are no answers. If that isn't one of them, I don't know what is. Magda thought you should be able to talk about anything. I think she figured out there just weren't any words..." Viktor explained. "Eventually."

"I take it she never saw...anything of it?" Hermione asked gently.

"She was busy being an art student in Sofia when we were busy... you know," Viktor said. "Magda never had a clue about the half of what we saw. She knew I saw a lot of things I didn't want to. Things I don't like remembering. Even now," Viktor admitted. "So, convince me this is a good idea. Convince me digging all that back up is worth it. And I'm not the only one. Plenty of people don't like thinking about it. Tell me it's worth fighting past all that determination not to remember."

"The war was worth fighting for, wasn't it?" Hermione asked, arching her eyebrows questioningly. "If it was worth it for you to overcome all that reluctance and talk most of the foreign legion into supporting Dumbledore, it's worth it to revive the Tournament. Every little bit helps. Mind you, I say this knowing full well I'm not going to be the one that has to bring it up. But you should. If they listen to anyone, it would be you."

"Still good at telling other people what they should do, I see," Viktor said with a rueful smile.

"You did ask for it," Hermione admonished mildly.

"I did. I was afraid you were going to oblige me, and you did. Don't hold your breath for it being held anytime soon, though. We'll have to approach it like it needs a complete overhaul. The entire concept and setup," Viktor said. "Security and safety, especially."

"I'll try to remember-" Hermione said, starting slightly when the doorbell rang.

"Steak's here, I bet. Want me to get that?" Viktor asked.

"I think you had better," Hermione said, jumping up and heading for the bedroom. "Let me get out of sight before opening it." Hermione ducked behind the door frame and listened to the distant, low sound of Viktor's voice, and the squeaky, eager replies of the house-elf.

"You can come out, now," Viktor called after a moment. "We've got a bit of a problem."

"A problem? What kind of problem?" Hermione asked.

"The leaf on the dining nook table," Viktor said, taking his hand from beneath it, allowing it to swing back with a loud bang. "Won't stay put. Well, it will, just not where it's supposed to. Quite the opposite, actually."

"Then leave it on the coffee table and we'll eat on the sofa. I warn you, I'm much better than I used to be at telling people what to do," Hermione said, crossing her arms.

"Then I feel it only fair to warn you I'm much better than I used to be at ignoring it completely when people tell me what to do. Married a woman that was pretty good at the telling part, too," Viktor said lightly, ducking to look beneath the table and fiddle with something under the leaf.

"Ah, but you forget that the man I married often had the hardest head in the British empire," Hermione said.

"I was fortunate enough to get longer to practice, though," Viktor said, standing and raising the leaf again. This time, it stayed in place. "Spring was loose."

"I would still rather just eat on the sofa," Hermione said.

Viktor looked over his shoulder at her. "Why didn't you say so?" he asked.

"I thought I just did. Somebody was being stubborn about the table leaf," Hermione said, smiling and shaking her head.

"Not stubborn so much as too proud to let a table get the better of him," Viktor admitted, walking up to her. "Your sofa is free, Madam," he added, gesturing toward it.

"Without bribery, even," Hermione said, walking over and sinking into it, leaning over to remove the covers from the dishes on the tray.

"Did you want me to pour this or did you want to pour your own?" Viktor asked, holding up the wine bottle.

"I trust you. I'm still not quite as cautious as poor old Mad-Eye was. Still haven't started carrying my own flask everywhere I go," Hermione said, smiling as she mixed the dressing into her salad.

"Mad-Eye. I haven't thought about him in ages. Paranoid as all hell, but he had reason to be. Here," Viktor said, handing her a glass. "He taught me how to do an Anti-Disapparation Jinx. Well, that, and not to trust your own mother, even. I admit it, though, I admired him as much as I was scared to death of him. Not everyone could get about half their body replaced and just keep going. I'll be honest. That eye of his gave me the heebie-jeebies," Viktor admitted, settling back into the sofa with his own glass and salad bowl.

"Frankly, it gave me the heebie-jeebies, too. It always made me wonder just how much he could see..." Hermione said.

"Saved our behinds more than once, though," Viktor observed. "Lupin... Remus... where is he?"

"London, mostly. He consults with the Auror program, and fills in as a professor when he can get the work, or tutoring. It's under control better than it was, but his health still isn't good. And some people still don't fancy the possibility of him... relapsing or missing a dose. Not many places would be willing to risk the uproar of taking him on full time. He looks... tired all the time. And thirty years older than he should," Hermione added.

"He's a good man. It's a pity people still can't see past his illness," Viktor said. "But then, it's a rare thing when an illness makes you a threat to others, like that. I can see both sides."

"It's not fair," Hermione said, stabbing a forkful of lettuce a little more forcefully than was necessary.

"I never said it was. But tell the truth. Would you have been eager to send Simon off to study under a professor that could tear him limb from limb if something went wrong with his treatment? Missed dose, bad batch of Wolfsbane Potion, bad ingredients. That's what those parents see. An unfortunate accident waiting to happen. Not the man we know. Albus took a lot of chances. Most people wouldn't. Not everyone got the chance to get to know him the way we did," Viktor allowed.

"I wouldn't have," Hermione admitted. "I'm a hypocrite."

"Crazy old man, paranoid old coot, a werewolf, a hopeless klutz, and a bunch of ignorant youths that were too inexperienced to much more than know their arse from their elbow and a third of us needed translators. Kingsley and Hestia were about the only two of the lot who passed for normal and were somewhere in the middle between cradle and grave. How did we manage not to get clobbered, again?" Viktor mused.

"Pure, dumb luck. And stupid, optimistic idealism. We were too sure of how right we were to consider how overmatched we were. I don't think I ever seriously considered the possibility of us not winning in the end," Hermione said, leaning her head lightly against Viktor's upper arm. "Did you?"

"I did once," Viktor said, his voice hoarse. "Scared me so badly I didn't do it again," he confessed, then took a swallow from the wine glass.

Hermione lifted her head. "You know, it's a little sad that Magda never had any idea what you did in the war."

"What? It's a pity my wife didn't know how many people I killed? Including the ones on our side? I killed the ones I talked into joining just as sure as I did the ones on the other side. I would just as soon she didn't know, thanks. I spent a long time trying to forget. I didn't exactly relish the thought of finding out how Magda would have felt about all the things I did. You had it a little easier with Ron. He was there. He saw. He knew," Viktor said, looking her in the eye. "I did not have the words to tell Magda. After a while, I don't think she wanted to know, any more. It was all dead and buried, and she learned to leave it that way."

"I suppose I did have it easier with Ron. At least on that score. There didn't have to be words. You're right. I'm not sure I could explain it to anyone who wasn't there. Did I ever properly thank you for being there?" Hermione asked, putting her empty salad bowl down and taking up her plate. "More ways than one? Even just the willingness to be cried on?"

"I think you more than paid me back," Viktor said, swapping bowl for plate. "Magda didn't have to do quite so much whipping me into shape thanks to my being around you."

"You know, some people would accuse us of being awfully morbid. Talk always seems to turn to either the war or our dead spouses somehow or other. Maybe we should be worried about that," Hermione observed.

"I'd be more worried if we never talked about them. We spent a good portion of our lives with them. Loved them. Married them. Had children with them. Mourned them. You can't ever quite let them go. Or maybe I just can't," Viktor said ruefully, holding out his left hand and inspecting the wedding band there.

"You're not the only one," Hermione confessed after a long moment, reaching into the neck of her pajama top and pulling out the band on a chain.

"You still wear yours, too, hmm?" Viktor asked, hanging it on the tip of his index finger for a moment, then dropping it. "I only swapped hands a year ago. Couldn't bring myself to take it off completely. A few people told me I should. Just take it off and get it over with. I couldn't. In my heart..."

"I was still married. I know. Oddly enough, Molly is the one who suggested the compromise. I couldn't quite bring myself to quit wearing it completely, either. I put it on a chain six years after he died. And I've worn it this way ever since," Hermione said, tucking the ring back into her collar.

"At the risk of sounding nosy, there... hasn't been anyone? Since Ron?" Viktor asked.

"No. Not exactly a huge dating pool for widows with children. No one was interested," Hermione said.

"Now, I can't quite buy that," Viktor admonished. "No one?"

"Do the math. Seriously reduced population, plus most of us delayed marriage longer than average, plus eleven years of being married to someone else and one young son. It does not add up to tons of men to choose from. And you know how it is once you have children. You never just date for you any more. You're dating with them. For them. Simon wasn't ready for me to date for a very long time, anyway. He actually used to nag me about it by the time he got older. Still does, occasionally, but now there's that dating pool population catch, again. There aren't a lot of single people our age. Besides, by then, you're old and set in your ways and not many people will have you," Hermione said with a laugh. "Since what's good for the goose is good for the gander, what about you?"

"Me? Haven't even seriously considered it. In fact, Evtimov brought it up once, in the abstract, a couple of years ago, and I cried. Not surprisingly, he hasn't brought it up, since. You see, he made the unfortunate mistake of bringing it up on Magda's birthday. He had no idea. He meant well. I ended up having to apologize to him for falling apart on him," Viktor explained.

"Why on earth did he bring it up in the first place?" Hermione asked, her jaw slack.

"Because we were working late, and we were the only two people there, and I guess it seemed like a good time to bring it up. Of course, I was working late because I didn't want to go home to an empty house. But he didn't know that. And I suspect he worries about me, for some reason. Magda and I used to have him over a lot, especially before he got married. Magda just thought he was the cutest little overly uptight thing ever when I first brought him home. She threatened to stick a paintbrush up his nose if he called her Madam Krum one more time. He doesn't have any family around close, and he's a good kid who didn't have any say about getting stuck with me. Besides, he's good at what he does, and doesn't drive me batty doing it, so I don't want him looking for employment elsewhere. Or maybe part of it was because he hadn't been married long. You know how people are when they get married. They start seeing everybody else as a project if they don't have somebody. And young people... they just don't understand that losing someone you spent half your life with isn't like breaking up with your girlfriend. Spending twenty-seven years with someone is incomprehensible when you've barely lived that long. He meant to make me feel better, but I hadn't even considered moving my wedding ring, much less going on a date," Viktor said. "That was supposed to be over when I put this on."

"It's so hard to move the ring. Maybe it's the first step to admitting they're gone for good," Hermione said.

"Felt like burying her again. When does it stop hurting so much?" Viktor asked, his voice barely audible.

"What in particular?" Hermione countered.

"Missing them. When does it stop feeling like... Sometimes I go weeks without doing too badly, and then, something happens that I would have told her first, or something I would have asked her first, or something she would have laughed at... and then I miss her so hard I ache," Viktor explained, putting down his empty plate, then idly fingering his wine glass with his left hand.

"I wish I had a timetable. All I can tell you is, after a while, it's more fond memory and not so much ache. Still, every once in a great while, Simon does something so... so... Ron... that I feel like I've been punched right in the gut... but it doesn't last long," Hermione said, putting her plate down as well. On impulse, she reached out and slipped her left hand beneath his right, resting lightly on the sofa, and threaded her fingers up through his, giving his hand a soft, encouraging squeeze.

Viktor gave hers a soft squeeze in return. "I missed you. I ought to be kicked for not keeping in touch."

"We both let things drop. Life plus time plus distance tends to get in the way," Hermione said. She laughed softly, leaning her head against his arm again. "That brood of yours sounds like they kept you plenty busy. Never mind all the jobs and the personal assistant you seem to be raising in addition."

"Busy enough. And you do too much math for your own good," Viktor assented. After a long, comfortable silence he added, "Did you want dessert? There was chocolate mousse on that menu. Unless my memory fails me, you are a fiend for chocolate mousse."

"Like I said, nothing wrong with your memory," Hermione murmured. "Any way we can get it here without either of us having to move?"

"I think at least one of us has to. Do you want coffee with that? Turkish?" Viktor asked, stirring reluctantly.

"That sounds perfect. I could use it. I think the wine has me all fuzzy in the head," Hermione said. "Then again, maybe it should. We've polished off most of the bottle."

"Be here in a couple of minutes," Viktor said, returning from the hearth and sinking back into the sofa, parking the empty wine glass on the coffee table.

"By the time we get done with dessert, I might be glad I'm in my pajamas. That way I don't have to worry about my waistband giving way before dinner's over," Hermione said.

Dessert was eaten mostly in silence. Hermione sat curled and tucked into the corner of the sofa, hands wrapped tightly around her mug of coffee, nursing the last few sips as long as possible when Viktor sat his own empty mug down abruptly and said, "I really should be going. I would say I should be going so you can get ready for bed, but I think you've got that covered, already. If I sit here much longer, I'm going to fall asleep, pajamas or no pajamas."

"Well, thank you for dinner," Hermione said, reaching out and patting his shoulder. "Remember to pick up one of your cloaks on the way out the door," she added with a smile.

"Thank you for the dinner conversation," Viktor replied.

"No problem. It's not a very big club, so sometimes it's hard to find another member to talk to. We have to stick together when we can," Hermione said, shrugging.

"Lunch tomorrow?" Viktor asked.

"What else would I do? See you tomorrow at lunch. Goodnight," Hermione said, peering up at him over the edge of her cup.

"Goodnight," he echoed softly, collecting his cloak from the hook and stepping out into the hall, closing the door gently behind. The lights in the hall and the lamp he had left on inside his own room seemed dim and fuzzy against the darkness of the late hour. Viktor tossed his cloak across the chair, sank gratefully onto the edge of the bed and tugged his boots off, dropping them to the floor. He paused for a few moments, reviewing snippets of the evening's conversation, removed his glasses and settled them on the bedside table, then shook his head as though clearing it. He found he didn't feel much motivated to go through the ordeal of fumbling through the drawer for his pajamas, so he simply stripped off his trousers and short robe, dropping them next to the boots, and slid beneath the covers, drifting off only a few moments after extinguishing the light and resting his head on the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione slid beneath the covers and dimmed the light once more, considering the ceiling above her. It's his floor, she thought suddenly. His room is above mine. Then, curiously, an old saying popped into her head. One man's ceiling is another man's floor. Where had she heard that? She rummaged through her memory, and found a dim recollection of a song lurking there. Now, why did that pop into my head? Because, you dolt, it's true. Heaven knows you should understand that. If anyone should understand what it feels like, you should. You should have said so, Hermione. You should have said, she thought to herself, kicking herself for not having done so earlier.

"You should have said, Hermione. You should have told him. One man's ceiling is another man's floor. And if you tough it out long enough, your old ceiling becomes your new floor. Maybe you've forgotten too much. What it was like. You could have done better than that pitiful little 'me too', Hermione," she chided herself. Maybe you're a little too glad he understands. Nobody else did. Nobody said 'me too' when Ron died. No one could. No one else understood how raw and fresh and tender it could be, even so long after. Everyone else expected you to 'move on' and 'get over it' on their timetable, not yours. Now, someone does understand, and all I can say is that I still miss Ron, too, sometimes. Like I'm excited to finally have someone to share that with. Next time, instead of quoting equations and platitudes at him, try something more useful. Like 'I missed you, too', for a start.

I missed him, too. I missed Viktor. That last thought jarred her awake slightly. It had popped into her muzzy, half-asleep brain completely unbidden, surprising her. It's the wine, she thought in a minor panic. It's not the wine... you genuinely missed him... this... you... you... Her thoughts sputtered out into a sleepy, incoherent, inarticulate jumble, and she couldn't help feeling the same frustration she did when work wasn't cooperating. When she felt an answer was right there, at the tip of her tongue or the back of her mind, tucked into a hiding place, refusing to come out completely. Like a stunning revelation had just flitted across the edge of her vision, then danced off or dissolved away the instant she tried to fix her gaze on it and pin it down. "I ought to be kicked for not keeping in touch," Hermione said aloud, sighing. "Could we please not make that mistake again? I bet we both miss plenty of people we can't keep in touch with, even discounting the spouses," she whispered, touching the ring near her collarbone once more, tracing the patterns on the ceiling with her eyes until her eyelids became heavy and sleep crept upon her and took her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor hooked the extra pillow with his arm and hugged it even closer around his head, trying to block out the noise that kept hacking away at the insulating, hazy cocoon of the deep sleep he was in. Finally, the insistent knocking at the door prevailed, nudging him awake. He squinted at the clock on the bedside table, and hazarded a guess that it read Not Nearly Dawn, or something equally absurd, considering the dimness of the room. He sat up a little uncertainly, trying to gauge how much of the cotton wool feeling in his head was from being woken out of a dead sleep and how much was the wine.

"There had better be a good reason!" he called over his shoulder, in the general direction of the door. It had come out gruffer and crankier than he had intended, but he found he didn't much care. It was too early to bother with being polite. At least the knocking had ceased long enough for him to fumble his dressing gown from the bedpost, get it on and walk to the door with enough alertness to avoid locating the furniture with his shins. "What!?" Viktor snapped, yanking the door open and shading his eyes with a hand in the harsh glare of the hall lights.

"I'm really sorry. I tried to get hold of you last night, but you weren't in until far too late to call in," Evtimov said, holding up his hands in a helpless gesture. "I even left a note at the front desk, but they must have missed you."

"One of the kids had better be hurt, the hotel had better be on fire, or something equally urgent," Viktor said, impatiently waving Evtimov into the room and shutting the door behind him.

"Work-related, I'm afraid," Evtimov said, shaking his head. "I thought you would want to know. Latvia, Romania, Ukraine, and Germany are all threatening to pull out. Completely," he added.

Viktor flopped into the nearest of the overstuffed chairs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes in a pained expression. "How the hell did that happen? Viktor asked tiredly. "Unless they've added midnight sessions I'm not aware of...?" he said, opening his eyes and giving Evtimov a bleary, defeated look.

"A few too many drinks at the bar last night, and a few too many tongues that got too loose after a few tempers got too free. You know how these things are. I always say they shouldn't be allowed to socialize at all. Safer. Some of them were all set to pack up and storm off last night. I got them to hold off until tonight, at least. Told them you would meet with them and smooth things over. What else could I do? Petrovitch can't control them. He wasn't even there, and it wouldn't have made any difference if he had been. He's just letting this thing run wild. They all know it. You might as well be chairing this thing... So, what do we do?" Ilian said helplessly. He was beginning to feel painfully aware of just how early it was, how dark the circles beneath Viktor's eyes were, and how tired he must be. At least I have the good grace to be thoroughly ashamed about rousting him out this early, Evtimov thought ruefully.

"Fix it. What else can we do?" Viktor said with a weak shrug, tightening his hands on the arms of the chair, making his knuckles seem even more prominent than usual. "Germany, Latvia, Ukraine, we have notes on all of them. Their concerns." Even though it hadn't been a question, Evtimov nodded vigorously. "Order breakfast. Coffee. Let me get a quick bath and get rid of the whiskers, at least," Viktor said, scrubbing a hand over his chin, the stubble making a rasping noise. He ran the same hand through his mussed hair, seemingly more in an effort to keep moving and awake than to neaten it.

Viktor rose and walked slowly toward the bath. "Viktor, I'm sorry. If I could have thought of anything else..." Evtimov said, shaking his head as he trailed off.

"It was a good reason," Viktor said with a dispirited shrug, pausing. "I'm sure all they want is someone to listen to them complain, a bit of ego stroking, and a little concession. Even if the concession doesn't mean anything in the long run. We'll feed them on the Ministry Sickle tonight and make them feel like they've been heard. We'll figure out something to offer them that they were going to get anyway and make it seem like we're being generous. By the way, please excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting company this early," Viktor added absently, continuing into the bath and closing the door behind.

Evtimov nearly laughed aloud. The room was about as neat and almost militarily organized as any he had ever seen, save a small pile of clothing beside the rumpled bed and the equally rumpled occupant. Given a few minutes and enough strong coffee, the latter would probably be remedied. Even if it was mostly caffeine-fueled, the usual "fix it, even if it doesn't want fixing" attitude would be a welcome replacement for the rarely glimpsed look of defeat. Evtimov couldn't help but think that he would just about give his own right arm to know exactly where Viktor had been last night that no one at the front desk had spotted him going in or out. But he was far too intelligent to ask this morning. Neither before nor after the coffee.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evtimov doodled in the margins of his notes, trying to look busy while the Romanian delegate, Madam Vanescu, an older woman with iron gray hair and a spine to match droned on and on about giving up sovereignty and independence. Mostly the same useless complaining he had heard the night before in the hotel bar. Hot air at best and paranoid, nationalistic blather at worst. Viktor had placated her somewhat, at least, by agreeing to let her have his spot on the floor today instead of the last day spot she had originally drawn. It hadn't been much of a concession, really, if she had known the whole truth. Viktor had frankly admitted he was still mostly at a loss for what to say in addition to the scant prepared remarks he had put together before coming to the conference. And Evtimov doubted he could have even read those with much enthusiasm, given the draining early morning session they had put in.

Evtimov gave up on the notes and took a guarded, sidelong glance at Viktor, instead. The interest he displayed was feigned, but fairly convincing, at least until the eyelids closed just an instant too long and his chin dropped slightly. Ilian discreetly nudged Viktor's elbow, which was resting on the table, near Evtimov's parchment. Viktor raised his head and returned the sidelong glance for a few moments, then shifted and resituated in his chair, taking the opportunity to fish his watch out to check the time. When he had finished, he removed his glasses and set them on the table in front of him. It was almost like putting out the white flag. Ilian had already checked the time a few minutes prior and found the answer to be slightly depressing. Nearly an hour until the scheduled lunch break, and this yammering about all of Madam Vanescu's reservations about the pitfalls of pledging assistance on paper to one another wasn't getting any more interesting.

By the time the gavel came down to call an end to the morning session, Evtimov had doodled an impressive vine-like border around the entire outside of his parchment, and Viktor had graduated through cracking every single one of his knuckles, drumming his fingers on the table, and polishing the pesky, invisible smudge from one lens of his glasses with the hem of his robe. "I don't guess I need to ask if you still want to put it off until tonight, not lunch?" Evtimov whispered.

"Not lunch. It isn't enough time and I haven't the energy," Viktor said heavily. "Set it up with them, would you? I don't care where. Here would be fine. Somewhere. We have the budget for it, you can pick as well as I can. Are they bringing their minders as well?" he asked lightly, settling his glasses back on and raising one eyebrow above the frames.

"I think I'm the only minder on the list. They don't even like that you're bringing me," Evtimov admitted.

"Tough. You have to keep my foot away from my mouth," Viktor said with a weak, lopsided smile. "And possibly keep me from passing out in my entree. Tell me I didn't snore, at least," he added with a soft chuckle, the first real sign of an improving humor that he had shown all morning.

"No more than I did, and I don't think I did," Evtimov replied briskly. "You sure you don't want to pick the spot, Viktor?"

Viktor shook his head. "Ilian, you can pick a restaurant. Wherever you can get a table for six. Seven," he corrected himself after a moment, glancing over Evtimov's shoulder, toward the door.

"Sev... seven," Evtimov said, scribbling it down, trying not to sound too surprised.

"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe seven," Viktor said uncertainly, rising. "Is that all you need before I go?"

Evtimov debated a moment before replying. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but he was feeling a bit reckless. "Tell Mrs. Weasley... that I, for one, would enjoy seeing her at dinner," Evtimov said evenly, looking up at Viktor. "Provided we don't bore her to death." Not surprisingly, Viktor didn't display any obvious reaction. Evtimov hadn't really expected him to, no matter how tired he might still be.

"I think she's resistant to fatal bores. Get her to tell you about Professor Binns, sometime. She endured seven years of him, and even managed to take notes," Viktor said, walking toward the door.

"Enjoy your lunch," Evtimov tossed over his shoulder, adding cheekily, "Don't pass out in it."

"I'll try to avoid that particular embarrassment, Ilian. And Ilian?" Viktor called back, the footsteps pausing.

"Yes?" Evtimov replied, shuffling the last of his notes into his bag and looking up.

"You could relay that sentiment to Mrs. Weasley yourself, since she's right out there in the hallway," Viktor said, the slightest twitch pulling at one corner of his mouth and nodding his head toward the doorway. Sure enough, she was standing outside, leaning against the wall, peering in through the sea of people rushing out the door.

"I'll let you do it. We haven't been properly introduced," Evtimov said, suppressing a laugh.

"Remind me to take care of that this evening, then," Viktor shot back, turning on his heel and walking out into the hall. Evtimov watched the two of them greet one another and head off together. He would just about wager that the question of where Viktor had been last night had been answered to his satisfaction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I hesitate to ask, because I like you," Viktor said, flopping down unceremoniously onto one of the empty benches near the food court, in front of the fountain, "but since we only have the one more day here, I hate not to. What are you doing tonight, for dinner?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. I assumed we... Why?" Hermione asked suspiciously, sliding onto the bench as well, setting down her takeaway bag. For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, Viktor had suggested walking all the way down to the far end of the food court and visiting the small, unassuming hamburger stand tucked in the corner.

"If you're up for a near-fatal boring meeting, I have to babysit four other delegates this evening. To keep them from throwing tantrums and taking all their toys and heading home. Or rather, Evtimov already did that, now I have to keep them interested and convince them there's something in it for them. There's a free and probably rather nice meal in it for you, but I wouldn't expect the most scintillating dinner conversation," Viktor admitted, setting down the two glass bottles of lemonade and opening them with his wand.

"What, exactly, are they supposed to be interested in?" Hermione asked, taking the one he held out to her.

"Trying to get all of the..." Viktor trailed off and narrowed his eyes, thinking for a long moment, "Durmstrang... area countries to sign an accord that lays the groundwork for a larger accord that would eventually lead to... well... The wizard equivalent of the United Nations, I suppose you could call it. Or that's the quickest, easiest way I can think of to describe it. I'm sure there are reams of explanations tucked away in the Ministries, but that's what it amounts to. Be years before the gavel comes down on the first meeting, at best, but, if we're lucky..."

"I think I should find that fascinating! So... this would be a temporary or a smaller organization, a bit like NATO or the UAE," Hermione said excitedly. "Or the Allied Powers! And I just realized half of what I'm babbling about probably makes no sense, does it?" she added, sagging slightly.

"Allies did. Same time period as Grindelwald. NATO. North Atlantic Treaty Organization, right? You'll have to tell me what the UAE is, though," Viktor replied, peering at her over his raised bottle.

"United Arab Emirates. It's sort of a loose political collaboration, too... Not quite the same thing but... no matter. You would probably be the only one in the room who knows what any of them are. Including the UN. Most wizards aren't much interested in Muggle politics or history," Hermione admitted.

"Maybe they should be. Keep us from making some of the same mistakes. Bunch of infants. I think they ought to be spanked and sent back to their Ministries to stand in the corner for having an idiotic argument in a bar, but I imagine that would put a kink in signing anything if four of the countries go missing," Viktor complained loudly, opening his own bag.

"Shih, aren't you afraid one of them might be within earshot?" Hermione said with a grin, checking over her shoulder guiltily.

"No," Viktor said bluntly. "I'm probably going to have to say it to their faces tonight, albeit more nicely. And none of them would be caught dead down here, eating one of these," he explained, pulling out the hamburger he had ordered. "Not and miss a chance to show off to all the other delegates about how big their Ministry expense accounts are. You still haven't answered."

"Hmm?" Hermione said distractedly, fishing out her own burger. "Oh! Dinner. Sure. Why not?" She added, unwrapping it carefully and taking a bite. "Just curious. Why a burger?" she asked after she had swallowed.

"Because," Viktor said, pausing to take a drink, "it will probably be all fancy stuff tonight, and I'm kind of tired of fancy. And I'm pathetic. I actually like the things," he added with a smile.

"Well, I actually like them, too, but it's not the first thing I would have guessed you wanting for lunch," Hermione said.

"Drawback of traveling so much. Introduces you to all this 'foreign' cuisine you really shouldn't be eating, either. And a great many things I am never touching again with a ten meter pole," Viktor added with a laugh.

"Things you had to swallow anyway because of other envoys?" Hermione pressed.

"Some. Is there a polite way to tell the Japanese commissioner you generally consider raw fish bait for catching dinner, not dinner in itself? But mostly because of Magda. She had this thing about trying new food. And she couldn't just leave well enough alone and try it herself. Oh, no, everybody else had to try it, too. I have the only kids alive who ate things like crepes suzette and broiled trout when they were three. Grant you, I found out I liked a few things I never would have tried otherwise, but still. I never would have tried squid if Magda hadn't practically forced me to at wandpoint," Viktor said with a shake of his head.

"You like squid?" Hermione asked curiously.

"It's wonderful if you enjoy chewing on rubber bands. Similar taste and consistency. No, I detest it, but I wouldn't know that for sure if Magda hadn't made me try it the once. Before, I just didn't eat it on general principle of it looking like that. It used to appall her that sometimes, we would be within walking distance of these great local restaurants, and I would be absolutely dying for a common burger, instead. I was worse than the kids. So, sometimes we ate the burger and sometimes, I tried squid or something else equally disgusting-sounding. You know, haggis actually isn't too terrible if you can forget what it is? And I had to give up turning down fried chicken livers after we ended up in an American diner in the south that didn't serve anything but. Never eat any. They're delicious," Viktor explained.

"Then, why the warning to stay off?" Hermione said with a laugh.

"They've got to be absolutely awful for you. You can practically hear your arteries slamming shut if they're done properly. There are copious amounts of gravy involved, too. Usually near a mound of mashed potatoes that are drowning in butter and approaching the size of your head. And cornbread. That sounded positively dreadful until I tried it. Trust me. Stay well clear of anything served in a restaurant where the waitress calls everyone honey. You'll just end up wanting more, and I hardly ever get back there, these days. Not that it would do me much good, with the Ministry being in New York. I think you need to make it south of the Ohio River for proper fried everything on one plate. Trust me, don't ever try them. You'll be happier in the long run."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Hermione said. "What is it with you men and not wanting to try anything new, anyway?"

"What is it with you women and not wanting to leave well enough alone?" Viktor teased back.

"Ron was exactly the same way. He would have eaten the same five things for dinner every night in a week and not blink. You would think I had asked him to leap off the roof of a Quidditch stadium when I made something different or we went to a new restaurant. Anyone would think you avoided trying new things because you were afraid of not liking something," Hermione mused.

"Well, I'm not that way any more, obviously. Eat far more than is really good for me, to tell the truth. I think we're more afraid of finding out we like something new. Men are creatures of habit. New is scary. Means you might have to change... or risk something... Or worse," Viktor replied, studying her intently.

"Worse?" Hermione prompted.

"Admit it," Viktor elaborated. "Probably nothing a man hates worse than admitting he might need a change," he said, ducking back to the rest of his burger. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"What should I wear?" Hermione ventured, folding up her empty hamburger wrapper and dropping it back into her bag.

"Hmm?" Viktor said, doing the same with his wrapper and nursing his lemonade bottle instead.

"To dinner. What should I wear? Need it be fancy?" Hermione asked.

"Considering the week so far, I think I would have to recommend the pajamas for comfortable napping. I'm sure anything you wear would be fine. You always look quite a bit more than presentable. Even when you don't spend three hours getting ready. In fact, I don't think I've seen anyone look so fetching in pajamas," Viktor said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Hermione sighed. "I think I'll skip the pajamas and dress up. Wouldn't want anyone feeling they hadn't gotten their expense account's worth because my wardrobe was not up to snuff for the restaurant. Now, are you ready to start back?" Hermione asked, looking over her shoulder toward the other end of the convention center, where the meeting rooms were located, then gathering up their discarded bags and tossing them into the rubbish bin.

"Define ready," Viktor said, rising reluctantly. "Do I recognize the time and acknowledge that if we don't want to be late, we had better go? Yes. Do I want to go back? I'd sooner have an Erumpent trample me at the moment," he added with a deep sigh.

"I'll definitely walk next to the wall, then. Just in case," Hermione said, laughing and hooking her arm through his. "Duty calls," she added, giving his arm a tug.

"Duty stinks," Viktor said earnestly, and with such conviction that Hermione couldn't help but laugh again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione considered herself in the mirror for what had to be the tenth time, debating whether the wrap should go with her or stay in the room. She had just decided it should stay, that the inner and outer robes were plenty in the way of layering, when the doorbell rang. Hermione glanced at her watch and noted it was a few minutes earlier than she was expected to be ready. She hadn't even decided what to attempt to do with her hair. She laid the folded wrap on the sofa as she passed to answer the door. "Madam, I am having a note for you," the house elf at the door squeaked out enthusiastically, waving a slip of parchment at her.

"Thank you," Hermione said, fumbling for a pocket. It took a moment to realize that she was without pockets in these robes. "Sorry, just a moment and I'll get your tip-"

"No! No tip, Madam! Glad to be of service!" the house-elf protested, waving his hands and hurrying off down the hall. Hermione shook her head and thought to herself, At least they don't scream bloody murder when you offer them a tip these days. Most of them.

Hermione unfolded the slip of parchment and read Running slightly behind. Work call. Evtimov is supposed to be entertaining the charges downstairs. Shouldn't be more than five minutes late picking you up. Apologies, Viktor. Hermione refolded the note and put it on top of the discarded wrap. On the bright side, it gave her five more minutes to let her hair worry at her, she supposed. Or to reconsider wearing that wrap...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor hurried down the stairs, reluctantly, nevertheless. He was equal parts annoyed and grateful that he had a valid excuse for not already being downstairs, but was just as annoyed about being late, which always bothered him. He hated tardiness. In himself and others. Especially in himself. It went against his grain, excuse or no excuse. Something minor nagged at him, niggling and distant in the back of his brain, something forgotten. He had just pulled up short in front of Hermione's door, and given it a hasty couple of raps with his knuckles when it occurred to him that his face felt unaccustomedly naked. Of course... glasses... Viktor thought, frantically patting at his pockets, praying he had stuck them somewhere on his person while taking the call, rather than having to go all the way back upstairs for them. He finally located them in, of all places, his trouser pocket. "Blasted... things!" he spat, fishing them out.

"No fair being in a foul mood before we even get down there," Hermione said from the open door.

Viktor slipped them on hastily. "I'm sorry, I thought I had forgotten my..."

"You were saying?" Hermione prompted after a moment, leaning against the door frame.

"Mind, apparently," Viktor said with a shrug. "You look incredible. You didn't pack that."

Hermione shook her head. "I did some shopping downstairs. So sue me. Come on in. I need to solicit your opinion on something. As is," she asked, walking into the room a short way and holding out her arms, then indicating the long, flowing inner robe with a silver bodice and black skirt, paired with an outer robe of silver, "or with the wrap?" She hastily flipped the black velvet wrap from the sofa onto her shoulders. "Or maybe without the outer robe and just the wrap?" she added, hastily slipping out of the outer robe and shrugging the wrap up onto her shoulders once more.

"I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree. I have no fashion sense whatsoever," Viktor protested.

"You have eyes and an opinion, don't you?" Hermione countered. "So, which looks best? Come on, I've gone round and round with myself over this."

"That looks... really beautiful. Just like that," Viktor said, evening up one side of the wrap by pulling it farther up her left shoulder. "It all does... but... that."

"Hair look fine? I thought it at least made a change from sticking out in all directions," Hermione said, pointing to the silver comb holding her hair back in a fairly neat French twist. Already a single tendril had partially escaped and hung below the comb. She didn't really pause for an answer, grabbing up a small silver handbag, popping it open and dropping her wand into it. The much larger looking wand disappeared quite easily into the charmed interior.

"It looks great. You... look great," Viktor insisted. "You make me feel a little shabby by comparison," he added, adjusting the sash on the forest green, tunic-like short robe he was wearing.

"Nonsense. You look very sharp. And I bet you didn't have to go down to the shops to find something decent to wear, either. Suppose I had better hope none of the people we're having dinner with went into the same shop," Hermione said ruefully, picking a bit of lint off the wrap.

"I freely admit Magda used to dress me, and Anna largely took over. And I doubt any of them have had time to go shopping. Too busy trying to find something to nitpick about this whole arrangement," Viktor said, shaking his head. "You didn't have to dress up for them, you know."

"Who said I was dressing up for them? I'm dressing up for me. Now, are we going downstairs, or are we just going to stay up here and talk fashion all night?" Hermione asked.

"Don't tempt me," Viktor cautioned, offering his arm.

"Prefer fashion to politics?" Hermione asked in surprise, tucking her own arm into the crook of his.

"Safer subject. Besides, I think it's more the choice of company. I think I could talk about anything with you and enjoy it. Them, they could suck the fun out of anything," Viktor said sourly.

"Don't tempt me to back out," Hermione said, opening the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evtimov surreptitiously checked the clock on the far wall again. He had made the proper excuses, used all the proper platitudes, and ordered all the proper cocktails, and everyone seemed to be occupied pleasantly enough, but he still couldn't help dying a small death every time the minute hand advanced a tick. Twelve minutes past and counting, not that he was counting. Much. "I am sure he will be here soon," Madam Vanescu said, studying Ilian down the bridge of her sharp nose as though he were a rather interesting curiosity. It sounded like a cross between an inquiry and a demand, coming from her, rather than an observation.

"I'm certain the rest of you understand that duties back home didn't simply disappear because he's away," Evtimov said firmly, sounding a great deal more confident than he felt. He could personally wring the neck of that blasted idiot contractor for botching the installation of the new rings at three of the stadiums so badly that half the pitch surfaces were now in need of replacing, leaving them scrambling for an alternate venue for half the matches this next week, but he made sure none of that filtered into his expression. He kept it carefully neutral. If there was one thing he had learned in this job, it was that an unreadable expression was invaluable. Evtimov focused his gaze on the door, sipping at his wine casually, hoping he didn't look nearly as desperate as he felt.

The minute hand crept forward another notch just as the Latvian delegate, Ruskin, cleared his throat impatiently. "Must be some call," he muttered in his oddly impeccable English, twirling the skewered olive perched in his martini.

Evtimov took a look around the table, at all the gray heads, and resisted the urge to tartly remind them that not every delegate had the luxury of being retired from everything else, save full time complaint. Truth be told, he suspected the lot of them rather resented the fact that Viktor had earned such clout before earning a single gray hair. These four at the table had all elbowed and fought their way into their positions at their respective Ministries through politics. He was certain none of them had been begged to take the position. No, they had all coveted the spot and worked for it. "I'm sure he'll be down as soon as possible," Evtimov said again, not rising to the bait, taking a miniscule sip from his own glass. The other glasses were getting worryingly empty. He hated to think how foul the moods would get if he had to, Heaven forbid, order a second round of drinks for everyone before Viktor even made it downstairs.

He let his eyes wander to the door once more, and spotted the familiar, lanky figure and the woman with him, who was getting to be more familiar, of late. Instead of betraying himself further, Evtimov hid his widening smile in his drink and tried to compose himself once more, hoping the wave of relief hadn't been obvious. Viktor raised his hand to Ilian, Ilian acknowledged the gesture, then Viktor and Hermione headed to the bar, to pick up drinks as well. It almost didn't register when the Ukrainian delegate, Kasparov, wondered aloud, "Who on earth is he with? What does he think this is, a dinner date?"

"No idea. Haven't seen him much more than talk with a woman since his wife died," the German, Klaus Kroner said bluntly, twisting in his seat and gawking, open-mouthed. "Hardly seems the type to show up at a business dinner with a... Pretty enough," he added. He looked Hermione up and down appraisingly. "Lovely, but hardly the sort of companion to bring to this. This isn't a cocktail party," he said sternly, blowing indignantly at the thick mustache that unfortunately made him look even more walrus-like than he would have otherwise.

"I'll remind you to-" Evtimov began, but Madam Vanescu interrupted, rapping her fist on the table.

She spoke in staccato fashion, like a professor naming off a list of pranks to a particularly naughty schoolboy. "I'll not have this made light of! This is not some social event! It's not the sort of thing to be bringing your female companionship to! We're going to be discussing far more important things than the weather and sport! It would be one thing if it were his wife, that might pass, but when it's-"

Now Evtimov took his chance to interrupt. "Madam! May I remind you all to mind your manners? Before you go leaping to all sorts of conclusions about appropriateness, may I remind you that Viktor carved out time from his own personal schedule to accommodate you all for this dinner? In his personal time for the four of you to speak to him, openly, outside the conference? When he didn't have to? This is his time, and you were all told you were free to bring along whomever you like as well. You chose not to. You have no right to get bent out of shape simply because he chose to bring along a dinner companion. And before you go complaining further, do any of you even know who that is?" he asked sharply.

"No," Ruskin said, narrowing his eyes. "why should I know anything about Viktor Krum's choice of dinner companions?"

"Because! There's probably only one other person alive in the world who isn't a Ministerial envoy that is more appropriate to sit in on this conversation! And I doubt Harry Potter would be all that interested in dining with any of you," Evtimov snapped back. "That," Ilian hissed in a low voice, "is Hermione Granger Weasley." The four sets of eyes on him widened in surprise, then silently moved back to the couple waiting at the bar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We seem to be attracting some attention. And it doesn't look happy. Are you sure we shouldn't have gone straight to the table?" Hermione asked anxiously, gazing over her shoulder once more, toward the table.

"They have drinks, so we should have drinks. They can see we're here. Besides, here's where all the men in the place are supposed to envy me because I'm with an attractive lady," Viktor replied, leaning against the counter without even looking at the dinner table.

"Whose hair is already escaping," Hermione said, reaching back to tuck the rogue strand back into the twist. "And I doubt I attract the sort of envy Magda did. Besides, it looks more like the lot of them are staring daggers at me."

"And it gives Evtimov long enough to convince them it's acceptable that I brought you. I imagine old Vanescu is having a good old self-righteous rant, and Ruskin and Kasparov are trying to decide whether to throw in with her and be royally offended. Kroner, he's probably too busy admiring the way you look in that outfit to be offended much. There's a good reason he's had four wives. He appreciates the female form a little too avidly. I'll warn you. I hear he pinches. Punch him right in the nose if he does. Or lower. They'll get over it by the time we get to the table," Viktor said with a rueful, halfhearted smile, not even bothering to glance at the table.

Hermione took another long look at the table. "That assessment looks to be uncomfortably accurate. Which scares me, since you aren't even looking at the table. You've been at this too long. If you had told me it would offend them, I wouldn't have come," Hermione said firmly.

"And I would have spent the whole evening contemplating doing myself in with the butter knife. There's good reason I didn't tell you. I knew you wouldn't come if I told you. Those four find offense in everything. We're talking about people who protested my being an envoy to the first summit I attended just because I was supposedly 'far too young' and cried foul one time when Magda attended a lunch with me. And that's all it was. A lunch. No business talk, just lunch. Just because none of them had anyone that actually wanted to eat lunch with them. If it weren't you, it would be my choice of boots. Or something else," Viktor said, catching the attention of the busy bartender. "Really, you look beautiful. I'm sure they're staring mostly because they can't figure out who I'm with. They're just being nosy and veiling it as concern about... whatever. They're wondering what to feed the gossip mill. They haven't seen me with anyone female for a long time, remember?" Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Viktor asked, "What did you want to drink?"

"I hadn't really thought..." she stammered uncertainly, while the bartender waited. "What are you having?"

"I'll take a tomato juice with lemon. With a celery stalk and some salt. And take your time putting it together," Viktor told the bartender. "And whatever she wants."

"I'll take the same," Hermione told the bartender. "You sneaky little devil. You're going to go over there with what looks like a Bloody Mary..."

"They all had the option of staying stone cold sober, too. Evtimov didn't shove the alcohol into their hands. I'm sure he just offered. I like being guaranteed I can drink the lot under the table and not have to worry about how fuzzy my head is. See? I have been at this too long," Viktor said, sliding one of the glasses toward her and paying the bartender. "Thank you."

"I see why you like bringing Evtimov to these things. Easier to run the scam with two of you in on it," Hermione said, lifting her glass and raising an eyebrow at him.

"Absolutely. Now, shh, don't tell on me. If they find out, I'm ruined. We should probably go sit. Looks like Evtimov has them properly hushed up. I could introduce you," Viktor said, taking his glass and cupping her elbow with the other hand. "So you know who to avoid."

"Of course. Now that you've made it impossible for me to run off, screaming into the night. You're sneaky," Hermione scolded. "Very sneaky."

"No, I'm not. I'm just pretty good at making sure the other people do most of the work necessary to beat themselves for me. And bluffing. Works in Wronski Feints and politics, fortunately. Now, are you going to go grace that table with your presence, or are you going to keep Evtimov waiting to be introduced and me eyeing the butter knife?" Viktor asked, nodding his head toward the table where their dinner companions waited, trying not to be too obvious in their curious inspections.

Hermione couldn't help but be reminded of the Yule Ball, when her own classmates had stared and hardly recognized her. That had been both gratifying and horrifying. On the one hand, it had been nice to hear all the whispers about the 'very pretty girl with Viktor Krum', but on the other hand, it had been just a bit disheartening to realize no one had ever thought to say such a thing until she had put in hours on her appearance. When she had complained about the three hours spent getting ready, once, Viktor had cocked a bushy eyebrow and made the rather cryptic comment that obviously, no one around Hogwarts had ever paid much attention to anything. It had taken her quite some time to work out what he had meant. That if it took three hours of getting ready to convince them she was pretty, none of them were looking very hard. "Well, I can't very well be responsible for your demise by butter knife, now, can I?" Hermione replied, allowing him to put his hand on her back and steer her gently forward.

"I hope you all pardon the delay, but I'm sure Evtimov took good care of you. I owe you all an apology, and Evtimov, I owe you an introduction," Viktor said when they reached the table, amidst a shuffle of chairs as the men rose. "Ilian Evtimov, this is Hermione Weasley."

Hermione took the chance to look him over frankly. He couldn't be a great deal older than Simon. In fact, he barely looked as old as Simon. He looked soft and almost certainly had to be older than he looked, to be in his position. The thick, dark brown hair was impeccably kempt, and when he smiled at her, the deep dimple in his cheek made him look, if possible, even younger. She practically had the mad impulse to ask him what year he was in. "An honor and a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Weasley," he said earnestly, with almost as much enthusiasm as he had shown in gesturing with his coffee cup, the first time she had spotted him. "I've heard so much about you."

"Please, Hermione. Mrs. Weasley still seems like it belongs to my mother-in-law. And I imagine most of what you've heard was in history class, if I were to guess," Hermione replied, shaking his hand.

"I've also had the unique privilege of hearing a few personal anecdotes, as well," Evtimov demurred, exchanging a quick glance with Viktor.

"Nothing too embarrassing, I hope," Hermione replied, smiling back.

"All flattering, I assure you," Ilian insisted. Viktor made the rest of the introductions and held one of the empty chairs for her. Hermione sank into it gratefully, her knees feeling a bit too much like they were about to go clacking against each other any second. She said a silent word of thanks that the chair in question was planted between Evtimov and Viktor. After the pleasant formality of ordering dinner, following a seemingly endless recital of specials, they sat in silence for a short space.

"Well?" Viktor said deliberately, raising an eyebrow. Hermione had to duck into her glass to keep from laughing out loud. For a split second, he had looked for all the world like a father that had been called in on a mission to find out which child had started the argument that had gotten out of hand, and more importantly, to put a stop to it. Hermione supposed he had done just that, more than once, with his three. "I did this so you four could bend my ear. So someone start bending it," he added impatiently. When no one spoke up right away, he took a slow sip from his own glass, then muttered, "Fine. I see I needn't have bothered," in a disgusted tone.

"It's just that... the four of us are not convinced that all these agreements are necessary. It's a big sacrifice, asking all of our countries to put up so much, when there's no real proof that there's any gain from it," Kasparov began uncertainly.

"And what, precisely, is such a big sacrifice? All that's asked of the member nations is a bit of time investment, perhaps some money, a new Ministerial position, possibly, and a bit of a formal commitment should any crisis of an international nature come along. If you're really hard pressed to come up with all of those three things, I think you could manage with no more than your Minister devoting a few hours a month to reviewing the proposals and attending a few meetings. I hardly think we're asking too much. We're certainly not asking that you all sacrifice your firstborn, if that's what you're worried about," Viktor replied. "And the benefit... do we really have to lay that out?"

Kasparov snorted derisively. "And I suppose you think our Ministers have so much free time that they have no trouble finding a few hours to devote to that?"

"I doubt any of them are sitting about, twiddling their thumbs for want of anything to do, but I was under the impression that you do pay them to do more than decorate their offices. I don't see any of them crying 'too busy' when there's a good match in country. Or out of country, for that matter. I've yet to be turned down when I offered tickets," Viktor said in an offhand manner, turning his attention back to his glass. "If your Ministers can forfeit six hours out of their busy schedules to sit in the top box for a match of no particular consequence whenever I happen to have some tickets, they can squeeze a few extra hours out for reviewing some paperwork and a little extra travel."

"It's hardly the same," Madam Vanescu drawled out in her nasal, dreary voice.

"If nothing else, they could kill two birds with one stone and review the paperwork during lulls in the matches," Hermione interjected. The barest twitch of a smile flitted over Evtimov's face before he could straighten it back out and hide behind his glass.

"There you go. Seems reasonable enough to me," Viktor said with a shrug, putting his glass down. "Okay, let's say for the sake of argument, your Ministers are all terribly, terribly busy and can't possibly carve another instant out of their schedules to do a speck more work. And you can't afford to create another Ministry position. I'll see what I can do about matching you all up with a neighboring nation. Maybe seeing if the position could be shared between two represented countries, if you're interested. That way, neither country would bear the entire cost, yet both countries would get the benefits of representation and membership. But you have to commit to the organization in the first place. I can't go in and try to make this fly with the other Ministries if you won't sign and complain that you would if someone would do part of the work for you. Some of the more populous countries would probably be open to doing a bit of job sharing, if you're willing to give up a monopoly on the representative's time. Anything wrong with that idea?"

"Would we get equal time with the representative? Equal weight to any other member nation?" Madam Vanescu asked shrewdly, giving Viktor a pointed look.

"One nation, one vote. Assuming it's a voting issue. But the representative casts the vote. Otherwise, I'll see what I can do. No promises. Considering the organization is just now getting off the ground, I expect it can be arranged rather easily with one of the nations that are more eager to participate. Not everyone is hellbent on making this process as difficult as possible," Viktor shot back, lowering his eyebrows and glaring right back. Hermione had the fleeting thought that Madam Vanescu probably only rarely got as good as she gave in the intimidation department. Madam Vanescu soon broke eye contact and went back to inspecting her ice cubes.

"And if the partner nation and our nation don't agree on a key issue of great importance?" Kroner interrupted sharply.

"Up to the discretion of the representative as to who they want to side with. You get what you pay for. If you're too damned cheap to pay for a whole representative, don't bother expecting him or her to represent you wholeheartedly," Viktor replied. "As I said, you already have the option of having a representative devoted solely to your population. Your Minister. You can't have your cake and eat it, too. I'd love to see you try to argue the point, though," he added, casting a sidelong glance at Hermione before the waiter began setting down plates.

"I'm sure several of the delegates would be interested in possible representation deals," Evtimov said over the clatter. "I can give you a list of at least six names that would probably be open to doing just that," he added to Viktor. "Two or three more that would likely consider it."

"It works in the Muggle world, after all. There are plenty of smaller nations that cooperate when it comes to things like this," Hermione insisted. She tried not to notice the way Madam Vanescu pursed her mouth even more tightly at the word 'Muggle'.

This time, the corner of Viktor's mouth twitched slightly. "And I'm sure the lot of you don't want to get shown up by how easily and smoothly the Muggles are able to set up and run something like this," he said, giving Hermione another long look before turning his attention to unfolding his napkin. "And several decades before us, too, I might add."

Ruskin took a rather vicious hack at his chicken with his knife. "I doubt we can be compared to such helpless-"

"I think you had best watch where that sentence is going," Hermione bit off, slightly appalled somewhere in the back of her mind at her own boldness. "Some of us at this table are Muggleborn."

"And the Muggles have us beat by miles on some things. Like international cooperation in times of crisis," Viktor added.

Ruskin smiled coldly, without it reaching his eyes. "Of course. I do apologize. I still doubt any situation with them could be compared to us, however."

"I don't see why not. A despot is a despot, regardless of whether he or she can wield a wand or not. I agree we have a slightly different situation, what with the additional need to keep from trumpeting the fact that we even exist, if we can help it, but our situations aren't so different, deep down. What we need is the same. Some sort of international coalition that can be called on when necessary. If we're all so worried about keeping our heads down that we keep them buried in the sand, we're worse than useless to one another. If we let things fester until we have another Voldemort on our hands, I think even your most oblivious Muggle might notice there's something going on. It's a shade hard to ignore a war going on in the magical world," Viktor shot back. Though the name didn't foster the extreme reaction it had in her youth, Hermione couldn't help but notice the definite effect it had on them all.

"Is that your complete argument? The possibility of another Dark Lord of that caliber?" Kroner asked. "Scare tactics?"

"Grindelwald... Voldemort... the names might change, but the situation doesn't. A wizard or witch gone bad is everyone's problem. Ignore it at your own peril. Last time proved that well enough," Viktor replied.

"There's no evidence that this would have done any good against him," Kroner pointed out.

"Wouldn't it? If any of us had bothered sticking our necks out the first time, maybe he wouldn't have had so many loyal followers still out, about and well connected. Maybe there wouldn't have been so many Lucius Malfoys tucked away in all corners of the world, sitting on all that intelligence and influence, just waiting for Voldemort to show up again. And all those resources. If some of us had even done any dedicated policing in our own backyards, maybe we could have prevented-" Viktor paused momentarily when Evtimov let out a thunderous cough. "Maybe we could have prevented the network of Death Eaters being quite so stable when he returned. And I include my backyard in that statement," Viktor added in a softer tone. "We all let it fester. Britain, too. No one wanted to get their hands dirty or ruffle any feathers."

"Convince me," Kroner said in a deathly quiet voice. "Convince me I get anything out of this." Hermione had to marvel at how Viktor and Ilian patiently explained over the course of dinner what had probably been covered ad nauseum already in the sessions, all week. It took the better part of an hour to include what Hermione supposed were just the highlights. She listened with keen interest, but by the time her plate was empty, she decided the butter knife would indeed look fairly tempting by the time one had spent a week going over this same argument with a room full of these types. At least it was slightly encouraging that Madam Vanescu, Kasparov, and Ruskin had all softened their expressions considerably, and looked more agreeable. The fact that they were each on their second drink might be a bigger contributing factor, Hermione allowed, but at least they weren't looking quite so formidable as they had at the top of the dinner hour. Kroner tented his fingers momentarily, then spoke. "Not convinced," he said, a smug smile crawling across his face.

"Then you're a fool," Viktor said bluntly. This time, Evtimov's near strangulation on his drink wasn't faked in the least. Hermione felt her own jaw slacken. Even Madam Vanescu and Kasparov looked shocked. Kroner's face hardened, if possible, even more, and Ruskin seemed in a big rush to fill the cavernous silence first. He floundered for a second before trying to sound conciliatory.

"It's just... you're being so hasty about all of this. We need time to examine all the angles. You can't just expect us to sign up for this without adequate evidence to decide it's necessary," Ruskin said finally. He sounded practically meek compared with his prior blustering. Hermione thought he looked awfully deflated, given the pompous, superior attitude he had taken earlier.

"If you haven't seen enough evidence, it's your own fault. You're not looking very closely. How much does it take, Ruskin? Do the heavenly host have to come down and sing about the necessity of this organization in three part harmony? If so, I'll see what I can arrange," Viktor said tartly.

"You... you obviously... think it's self-evident. We mightn't," Madam Vanescu added in a flat voice. She, too, seemed to have lost her nerve in the face of a real confrontation.

"Isn't it? Exactly how many times does the magical world have to be pushed to the brink of destruction before it becomes self-evident!? How many bodies? Do we count the Muggles? Or do they not count for anything? Plenty of dead wizards and witches! I could name a lot of them! Do you prefer I go alphabetically or by age!? I'm sure if I skip one, Hermione could fill in the blanks!" Viktor said through clenched teeth. By now, all the other delegates aside from Kroner were finding the tabletop immensely interesting.

"That won't ever happen again! It's all alarmist claptrap! You think you can scare us into signing!" Kroner spat back.

"That's the most incredibly ridiculous thing I've ever heard! Won't happen again?! When it's already happened twice in my lifetime! You are a fool!" Hermione felt as much as saw six pairs of eyes slowly fall on her. Her better judgment shouted at her to shut up and leave well enough alone, but the damage had already been done, she supposed, and the words tumbled out in a rush. "Not one of you was anywhere near any of the fighting, I bet! You didn't send your sons or daughters, you considered the Muggles that died faceless strangers, and the wizards and witches little better!" Hermione could hear herself getting more shrill and hysterical sounding as she went on. "None of you want to think about it happening again, but it could! It will! Especially if you turn a blind eye to one another! If you don't cooperate. You can stick your fingers in your ears if you like, but it doesn't prevent it from happening. The more you deny the possibility, the more likely it is to happen. It's the perfect environment for them, the lot of you dickering over what's meaningless in the long run, like who gets what tiny advantage! And with you or without you, others will sign. Most people will see reason, before it happens in their back garden," Hermione finished, swallowing hard. "Everyone else will. You'll be a laughing stock if you refuse to sign."

The other occupants of the table seemed frozen in place for a few long moments. Then Kroner gaped, flummoxed and at a loss for words for an instant. "Surely you can't agree with that!" he demanded, reddening and pointing indignantly at Hermione.

Viktor paused, took a slow sip from his glass, then cleared his throat. "I have to disagree on a couple of points, I admit. For a start, that's not the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, and I'm not quite so optimistic, but then, I've been to more of these things than Hermione has," he said, sounding like he was commenting on something inconsequential, like the weather. "Is that your argument in all its glory? It's too much cost, too much bother, and I'm trying to scare you with bogeymen? This is what the four of you dragged me down to hear? This is what got the four of you into an argument over whether to leave? You're worse than I thought."

"It's the ridiculous, cockeyed idealism of naive youth. Everyone agrees to help everyone else, we all hold hands and sing, and nothing awful ever happens again. Especially not big, bad wars. Heaven forbid anyone ever be involved in a war again. Someone might scrape a knee," Kroner said, with particular emphasis and distaste on the word 'youth', then a drop into a nasty, mocking singsong rhythm. The rest of the delegates at least had the good grace to look ashamed. Hermione stared at Kroner, her own mouth slack, waiting for someone to break the lingering silence. She let her eyes slide over to Evtimov, and found him sitting, stunned, an expression on his face remarkably similar to her own. "It's a weak country that has to depend on everyone else, and Germany is not weak!" Kroner thundered, slapping a hand down on the table, rattling the plates and glasses. Hermione jumped in spite of herself, then braced for the inevitable outburst from Viktor.

Only, it never came. Instead, he did the last thing she would have expected. He laughed. Quiet, soft, mirthless, but unmistakably laughter. "Youth. That's a good one. What makes you such an expert on everything, Kroner? Age? Because I don't remember seeing you risking your life anywhere. I didn't so much as see you risking your teatime. Youth. I haven't been young or a cockeyed optimist since I was nineteen. That's the first time I had to kill someone," Viktor said softly, swallowing hard. Even Kroner blanched. Hermione dropped her gaze to her lap. She knew what was coming. "By then, they had started pulling Muggles and innocent bystanders into it. Killing them just to keep us guessing, using them as human shields... you name it. Azkaban was abandoned, at best the Ministry was just going to summarily execute them anyway, maybe torture them a bit to see what they could get out of them... but that was usually too much trouble. Easier to have us do it in the field. They not only gave us their blessing, they encouraged it. Kept them from getting any dirt under their nails. They got all squeamish about cleaning up their own mess. Couldn't keep them at the Ministry. What if the rest of them decided the ones in custody were worth rescuing and all the Aurors were out in the field? Can't risk the all-important senior Ministry employees, now can we? Heaven forbid the Head Bean Counter or the Almighty Figurehead sprain an elbow in a Death Eater raid. They as good as said they would be right back on the streets if they were a 'name' and we took them alive and turned them in to the authorities. Hell, they were. We stood by and watched Federov kill six people before we could take him alive and he practically beat us back home after we handed him over. And killed more. One of those people was all of eight years old. In Hogsmeade. Wizards, Kroner. I left him in the dirt with his ribcage turned into dust. Along with what was left of my cockeyed optimism. I was nineteen." Viktor tapped his index finger on the table at the last word, so softly it was barely audible. Somehow it seemed louder than Kroner's table-rattling slap earlier.

Hermione felt a phantom pain shoot through her side. The memory of Dolohov and that whispered spell in the Department of Mysteries, the crunching and grinding of bone, her ribs shattering, it always brought the ghost of that pain back for a split second. "We killed. We all did. Eventually. We had to. It became kill or be killed. No one should have to make that decision," Hermione said, tucking her fingers beneath her arm, giving her side a surreptitious rub. "We weren't even twenty, and we were making life and death decisions," she said, more firmly. "Cooperation isn't weakness. Cooperation is strength. Knowledge is strength. Compassion... understanding is strength. United... we can't be defeated. Separate and suspicious of one another, we almost certainly will be. Where were you when we were out there? In your office? "

Viktor leaned out across the table slightly, and his voice dropped even more. He spoke through clenched teeth. "I recruited people to help, that were killed before they were nineteen or twenty. I killed people that were standing between us and getting out of a bad situation because we didn't have time to talk it over. I killed people that had wands pointed at people who couldn't defend themselves. I sometimes killed people I knew. I killed Fortenbrau. I went to school with him. I ate meals with him. I played Quidditch against him. I sat in classes with him. I sat at the same desk with him. And I snuffed him out when he almost took Lupin by surprise. Charlie Weasley and I killed one that begged us to, because he knew if we left him there alive, his fellows or his Lord would do a lot worse to him than we could ever dream up for letting us get past him. Maybe it was a mercy on him, the two of us simultaneously putting the Constrictor Curse on him and squeezing all the breath out of his lungs so he would die faster. But I still wonder how much smothering hurts. How long does it really take to go completely unconscious? I know what a fractured skull sounds like, too. If not wanting my children and my grandchildren to know what that's like makes me a cockeyed optimist, then I guess I am. I'm not an idiot, Kroner. I know this isn't a panacea or a cure all. It doesn't keep us all safe in our beds at night just to put our names on a piece of paper. It's not some magical ward that keeps it all from happening. What it is... is a deterrent. A weapon, come to it. It should make them think twice about taking us all on again. Because it's harder to divide and conquer. Because there's some cooperation. And if, Heaven forbid, it should happen again, and let's be honest, it probably will, preferably hundreds and hundreds of years from now, long after we're all dead and gone, it will not be up to the educational heads, a group of children and a bunch of unwelcome Ministry misfits to head up the entire war effort!"

"You've said it yourself. Nothing can absolutely prevent it," Kroner said flatly.

"It sure as hell won't if we don't do it. It's not a magic ward against everything. But it's something," Viktor insisted. "It's the only thing we can do. Or do you prefer huddling under your desk and hoping it doesn't happen on our watch?"

"Our watch. You're only fifty-nine. Do you think the world's been handed over to your generation just yet?" Kroner said mockingly.

Viktor cocked an eyebrow and sighed heavily. "No fool like an old fool, Kroner. But you will sign," Viktor said with conviction.

"I'll leave," Kroner threatened, narrowing his eyes.

"Then leave. All four of you leave if you want. Go have your minders pack your bags and stomp out in a huff, like toddlers that don't get your way. But I'll talk if you do. I'll talk to the press. I bet they would be very interested in your pathetic reasoning for walking away from the only line of defense we've got without even staying for the entire conference or bothering to vote. And my story will feature a lot of very overblown egos and shortsighted and selfish power brokering, and not a speck of flattery. I'll make Cornelius Fudge look like Albus Dumbledore compared to the lot of you. It will be ugly. Exceedingly ugly. And the press loves ugly. It would work, too, because I've got two things the rest of you don't. One, I can still snap my fingers and get the press at my door whenever I want, eager to listen. It's the beauty of not preening for them and talking to them every time you see them, like you lot. They're really eager to listen to you when you do say something. Better yet, they think you actually have something of import to say. Second, unlike the rest of you, I don't have any desire to be Minister of anything, one day. I don't give a damn if none of you can stand the sight of me by the time we leave here and Oblansk chucks me out of office when I get back home, as long as that agreement gets a fair hearing and an honest vote. I'm not participating in the popularity contest," Viktor snapped.

"You wouldn't," Kroner challenged.

"Try. Me. Try me, you pompous bastard. I'll do it in all your papers. I'll talk to the damned student newspapers, if that's what it takes. I'll fuck you over in the press so that your own mother wouldn't vote for you if you were running for Best Dressed Wizard of the Year! You won't be allowed to so much as sharpen pencils in the Ministry any more by the time I'm through," Viktor replied.

"I'm not going to sit here and take this," Kroner hissed, jumping up from his seat and heading for the door.

"I'll see you in the session tomorrow!" Viktor yelled after him.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and some shifting in chairs before Madam Vanescu murmured, "Yes. Until the session tomorrow," and rose, hurrying for the door. The other two delegates mumbled their goodbyes and scurried close behind her.

Hermione watched them go, staring after them for a long while until the muffled curse caught her attention. "Damn." Evtimov tipped his glass up and drained the dregs, swallowing. "Damn," he repeated in the same tone. "You just threatened to fuck over the German delegate's political aspirations," he added in awed fashion, slack-jawed and somewhat horrified. Hermione had a vague suspicion he might be about to suffer a meltdown of Percy Weasley proportions after that display.

"I know," Viktor said, removing his glasses and unceremoniously plunking them down before shoving his empty plate aside, planting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. "Kick me now."

"It's all my fault. I started it," Hermione stammered, putting a hand on Viktor's shoulder. "Honestly, it's all my fault, me and my big mouth and my righteous indignation. I never should have said what I said. I never should have let what he was saying get to me. I should obviously never be a diplomat. It was none of my business in the first place. I can't apologize enough-" she added to Evtimov, shaking her head helplessly.

"Apologize? That was the most brilliant thing I've ever seen. You two got all four of them back on their heels," Evtimov interrupted. "Completely."

"I just broke up a conference decades in the making. Ah, Merlin's beard. Why didn't you kick me and shut me the hell up, Ilian?" Viktor moaned, voice muffled behind his hands. "I took a bad situation and actually made it worse."

"For starters, my leg isn't that long... Besides... broke up... no! No! Don't you see? It's the only thing you could have done!" Evtimov said excitedly, rushing around to the chair on the other side of Viktor. "You can't have made things worse. Worst thing that could happen is they all walk without attending the last day. They were going to do that anyway. Didn't you hear what the three of them said? They're all coming tomorrow! And Kroner, he'll have to. He's too worried you'll ruin his political career not to come," Ilian insisted. "He wouldn't dare not come."

"I hope you're right," Viktor said, raising his head. "Otherwise, I have to ruin him. And pompous ass though he may be, I don't want to. He does a fair enough job of it on his own."

"He won't dare see if you're bluffing," Ilian argued.

"Because...?" Viktor countered.

"I know you, and I wouldn't," Evtimov said earnestly. Viktor smiled weakly at that.

"You could have kicked Hermione. She would have passed it on," Viktor said. "And added a bit on for good measure, I imagine."

"I'm not about to kick either one of you," Evtimov said, shaking his head, the former, customarily purposeful expression returning. "This doesn't mean we're out of the woods, of course. You still have to present tomorrow. And they all need to vote... preferably our way... a majority, at least, on the first pass... I need to go call home first, but I assume we'll be putting in a late night? Your quarters?"

"Afraid to stick around for dessert?" Viktor asked.

"Don't want any. Haven't called home all day," Evtimov said, shaking his head once more.

"Go on, then. Hurry. Before the baby goes to bed. Come up after you get finished. No rush," Viktor said.

"I'll see you later, then. Mrs. Wea- Hermione," Evtimov corrected himself, "truly a pleasure and an honor. And to think, I once thought he was exaggerating. I would hate to be on the opposite side of an argument. I'll sign for the bill on the way out." He riffled his fingers through his hair, mussing it slightly, before heading for the door.

"Did you want dessert? I'm still debating whether I should stop at the foot currently in my mouth," Viktor said wryly. "I ought to be tasting my own knee."

"I'd settle for some coffee. Elsewhere. I want to talk to you," Hermione said bluntly. "In private, preferably."

"Am I in trouble for that 'exaggerating' remark? Because if so, Ilian is fired," Viktor countered.

"It's naught to do with Ilian... have you noticed we're being stared at by most of the restaurant?" Hermione asked uncomfortably, looking around.

"I hadn't noticed. But I imagine it might have something to do with my cursing very loudly and naught to do with you. This time," he added.

"Well, let's see if we can both manage to walk out of here, go get some coffee, and take it back to your quarters without causing an international incident," Hermione said, rising and rearranging her wrap.

"Fair enough," Viktor said, sighing heavily and rising as well. "Why does it always worry me when you say 'I want to talk to you'?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"My room," Viktor said, pinning the door back with an arm. "And your coffee," he added, handing over one of the paper cups they had stopped for on the way back to the hotel side of the center. The layout was similar to her own, but one thing surprised her so that she commented on it without thinking.

"It's smaller than mine," Hermione blurted out, blushing slightly when she realized she had said it aloud.

"You sound surprised. Not everyone tries to see how far the expense account stretches. And it's not like I was planning on holding any wild parties. Have a seat," he offered, indicating one of the overstuffed armchairs near the small coffee table. "The neighbors are very quiet. There's a linen closet where the rest of the suite would be. Towels and sheets don't make much noise. Now... what is it?"

They both settled into a chair, facing one another. "It's just that... I've figured you out," Hermione said quietly.

"I shouldn't be too proud about it. It's not as though I'm that complicated. What have you figured out?" Viktor replied.

"Exactly what you never told Magda," Hermione pointed out.

Viktor shrugged and took a sip of coffee. "I never told Magda plenty of things. The children never even got that much. It's not as though they're daft, they can put two and two together and come up with four, I'm sure, but-"

"Some things are conspicuous by their very absence. I know the litany, Viktor. We've all got one. You skipped a name. A situation. I bet you told Magda at least as much as or more than what came up at dinner. But you skipped one. I'm curious. Why?" Hermione paused for a space, but there was no answer. "It certainly can't have been because of who he was. Why, then? I don't think it was because it involved me. She knew, didn't she?" Hermione prompted.

"About us? Of course she did. Everything. That's not something I would or could have kept from her. Didn't want to, for that matter. She knew we... might have been together longer under different circumstances. That was never an issue. In fact, she suggested inviting you to the wedding," Viktor said, shaking his head and averting his eyes. "No. That's not it."

"Then... why? Why no mention of Draco Malfoy? Certainly can't be because it was less justified than the others. If anything, maybe it was more justified. He wasn't the first, he wasn't the last, he wasn't even the youngest one we- "

"I prefer not to think about it too much. You could drive yourself mad, analyzing these things. Thinking about what you did. Questioning every move," Viktor said, putting his hand on the chair arm and squeezing it so tight that his knuckles blanched.

"If you hadn't, I would be dead," Hermione countered. "Or worse. Like the Longbottoms. He was going to torture me until I died or went mad, whichever came first."

"I didn't say I regretted doing it, exactly... I don't like... the how," Viktor replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He put his cup down on the table, and Hermione couldn't help but notice that his hand trembled slightly.

"I used the Avada Kedavra on Dolohov. Simon doesn't know, either. He doesn't know his mother once used the worst Unforgivable on another human being, even if that person almost killed his mother twice and prevented him coming into the world in the first place. Just about all of us did, one time or another. Not all of our feelings were noble ones. We were human, too. If you had incapacitated him, turned him over, they would have just let him right back out in less than an hour, because he was a Malfoy. Lucius probably would have taken him into hiding, he would have been where no one could reach him, and that would be that. And what good would that have done anyone?" Hermione asked, putting her cup down as well, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

"Dumbledore still thought he could change. Maybe he could have, if we had kept him there at the school longer. I guess we'll never know now, will we?" Viktor asked, clearing his throat.

"He was going with his little gang to the front gate to let the Death Eaters in and take off some of the wards. So they could come in and kill all of us they could get to. First years and up, no mercy. I think he had made his choice. It was them or us," Hermione insisted.

"And the line between them and us got a lot more faint after that night. At least in my mind. Before that, I could always tell myself that I wasn't like them. That I wasn't capable of killing someone else... with my hate. The others... hate didn't even come into it. It was survival, or protecting someone else, even a small mercy now and then. Malfoy... I hated him to death. I didn't even think of anything else. No other options. I just hated him so much in that instant... and I killed him with it. Took away his choice. Enjoyed it for a split second. Felt like he deserved it for what he was doing, standing over you, making you scream, laughing about it. I took one look at his smug little face and declared myself judge, jury and executioner. And when he hit the floor, the last lie I could tell myself was gone. That I wasn't quite like them. That there was something that set our side apart. That I was incapable of hating that much. But we were just alike in the end, weren't we?" Viktor said, his voice hoarse. "We're all capable of that kind of hate. That kind of cruelty. We all thought we were on the right side, that we were right. That what we believed was worth fighting for, at any price. Only thing we disagreed on was the principle we were fighting for. I never talked much about the war with the children, because I never wanted them to think there was something noble, admirable or worth celebrating about man's inhumanity to man. We weren't heroes. We just wanted to live. And now, I don't want anyone else to have to find that out about themselves."

"So you never told Magda you used it? Never owned up to it with anyone else?" Hermione asked.

Viktor shook his head again. "For the same reason you don't tell Simon. She might not have understood. And I couldn't bear thinking about how differently she might look at me, if she knew and didn't understand. I don't think I was capable of explaining it to her. There are no words. We were there. She wasn't. And I was tired of having to explain myself. Even to me. I spent a lot of time questioning. Everything. Took a lot of years to finish putting myself back together. That she understood. Vladimir, Stanislav and Anna... well... let's just say that when I leave this earth, I would prefer that the things they remember about what I did with my hands don't include using them to kill people, with or without a wand. I would rather they recall something more mundane, like making pancakes on Saturdays or combing their hair or steadying them on a broom. I don't want them to think that I'm proud of what I did in the slightest, because I'm not. We did what we had to do, not because we were great, but because we wanted to survive." Viktor leaned forward, mirroring her posture, reaching out and taking one of her hands in his. "I think for me... having someone that wasn't there... not talking about it if I didn't want to... being away from Britain... going back into Quidditch... that worked. That worked for me, putting myself back together. If you overanalyze things, sometimes they fall apart. Maybe, in the beginning, I was afraid that if Magda overanalyzed me, she wouldn't love me any more. Before we married, I told her everything I could about you, me, the war... I think I was testing. To see if it was real. And after we married, I had no desire to revisit that. She didn't like subjecting me to it, either. By the time I could have, there was no need to. She's the one who finally told the kids to back off, to stop asking about it. Issued a fiat."

Hermione smiled weakly, giving his hand a soft squeeze. "The inevitable 'did you kill anyone in the war' question, hmmm? Because that would be so spectacular, if they actually knew someone who had killed someone. Simon used to pump Harry for Auror stories the same way."

He returned the awkward smile. "When Stan asked for about the umpteenth time, I actually yelled at him. Screamed, more like. He couldn't have been more than nine. He was just so excited about the possibility that I had... The idea that my child was standing there, positively beaming over the morbid idea of some of the things I had done, it just went all over me and I lost it. I think I was channeling Molly," he added with a soft chuckle. "He legged it whenever I raised my voice even slightly for about a month," Viktor added, sobering.

"I think Simon wished I had been channeling Molly. He got a long lecture on the nature of war and the absolute sanctity of life that avoided the question completely. He probably would have preferred the yelling," Hermione admitted, laughing softly. "Children don't think about the fact that they were real people, too. The people that got killed. It's like a bedtime story, to them... Boys, particularly. Besides, Simon thought it far more distracting that I knew you and Oliver Wood in school. Tomorrow... are you going to be able to fix the damage I did?"

"Damage you did? I used the word 'fuck' in conjunction with a political threat. I think I win the prize for the evening. Why Evtimov didn't go apoplectic or drop dead from shock, I'll never know. He usually goes to nudging me madly under the table if I so much as let a 'damn' slip by in the presence of a lady or get within a mile of saying anything risky. He damned near took my leg off once at Oblansk's house for almost letting it slip to the Canadian Minister that I positively detest oysters. Turns out it was what he had ordered up for the menu that evening when they asked him what he wanted. I mostly shuffled mine around my plate, ate twice as much dessert and international relations emerged unscathed. I have no idea what I'm going to say, tomorrow. Ilian will have some ideas, I'm sure. He's never let me down, yet. If he says we haven't set international cooperation back a hundred years, I'll believe him. Can I count on lunch tomorrow to keep me from pasting them all?" Viktor asked, giving her hand a playful squeeze before letting go.

"Lunch, but not dinner. I leave on the ferry late tomorrow afternoon. Which brings me to the question about what I do with your cloak. Would you like for me to bring it to you at lunch, tomorrow?" Hermione asked.

"Wear it home," Viktor protested, shaking his head. "It's supposed to be windy, tomorrow. Look... I'm still going to owe you a dinner. The new ferry stops on the other side of the Black Sea, too, you know. The house is not that hard to find. I can give you directions from the dock. And you're always guaranteed a table. The chef's not that fantastic, but he can manage a fairly decent dinner. I'll let you know how the last day of the conference really went. Maybe you can make it some Friday evening, if you leave from work?"

"Maybe... in a couple of weeks. I'll need some time to get caught up at work. If you don't mind my keeping the cloak that long?" Hermione replied.

"Not as cold back home, right now. I think I could manage with one until then. Don't make me wait so long to talk to you again," Viktor warned.

"I'll definitely make it before another thirty years. The ferry wasn't so bad. A little unsettling at first, but not nearly as bad as I was expecting. Maybe they'll even introduce frequent floater tick-" Hermione began, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Ilian, I'm sure," Viktor said, apologetic, rising reluctantly.

"I'll just take my coffee to go, then," Hermione said, scooping up her cup and rising as well. "Don't both of you wear yourselves out, now, staying up until all hours, working at this," Hermione warned Ilian on her way out. She couldn't help but secretly relish the fleeting look of surprise on his face when Viktor had opened the door.

"No, madam," Ilian replied briskly, "he needs to be awake enough to give the speech, tomorrow. Assuming we come up with something to talk about."

"Well, I won't keep you from it, then. Goodnight, Ilian, Viktor," Hermione said, nodding to each in turn.

"Would you not like an escort back to your room?" Evtimov offered, looking concerned.

"Not necessary. I think I can find my way downstairs," Hermione said, declining. "Thank you for offering, though. I think I'll fall into bed first thing after I've finished this coffee," she added, heading off down the hall.

Viktor closed the door to his room after she had entered the stairwell. He cocked his head and started speaking on his way back to the armchair. "Earlier... when you said I hadn't made things worse, was that true, or did you just say that to prevent me committing suicide with my salad fork?"

"At least it gets a full vote, now," Ilian said grimly. "That's better than where we stood last night."

"And please tell me you have some brilliant idea as to what I should talk about tomorrow?" Viktor said, sinking back into the chair.

"I don't know how brilliant it is, but I think you should talk about what you did tonight. Minus the profanity, of course," Evtimov said with a grin, flopping into the opposite chair. "I think one good anecdote from someone who was there, really there, is worth a million political discussions. I've had a look around that room. I think you're the only one attending who stepped outside an office for the duration of the war. Forget all the metrics and statistics, all the jockeying and the politics. Talk about why this is so important. All the statistics in the world are meaningless if one dark wizard or witch is all it takes to upset things because we're all busy dickering over things like how much running this costs."

"Say that again..." Viktor ordered, perking up and leaning forward with interest.

"What? All the statistics in the world are meaningless if one person is all it takes to upset things?" Ilian asked, looking confused.

"Perfect. That's what we talk about. And when I say 'we', I mean we. The power of one versus many. The really important numbers. Keep a parchment and quill handy. We're going to talk this out and take notes. No need to script out every word. I never stick to the script, anyway," Viktor admitted.

"There's been a script? News to me," Ilian countered, getting up to fetch the parchment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Cross your fingers, Ilian," Viktor muttered under his breath as he stood. A dour looking Kroner over in the far corner determinedly refused to join in the usual polite applause, but Ilian noted he hadn't used the morning's open floor time before the presentation to lodge any complaints, either. They had spent a remarkably short time preparing the sketchy notes on the piece of parchment Viktor laid on the podium. It had been startlingly eye-opening, hearing some of the things Viktor referenced about the war, even in sketchy detail. Evtimov couldn't help but feel that there were only two possible receptions this thing could get. Either it would fall flat on its face or blow all the other dry, numbers-laden approaches out of the water. How the likely holdouts voted in the initial polling pass would tell the tale. If they voted.

"You have the floor," Petrovich said, nodding and settling into his own seat. There was some coughing and shuffling about while Viktor took a long moment to adjust the glasses that didn't really need adjusting and straighten a sash that didn't really need straightening. Ilian tapped his own stack of parchments against the tabletop, even though the edges were already neat. It was all part of waiting until the right moment. Viktor took a deep breath through his nostrils, then picked up the parchment, walked out from behind the podium, stopped directly in front of one of the delegates.

"Four hundred and fifty-three," he read out in a clear voice, indicating the table in front of the rather surprised looking delegate with his fingertips, peering through the lenses and consulting the list as though he were taking attendance on the first day of class. Ilian rose and walked to the spot, hanging the corresponding parchment off the front edge of the table, the number easily visible, written in thick, black strokes. Viktor crossed the floor and stopped in front of another. "Two hundred and sixty," he called out in the same fashion, and Ilian dutifully followed, hanging the appropriate placard in front of that table with a quick Sticking Charm. "Six hundred and forty-nine," he read at another nearby table, and soon the number on the parchment was hung there, too. On and on it went, a meandering trip from table to table, reading out a number at each one, the parchment attached right behind, the obvious confusion and discomfort rising with each figure and placard. Some of the numbers were smaller, but the most of them were heartbreakingly large, once you knew what they were, Ilian thought. The Russian delegate's number absolutely dwarfed all the others, unsurprisingly.

When Ilian's hands were empty, he spoke up. "That's all the numbers I have," he explained, showing his palms.

Viktor took a quick scan of the room. "Anyone not have a number? Anyone missed?" The delegates and their assistants shifted and exchanged uncomfortable glances with one another, but no one volunteered. Viktor walked slowly back to the podium, the black leather soles of his boots making a soft scuffing noise on the floor. It seemed to be the only noise in the room. Ilian took his former seat again. "If anyone is actually interested and doesn't want to do the math, Evtimov has the total of those numbers. But since several of you don't seem all that interested in the sum total, just your own numbers, I'll skip that, for right now. The numbers you have in front of you should interest you, because they're official death tolls for each of your countries."

"Death tolls... for what?" the Slovenian delegate blurted out, obviously still thoroughly puzzled.

"For Britain's little problem. There's not a country in this room that didn't lose people. Even if they didn't formally send them. These are the numbers of mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters, mentors and promising young people lost. On both sides. To something that wasn't our problem. And this is just... one... war," Viktor emphasized, holding up a single finger. "You see, all it really takes is just one sufficiently motivated wizard or witch gone bad, to become everyone's problem. In an ideal world, we would all live in a nice little isolated bubble, and one country's problem wouldn't affect us all. But this isn't a perfect world. One country's problem is everyone's problem. And burying our heads, wishing it would go away, doesn't work," Viktor said, pausing to put both the parchment and his spectacles down on the podium. "We tried that already. It failed spectacularly."

Viktor stepped away from the podium again, stood in front of it, closer to the first bank of tables. "I'm fifty-nine. I'm sure there are delegates in this room who think I'm insufferably young and I don't have the foggiest idea what I'm talking about when it comes to politics. I disagree with everything but the politics part, but there have already been two wars in my lifetime. Two. These are figures from just one. There's still plenty of time for another one or two sometime before I die, and that's if we pace ourselves. And I don't want to think about how I'm going to explain to my grandchild why we didn't do anything when we could. Why we didn't talk to one another. Build up an alliance. When we had the chance."

"I didn't know the faces that go with every single one of those numbers," Viktor continued after a brief pause, "but I knew enough of them. I bet I know at least one story for every single one of those placards. A lot of them were very promising young people. Some of them weren't even out of school. Some were good and decent. Some could have stood some improving." Viktor's voice dropped even more, barely above a whisper. "Some could have changed. If they had lived. The casualties weren't just Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore.... British names. Your numbers have names. They have faces. They have stories. They have families. I carry them around in my memory. They're carried in a lot of memories. I remember a round-faced German boy with a lisp and white blond hair who had this nasty habit of misplacing his wand behind his ear. There wasn't enough left of Reichert to bury. I remember an old Russian Auror who came out of retirement to help get some of these young people ready. As though you could ever be ready for that. Dementor's kiss for Popolov. Killed shortly thereafter. Merciful, I suppose. If you're still in doubt, talk to me and find out which faces I remember from your country. Argue me it's worth it to let it happen again."

Viktor returned to the podium and collected his glasses, before heading into what Evtimov knew was the final portion. "We've spent an entire week, talking about numbers. Representation, membership, staffing, and costs. But no one's really talked about the cost of not doing it. Now we have. You see the cost. It's posted in front of you. As far as monetary cost goes, don't try giving me the pathetic argument that it costs too much to do it," Viktor warned, scanning the room. "It costs too much not to. I guarantee, if I were to walk into your Ministry and talk to my counterpart, proposing something frivolous like a new national stadium site or a hosting opportunity for a tournament, I wouldn't be turned away anywhere for want of a Sickle. You would find the money somewhere. Don't try to tell me you wouldn't. So, if you vote against this on principle of monetary cost, be prepared to explain to the next few generations why you think Quidditch is more important than their lives. How many times have we had to approach a second Ministry for something like that, Evtimov?" Viktor asked, holding out a hand in Ilian's direction.

"Not once. Tournaments, building projects, joint ventures, travel costs... not one event postponed, moved, reworked, or cancelled for want of funding from another Ministry. In all the years you've held the job," Ilian replied. "There's always a budget for Quidditch. Somehow."

"Not once. Interesting. They always manage to find the money for something like that," Viktor observed. "Find the money for something important, now. And do us all a favor. If you can't truly justify voting no, abstain on the initial polls. If you're still honestly undecided, come speak to me. I'll do my best to convince you this is a good idea. I think it is. And if it takes holding this conference over an extra day or two, and speaking to all of you, one on one, I'll do it. I've seen war. There's nothing strong, glorious, noble, or natural about it. It's full of death and suffering and cruelty, and there are no winners, only survivors. Such a waste. Maybe I'm being a mite selfish, but I don't want it to happen again. Not if there's the slightest chance that I have to see something like that again. Or worse, that my children or grandchildren do. I can't make up your minds for you, no matter how badly I might want to. All I can do... is remind you how much one mistake can cost. Or rather how many. We have a chance, here, now, to help prevent it. To counteract the effects if it does happen. Tell me that's not important. Tell me those numbers in front of you aren't important. I've made my point, so I'm turning the floor back over." Viktor said, heading for his seat once more.

Petrovich rose and took the podium again. "I think we can take our baseline vote, and then break for lunch, if no one has anything to add during this open floor time?" There was no response. "Ballots are in front of you, on the table, and must be signed with your name and personal seal to be considered valid. Drop them in the ballot box on your way out," Petrovich added hastily, scurrying back to his seat.

"Well?" Viktor whispered. Ilian openly scouted the room, watching with interest as some of the delegates scratched quills noisily on parchment.

"I think the ones who were leaning toward yes will definitely vote yes. The rest will abstain, to see how many yes votes there are. Kroner... maybe two or three others... will vote no just to spite us. Don't ask me for numbers. I have no idea. I think it was well received by most," Evtimov muttered back.

"Here's where I wish Legilimency wouldn't be completely unethical," Viktor groused, scribbling his own name on the ballot, then sealing it. "Should we stick around until the room empties?"

"I say we leave while we can. Go eat lunch, Enjoy yourself. It's likely going to be a long afternoon. Maybe an evening, too. I bet half a dozen take you up on the offer to talk to them. Let them think we don't worry about what any of them vote," Evtimov added, grabbing up his remaining papers. "I'm going back to the room for a nap. I want that far worse than food."

"Leave it is, then," Viktor agreed, standing and leading the way to the door, without pausing to look at any of the rest of the delegates. He barely slowed to drop the ballot in the box, and Evtimov hurried after him. He was little surprised that Hermione was already stationed in the larger hallway outside the conference room.

"I understand you leave this afternoon. In case I don't see you after the lunch hour, safe and pleasant journey home," Ilian said with a pleasant nod in her direction. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go collapse into bed."

"Nice to have met you, Ilian, and thank you," Hermione replied. "Don't you need a nap?" she asked, turning to Viktor once Ilian was out of earshot.

"Desperately. But I'll be damned if I give in to it now. I think these things require a certain minimum level of sleep deprivation and grouchiness, don't they?" Viktor replied.

"Speaking of these things, how's it going?" Hermione asked, peeking curiously around the door jamb.

"Won't really know until after lunch. First polling pass right now," Viktor said with a shrug.

"What's with the numbers?" Hermione prodded, her gaze falling on one of the pieces of parchment.

"Come to lunch, and I'll explain it," Viktor said wearily, grabbing her hand and giving it a soft tug.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm beginning to think the two of you could put your heads together and find a way to convince an Inuit to buy an electric icebox," Hermione said, putting her sandwich back down on the plate.

"Don't sound so impressed until we know if anyone bought it," Viktor said, stirring his bowl of stew in a half-hearted manner. "I wish I were half as persuasive as you think I am. If I were, maybe this conference wouldn't have gotten so out of hand in the first place."

"Can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs," Hermione said encouragingly.

"What do you do when you've tipped the entire basket? Evtimov's probably right. This first vote will be pretty meaningless. The ones who are undecided will abstain, and the hardcore holdouts will vote no, and we see who among the 'yes' votes can help convince the undecided. Then we set to it and take as many polls as necessary until everyone either gives up and votes no or we get the minimum number of members," Viktor said with a shrug. "I just hope that whatever happens, it happens before tomorrow. I'd like to get home tomorrow."

"Homesick?" Hermione asked in surprise.

"Peoplesick. And sick of the people here, Evtimov and present company excluded. Home should still be there whenever I get back," Viktor said.

"I think it's good you finally talked about it a little. With someone, at least. Of course, I guess in this case, it's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" Hermione admitted.

"I think we earned our right to emotional unhealthiness, thank you. So, how are the plants?" Viktor asked in a falsely bright tone.

"Oh, the plants! We fall back on plant talk when a conversation gets too risky. The plants and the son watering them were fine enough when I called this morning," Hermione said with a soft smile, shaking her head.

"Tell me what you want to order up for dinner. When you come to the house," Viktor prompted, cocking his head. "Food's a safe subject, isn't it?"

"I still like moussaka and Shopska salad. I'm not picky. Obviously," Hermione said ruefully.

"Stop that. Or haven't you finally learned to stop being harder on yourself than everyone else is?" Viktor scolded.

"Now you're talking about my kettle. I'm not nearly so insecure as I used to be... I'm whittling away an insecurity or so every decade. I'm not nearly so keen on proving myself to everyone else as I used to be," Hermione allowed. "Being admired and telling everyone else they have to live their lives according to my rules doesn't hold nearly the amount of attraction it did back when I was in school. I've finally learned it's too tiring to boss the entire world."

"You had nothing to prove. Besides, the rest of the world usually beats you up plenty. No need to do it yourself. And I bet you weren't half as bad as you made yourself out to be," Viktor insisted.

Hermione shook her head again. "I was worse. I thought I had everything to prove. Thank your lucky stars you didn't meet me before you did. I probably would have informed you on the proper technique in riding a broom."

"And quoted a dozen books on the matter. Ruthless little thing, weren't you? Thank goodness you mellowed," Viktor said with a soft chuckle.

"Grew up, you mean. A little, anyway. I still occasionally want to boss people I don't agree with. Like Kroner, last night," Hermione said, averting her eyes.

"You wouldn't be human if you didn't. Let's be honest. Deep down, we all think everyone else could benefit from our advice. That they all need to be told what to do," Viktor replied. "I would gladly let you come in and boss the rest of them if I thought it would do any good."

"Some people finally get good enough sense to keep their mouths shut, though," Hermione pointed out.

"Name one," Viktor shot back.

"Okay, learn to be bossy less frequently, then," Hermione said.

"Name one," Viktor repeated. "Molly ever do that?"

"Well..." Hermione began uncertainly.

"Her audience just got bigger," Viktor argued. "More people to boss does not equal bossing less. It's just spread thinner. That's why people should have more than one child. So you don't overboss the one."

"Fine, maybe I haven't grown up as much as I think I have, then," Hermione said, shrugging. "Hopefully, my advice has gotten a little better and more well rounded, at least. And I hope my delivery is less annoying."

"More 'After being through that' and less 'This book says'?" Viktor prompted, raising his eyebrows.

"Considerably more," Hermione replied firmly.

"Good. Be a real shame to waste all that valuable experience that you've been through," Viktor responded. "Now, before I have to go back and try to boss a bunch of ornery delegates into what I think they should do, have a safe trip back home. I hope all your plants are still living. Would it be okay if I gave you a call after a week or so and we set up a time for dinner? That should give you enough time to get caught up, shouldn't it?"

"That would be extremely welcome, " Hermione assented. "Now, I have a ferry to catch, and you have a group of ornery delegates to get back to. I suppose we had better pay and go. Come on, I'll walk you back to the conference room. Then I have to go check out."

"And I'll owe you a dinner," Viktor reminded her, pushing aside his empty bowl and tossing down his napkin. "You collect or I'll be forced to boss you about it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione put her bag down just inside the door. She would unpack later. She carried her handbag in and placed it on the dining table. The late afternoon sun shone on the slightly yellow vine in the kitchen window. "Overwatering them is just as bad as failing to water them, Simon," she said, shaking her head and lifting one of the slightly limp tendrils with her fingers.

"I thought he did pretty well, considering his marks in Herbology," Ginny said, trailing in from outside. "You know that was never his strong suit."

"Thank you for coming to meet me at the dock. Even though it was wholly unnecessary," Hermione pointed out.

"Oh, come on, I just wanted an excuse to take off work early and buy some takeaway," Ginny said, setting the containers down on the table. "So... conference. Boring as all hell?"

"Bits of it. There was this fascinating session about new algorithms for cutting research time-" Hermione began.

"Stop! You lost me at algorithms and I'll never make it back aboard the train," Ginny said, shrugging her cloak off. "That's new. You must have done some shopping," she added, fingering the thick fur of the one Hermione had been wearing.

"I did some shopping, but that's not part of it. That's borrowed," Hermione said, searching in the cabinet for the tea kettle.

"Borrowed? Who would you have borrowed a cloak that heavy... Oh. Old friend?" Ginny asked curiously. "Simon mentioned that you ran into Viktor. Still have a lot in common?"

"Simon did, did he? Might know. In common? I suppose so. Actually, we've added something, unfortunately. He's a widower, now," Hermione said softly, determinedly keeping her attention on filling the kettle.

"A widower? When did that happen? And how did it come up?" Ginny asked, looking horrified and pausing in setting out the plates.

"Going on five years ago. And when I put my foot in it nearly first thing and asked about Magda," Hermione added gloomily, setting out the cups. "And I floundered like everybody used to do with me. Which I hated. I wanted to curl up and disappear. Cancer. She died of cancer. He seems to have taken it awfully hard. But how else can you take losing your spouse?"

"That's awful," Ginny said sympathetically. "I hope the two of you talked about something other than that."

"We did. I know it sounds morbid, but it felt good to talk about Ron and Magda... with someone who has been there. I'm not knocking the rest of you, but... Well, anyway... it's not the only thing we talked about. By the time we caught each other up on our families, and talked a little about old times, and a bit of current events, there was more than enough to fill up a few lunches and dinners," Hermione said, not noticing Ginny's brows raising in surprise. "There's one thing I'm a little glad I don't have in common with him just yet. He has a grandbaby. Beautiful little girl. Can you imagine?"

"A few lunches and dinners?" Ginny asked in an even voice.

"Well, our schedules coincided. And we were right there together. It was something to look forward to," Hermione demurred. "We swapped off paying. He still owes me a dinner, so I'm going to collect when I return his cloak."

"Still enjoy one another's company, then?" Ginny asked, openly studying Hermione.

"I... find I missed him. I enjoyed talking to him. I'm disappointed we lost touch," Hermione replied, avoiding Ginny's gaze.

"Enjoyed as a friend, or...?" Ginny let the sentence dangle.

"Of course as a friend. What else? We haven't even laid eyes on one another in decades," Hermione answered a little too forcefully. "Water's hot," she added, jumping up from her seat when the kettle set to whistling. Ginny couldn't help but notice that Hermione's cheeks were suspiciously pink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evtimov stared at the piece of parchment again, blinking hard. It was as though he were worried that the signatures would disappear any second. He ran a fingertip over the seal, then counted the number of signatures again. One more than they had needed for formation. And it had only taken until early evening, and minimal arm twisting for the undecided voters. Some of the crankier holdouts who had voted no would likely see the light, come slinking back in the coming weeks and add their names to the original. When the large snowflakes started falling again, he hastily and clumsily rolled the copy awkwardly with his gloved hands and tucked it into the satchel at his feet once more, away from the damp and the sharp wind off the water, whipping and gusting over the open ferry deck. It was really too cold to be sitting out here, but they had been so cooped up the entire week, the open seats had seemed welcoming, even if the morning was a bit gray and the damp bone chilling.

Occasionally, one of the crew or another one of the passengers huddled up inside would peer out at them curiously, then shake their heads as though the two men sitting on the deck in the cold must be amusingly and pitiably mad, no matter how thick their cloaks were and how warm their gloves might be. Most of the passengers were hunched over coffee, soup, or something else steaming inside, or covered up head and ears in their beds, if they were on one of the longer legs of the trip. The two of them were on for an hour, at most, and a short space in the open air seemed a nice reward after days spent inside that stale, warm meeting room.

"I still can't believe it was so easy. Well, not easy easy, but I figured we were in for most of the night, arguing with some of them. I can't be-" Ilian stopped abruptly, ducking his head slightly and taking a peek under the edge of Viktor's hood to confirm his sudden suspicion. Head nodded, jaw slack. Ilian leaned forward a bit more, and then he was certain. Viktor had nodded and fallen asleep not fifteen minutes after leaving the dock in Russia. Ilian crossed his arms and ducked his own head, letting his hood fall forward over his face to fend off the wind. Heaven knew they could both use some quiet for a change. Evtimov let his gaze wander over the horizon and the seemingly endless stretch of water drifting by, and let his mind go pleasantly empty and still for the first time in at least a week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the dock came into sight in the distance, Ilian reluctantly stirred, half drowsing himself, and nudged Viktor's shoulder. "Looks to me like that would be uncomfortable," he prodded.

"I've slept in worse spots," Viktor muttered, shifting in his seat. "You learn to take it where you can get it. Keep at this long enough, I bet I can learn to sleep with my eyes open."

"Maybe you can pick that up when this group attempts to join up with the rest," Evtimov observed. "Minister Oblansk will probably send you. Before if not during."

"Tell me Oblansk doesn't hate me badly enough to send me to talk to them, too. What did I ever do to him?" Viktor said lightly, hooking the strap of his bag with the toe of his boot and dragging it from beneath his seat.

"You know he will. Or make you go with him," Ilian insisted, snatching up the strap of his own bag and then crossing his arms against the cold.

"He'll ask nicely. So nicely that I can't possibly say no," Viktor argued, peering out from beneath his hood as he leaned over to grab the bag. "Unfortunately. Sometimes I wish he would rudely order me somewhere, just so I could say no for a change. Unfortunately we work for a terminally nice man. If he weren't, I could tell him where to get off."

"You say the oddest things, sometimes," Ilian replied, shaking his head and smiling.

"Lack of sleep," Viktor murmured distractedly, looking toward the dock, scanning the group gathered there. Most of them were passengers waiting to board. But a few of them, at least, would be here to meet someone disembarking. It certainly didn't take a Legilimens to guess who he was likely looking for. At this time of morning, Anna would almost certainly be at the practice facility, and Stan at work. But Vladimir didn't go in to work until a later shift, most of the time, and today would be Nikolina's day off from the bookshop. Not that he didn't understand completely. He was anxious to get home to his own wife, Aleksandra

Ilian squinted and stared in that general direction, where Viktor had been looking. After a long, hard look, he was able to pick out the familiar figures as well, in the distance. Ilian gave Viktor a sidelong glance, marveling. The older man might be in need of his glasses when reading, sometimes, but when it came to spotting things far away, he still had the eyes of a Seeker. "Going to visit?" Ilian asked.

"An hour or two," Viktor assented. "Maybe see Anna this afternoon. Stan."

"Admit it. You just want to see Evangelina," Evtimov teased.

"Damned straight," Viktor said forcefully. By now, they were nearing the dock, slowing so they could put in beside it. "Go home and enjoy the rest of the weekend. If I catch you working on anything, I'm thrashing you."

"Well, I wouldn't want that! I'll try to restrain myself," Evtimov said blandly. Within a few minutes, they were settled in at the dock and heading down the ramp, the first two passengers off. "Hello, pardon me if I hurry off inside the station and head home. It's been a long week," Ilian said to the couple standing there, slightly apart from the group waiting to get onto the ferry. "Besides, somebody ordered me home." The man holding the squirming bundle covered with a thick blanket loosely against his shoulder bore a striking resemblance to his father, with the same tall, lanky build and similar facial features. Anyone who had known Magda would easily recognize that he had her smile, though. Vladimir didn't have quite the air of seriousness or the formidable exterior most people attributed to Viktor. The easy smile probably accounted for it.

"Evtimov," Vladimir said, offering his free hand. "If what I've read in the papers is half true, you earned it," he said, smiling broadly.

"Not so bad. I'm off," Evtimov said, resituating his bag on his shoulder.

"Since when did you read papers in the first place?" Viktor said, dropping his bag on the dock without ceremony, then taking Evangelina. A piercing squeal emanated from the blanket and a plump hand immediately seized on his glasses. "Enjoy the rest of the weekend! No work! Hear me?" he called after Evtimov. Evtimov waved his acknowledgment at the door to the station.

"Hard to miss headlines that big. And why do I get the feeling that's still not the half of it?" Vladimir asked. "Did it really go that easy? Did you threaten them all with a Beater's club?"

"Because when is what's in the papers ever the half of it? Here," he scolded gently, taking his glasses back and tucking them in his cloak pocket. He gave the little girl a quick peck on the cheek. "She's freezing. What were you thinking standing out here with her?" Viktor asked lightly.

"We've been out here all of two minutes. And you would have complained if we didn't. You didn't answer the question," Vladimir said indulgently, crossing his arms.

"Don't make me start lying straight off the ferry. And you're right. If you hadn't brought her, I could have asked what you were thinking, not bringing her when I haven't seen her for a week," Viktor admitted, tucking a stray tendril of Evangelina's hair behind her ear.

"What do you say we get in out of the cold and you come eat lunch with us?" Nikolina offered. "Lamb stew. I'm freezing," she commented, hunching up against the wind, her cheeks pink.

"You made it?" Viktor asked. When she nodded, he added earnestly, "You're the best daughter-in-law I have."

"I'm also the only one you have," she replied with a wide smile.

"Doesn't make you any less special. Especially if you made lamb stew," Viktor insisted.

"Go on," Vladimir said, bending down. "I've got your bag, Tate. Get inside. Before the baby freezes."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So," Vladimir said, handing over one of he cups of coffee in his hands, then settling himself into the sofa, "how was it, really? I doubt the 'spirited debate amidst a marvelous air of cooperation' articles were very accurate. Complete and utter bull, more like."

"Please," Viktor said, taking a quick drink before setting the mug on the table next to his armchair, well out of reach of the baby on his lap. "I just got back. Don't make me relive it just yet."

"That good, hmm?" Vladimir asked, looking amused.

"An absolute horror. I'll leave it to your imagination. It can't be any worse than the reality. We're lucky four of them didn't walk out completely. They wanted to," Viktor admitted. "There was some 'spirited debate' over that."

"Ah. So there were threats," Vladimir said with a laugh. "What did you do? You and Evtimov take two apiece and sit on them?"

"Liberally applied. I blustered for all I was worth," Viktor said, resituating one of the small stuffed animals piled in the chair with them back within the baby's reach. The majority of them made some sort of noise when squeezed, moos, oinks, squawks or non-descript squeaks. As far as Evangelina was concerned, the noisier they were, the better.

Vladimir smiled wryly. "That's why they pay you the big money, isn't it? Not a single bright spot all week?"

"Hah! Enough of them signed, didn't they? That's bright enough for me." Viktor hesitated a long moment. "And I did run into someone I hadn't seen since before you were born. Having someone else to have lunch with, away from the delegates probably prevented at least one killing. Ilian's fine, it's just that you can hardly get him off the subject of work when we're at these things."

"Really? Who?" Vladimir asked curiously.

"Hermione... Weasley. She caught me up on everyone in Britain. Most of them, anyway. She was there for another conference," Viktor explained, leaning over to take another drink from his mug.

"Owl! Could you get that? It's pecking the glass nearly out of the window and I've got my hands full in here!" Nikolina called from the other room.

"That's nice," Vladimir said distractedly. "Oh! Before I forget, Stan and Anna said they would come by after three," he added as he put his mug down and jogged toward the kitchen.

"Awfully busy around here, isn't it?" Viktor murmured in Evangelina's ear. "And noisy," he added over the racket of pots, pans, pecking and a protesting window frame from the next room. Evangelina squeezed the small, brown cow in her hand and held it out to him as it gave a loud, bleating and rather tuneless moo, giggling. "You're not helping," he pointed out, taking the cow and kissing the top of the girl's small, dark head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor stepped through the front door of the house, and wearily dropped his bag right beside it. It was amazing how the almost completely sedentary business of sitting in a conference room for a week could make you more bone tired than playing a tournament used to. Viktor stood a moment and surveyed the room. Not a thing out of place except for the stack of papers that Stan had likely brought by and placed on the coffee table, and in contrast to everywhere he had been for the last few days, including Vladimir's, the house was still and perfectly silent. The heavy cloak found its spot on one of the hooks near the front door. It was barely one, so he had some time to put things away before Stan and Anna came by, or to look at a few of the papers, but he found he didn't much care to. The bag could sit beside the door just as well for the moment. The papers could stay where they were.

Frankly, the bedroom seemed too far away, even though it was just down the hall. Too far to carry the bag and too far to carry himself. Even for a lie down. Instead, he sank gratefully onto the sofa, leaning back into it, closing his eyes for an instant and listening, for the first time in what seemed like ages, to nothing. No ferry paddle, no voices, no debates, no convention center bustle, no noise. For a while, at least, it would be welcome. Before it became a little odd and out of place again, the absolute quiet of no one else in the house.

Viktor hadn't been in that sort of prolonged quiet since before he and Magda had married. Not until after she had died. There had been the quiet little rented flat, barely big enough to house even his admittedly meager possessions and himself, when he had first come back to Bulgaria. When he had wanted the quiet and the isolation, and anything beyond the barest polite interaction with others had felt like an intrusion or like having your nerves scraped raw. That was when hiding out in the quiet had been so appealing. Now, after years of the house being filled with Magda's voice, and her music on the wireless while she painted, and then the children and their racket, the quiet seemed a bit too big for the rooms, sometimes.

Viktor opened his eyes and let his gaze drift over the cluster of family photos over the fireplace. The wedding portrait. Three baby pictures of stocking capped, mottled newborns that would have been impossible to tell apart, if it weren't for the different receiving blankets and the nearly imperceptible differences only an overly proud parent could pick out. Older baby and childhood pictures where it was shockingly easy to recognize which adults they were going to turn into were mixed in. The photo taken of them all at his last match, where Anna was already several inches taller than Magda, and slightly self-conscious about it. The towering wall above the mantle itself had been reserved for paintings instead of photographs.

Magda had done portraits of them all, whenever the mood took her, enough to scatter liberally throughout the house. All of them were simple, no more mobile than wizard photographs, really. She had shunned doing the more elaborate portraits that took on names and lives of their own long after their original subjects were dead. Magda had turned down a healthy commission on doing portraits of the Board at Durmstrang when one of the members had offered. She had always regarded the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses so popular at wizard schools to be the height of hubris. "It's as though they think we can't possibly manage decently once they're completely gone. Or as though they can't stand being dead. It's so unnatural, this little parody of you still being here, living on after you're gone. It's morbid," she had protested when Viktor had asked why.

Magda had picked out certain family portraits for the spot of honor in here, using some reasoning of her own that she had never quite been able to adequately explain to any of them, save maybe Stan. They had all come to accept that portraits simply either merited the space above the living room mantle or they didn't, and Magda was the sole judge of their worthiness, and that was that. They certainly hadn't been picked for their formality. A selection or a veto was never reversed, and even after she had passed away, Viktor hadn't dared swap them around or move them out of their present arrangement. The same portraits she had done of each of the children at seventeen still hung in exactly the same position as they had before.

The first one had been Vladimir at seventeen, black hair messy and in need of a trim, blowing in the breeze, long limbs seemingly draped in all directions while he sat on the wooden swing in the back garden on a summer afternoon, cheeks just short of being sunburned, laughing. His shirt and trousers were rumpled, sleeves pushed up haphazardly, feet bare, one trailing in the grass. Magda had been so pleased with the way it had turned out that it had gone above the fireplace almost the instant it had finished drying. Normally, paintings sat in her studio for weeks or months on end before they even made it into a frame, much less onto a wall. "That was quick. You've already decided to put that one up there?"

"There will be one of each of them. At seventeen," she had said, stretching onto her toes and poking at the corner of the frame with her wand in an effort to get it to hang evenly.

"Why seventeen?" Viktor had asked curiously, reaching over her to square up the frame.

"It's such a good age. You are who you are, but not quite what you're going to be. You're so full of promise and potential. Adult, but not. You're a walking choice at seventeen. A whole lifetime of it. Besides, it makes for nice symmetry. This turned out perfectly," Magda had said, paint streaked hands on her hips, matter of fact. Only she could have said it that way and not sounded conceited or prideful. It was merely stating fact when she said it.

"It is... perfectly him," Viktor had agreed. And it was. There was no way he could explain it, either, except to say that there wasn't another pose or expression or setting that could have more perfectly embodied their oldest. Stan's had been completely different, but just as perfect in its own way.

Stan's portrait showed him perpetually curled up in the window seat, trouser legs and sleeves rolled up and feet bare, his legs crossed, arm draped across a sketchpad that covered most of his lap, fingers smudged with charcoal and black ink. Magda had even insisted on faithfully recreating the smudgy streak on his right cheekbone, the one that Stan had initially complained made him look like a street urchin straight out of something Dickens had written. The expression on his face was pure Magda, the same features, the exact same look she got when she worked over a sketchbook or in front of a canvas. If Vladimir had been a fair physical imitation of his father, then Stan was every bit as faithful a reproduction of Magda. The softer eyes, the softer jaw line, features not so razor sharp, lips set in the exact same line as Magda's when he concentrated. Even his hands were hers, only bigger, long fingers with squared off tips, not so rawboned as Viktor's, fingertips always a touch stained with whatever he had been working on, as though art and craft could literally work its way beneath the skin. Even now he almost always had wood stain or paint worked into the ridges. He painted now and again, as a hobby.

Anna's had been the exception born of necessity. It had become clear shortly after Anna had turned sixteen that there would be no portrait at seventeen. At least not by Magda. Even if he hadn't wanted to admit it, Magda had accepted it. "I'm doing the portrait of Anna. For over the fireplace." She had announced it one evening when he had asked her what she was working on. She had already begun making the concession of sitting in a chair in front of the easel. Before it was finished, she would have it on a sketching easel that rested on her lap, so she could paint in bed and put the finishing touches on it.

"You can't yet... she's not seventeen..." Viktor had argued. As though cancer and dying paid any attention to petty things like birthdays or traditions.

"Nonsense. If I don't do it now, it won't get done," she had said, like they were discussing something inconsequential, like tidying up before going on a trip. "Besides, she's grown. If she gets any taller, she'll be as tall as you and Vladimir. She just about is now. She's there. She won't change much between now and seventeen. And I've got the perfect pose," Magda had added, cocking her head at the canvas, taking a moment to consider it, find what she had done to her satisfaction, then set off again with the brush. It had been the first time of many to come when he had wanted to yell at her for being so damned complacent about dying. For just accepting it and planning around it, bowing to it.

He had come over and sat on the chair next to her, moving the extra palette she used for mixing out of the way, first. "Don't... Wait... until later... please..." It had come out like pleading. It was either say that or what had been tumbling around in his head, Don't you fucking give up on me! You're not allowed to just get told you're dying and take it without a fight or without even being upset or angry or sorry for leaving us. You're not allowed to just calmly accept that you're dying. You can't.

"I can't," she said distractedly, reaching over and brushing his hair back behind his ear, and for an instant, he thought she had been agreeing with his thoughts, until he remembered he hadn't said it out loud. "Or there won't be one," she added, and he had finally looked at the canvas. Anna sprawled on her stomach in the grass in the back garden, in a familiar faded sundress that she had nearly worn out, skin tan, long legs bent, bare feet that she usually thought were far too big stuck up and waving in midair over her crossed ankles. Her ponytail was messy, her face ringed with escaping tendrils of coal black hair, damp and curling a little in the humidity.. She was propped on her elbows, stained, greasy rag in hand, polishing the already gleaming black handle of a broom lying in the grass in front of her, mostly limbs and sharp angles. "She's nothing if not her father's daughter. More ways than one."

"I think it's just perfect, don't you?" He had nodded mutely in reply, afraid to trust his voice. "I got paint on you," she pointed out. He had used that as an excuse to leave. To go down the hall to the bedroom and cry. He hadn't allowed himself the luxury of doing that again until after. The portrait was finished and up over the fireplace two weeks before she died. Magda hadn't touched anything to paper or canvas after that. Sleep had become a more welcome refuge than art, by then. She slept more than she was awake, exhausted and weak.

All the photos after that had gone elsewhere. The ones of them all at Vladimir and Nikolina's wedding, Evangelina's baby pictures, all those had gone on the coffee tables and on the shelves, instead. He had been content to leave the mantle and the wall above it exactly how she had arranged it. People who had never been in the house before would usually end up standing before it, gawping and grasping for adjectives sometime before they left. That was proof enough to him that it should be left alone. Viktor let his eyes trail over her signature now, the same on all of these portraits. The same as it had been on every poster and commission she had ever done, hasty and bold and black, added almost as an unnecessary afterthought, especially on the ones of the children. Those portraits hadn't really needed her stamp on them. Her stamp was evident enough on the subjects themselves.

Viktor slipped his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes felt heavy again and he was on the verge of headache, head swimming from days of sleep deprivation finally catching up to him. Politeness be hanged. He couldn't stay awake another two hours, waiting. Whichever one of them let themselves in first could wake him. He tossed his spectacles down on the coffee table, swung his legs up onto the sofa, propped his boot heels against the far end and draped his forearm over his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stan hesitated in the doorway, wondering whether he should even attempt to be quiet. It would probably be useless. If he sat, the squeaking of the armchair would probably wake him. If he left, the closing of the door would probably wake him. And if he went into the kitchen, his boot soles hitting the stone floor would be almost sure to wake him up. But he hadn't the heart to do it on purpose, anyway. He eased the door shut behind him, muffling the click of the latch with a hand. It still sounded almost like a gunshot in the quiet. No movement from the sofa. Stan slipped into the nearest armchair, easing himself down as quietly as possible. The chair emitted only the tiniest squeak. Viktor slept on, so Stan decided he would sit at least until Anna showed, or until Viktor woke on his own, whichever came first.

Stan wasn't much surprised to see the stack of newspapers he had brought by undisturbed. He hadn't really expected Tate to read them, even if he hadn't been tired when he got home. He had hardly ever done more than scan the paper, and rarely did he read any articles that included his name, even when he was playing. In fact, if anything, he had avoided them that much harder when the stories involved him. It was Mama who had been the one to carefully fold up papers and file them away in a small box in the closet, with labeled tabs between.

Within a few minutes, Stan heard the back door handle rattling, and footsteps in the back entry. Viktor stirred slightly and mumbled, "Is it three already?"

"Closer to a quarter past," Stan admitted.

Viktor sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. "Thank you for coming by and checking on things while I was gone."

"What was there to do? I brought in the paper and occasionally treated the owl," Stan said with a shrug.

Anna finally emerged from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water. She leaned over the back of the sofa and wrapped her free arm around Viktor, tucking her cheek in next to his. "So, stranger, how was practice? You've obviously just come from there. First stop was for a drink, you're damp, and you smell like an equipment locker," Viktor said, reaching up to pat her hand.

"I took a shower. That's why I'm damp," Anna said, slightly defensive, coming around the sofa, folding her long frame in next to Viktor. She was only a spare couple of inches shy of being exactly the same height as Viktor and Vladimir. Though Stan was quite tall enough by most people's standards, he and Magda had been able to joke about being pines among redwoods.

Viktor picked up her hand and sniffed it. "And polished your broom after, from the smell of it," he said with a smile.

"And oiled the pads," she said, swapping the glass and waving her other hand in his face. "Practice was fair enough. Drills, drills and more drills. Like usual. And I found out I might get into the next match," she added casually, taking a sip of water.

"How did that happen?" Viktor asked. 'I figured the lineup would stay the same the rest of the season. Someone moving or traded?"

"Injured," Anna answered with a shrug. "Iva was too busy flirting instead of paying attention to the scrimmage, and she took a Bludger to the head. Obviously her head isn't nearly as hard as yours," Anna pointed out, squeezing Viktor's shoulder. "The mediwizard suggested she sit out at least one match. If she does, I'm first on the list to replace her."

"That's good news. Well, not for Iva. Unless that Bludger had some help..." Stan teased.

"None but Iva not getting her head out of its way because she was too busy making cow eyes at Kiril, thank you. Clocked her right in the back of the head. You would think she had been killed, the way she carried on," Anna said tartly. Stan and Vladimir's teasing hardly ever got much of a rise out of her. That had certainly come in handy once she had begun attending school, at least.

"I wouldn't talk. I'm not the only one in this room with a hard head," Viktor said. "Call if you get the nod. And tell Iva where she went wrong was by not taking it in the face."

"It's a weekday away match. Wednesday," Anna said, draining her glass. "And Iva wouldn't want to mess up her pretty little button of a nose, either."

"I could leave a little early for that. I've earned that much. Good work," Viktor said softly, brushing her loose hair back behind her shoulder before resting his arm along the back of the sofa, behind her head.

"I haven't gotten in, yet. They just said it's possible, that's all," Anna demurred. "You making me learn all those drills must have paid off. Nadejda has been with the team longer."

"Coaches generally don't let things like that slip unless it's pretty certain. They'll sit Iva if they told you that," Viktor insisted.

"I'll believe it when I see my name on the official starting roster," Anna said with the barest of smiles. "Coaches can always change their minds. Besides, you'll see it when they file the rosters."

"Maybe I'd rather hear it from you. Besides, since when do I bother reviewing rosters?" Viktor said.

"Evtimov will tell you, then," Anna said, leaning her head into his shoulder.

"Not if I threaten him. Call me, anyway," Viktor prodded.

"Come on, Anna. Can't you even be a little excited?" Stan chided. "I'll see if I can't get off a bit early. Should be able to. Not much call for new wands this time of year, and we're well ahead of the production schedule. I could go in an hour early a couple of days to make it up. I'll try not to embarrass you by cheering so loud it shakes the foundations of the stadium."

"It's not certain I'll even get off the bench," Anna said, smiling wanly and shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

"Killjoy. Well, I'm going to come and cheer for you, anyway," Stan said, standing up. He stooped to give Anna a kiss on the cheek. "It would be boring not to root for you, momiche. I need to go home and start dinner."

"But, I was-" Viktor began.

"Tate, don't say you were going to make dinner," Stan said in a warning tone. "Get some sleep instead. I bet you didn't get more than five hours a night all week. If that. I'll bring you something back, if you want."

"No..." Viktor replied, shaking his head. "I'll just sleep."

"Then I'll just go. Are you sure you don't want something? The cafe has these very nice looking salads with chicken. I haven't tried one, but-" Stan offered.

"That won't be necessary. Really. If I get hungry, I'm sure I can dig up something," Viktor insisted.

"Okay, I offered. Bye, Tate," Stan said, squeezing Viktor's shoulder before heading out the door.

Viktor raised a thick eyebrow and looked at Anna for a moment. "Make note. Mila likes salad with chicken," he commented, one corner of his mouth curling up slightly.

"I wish he would just get it over and introduce himself. Sounds like he's stalking her, watching her eat lunch every day and not saying anything. I would find that creepy. Like Iva going all moony and stupid over Kiril every time he's around," Anna said in a disgusted tone.

"Men are brittle little things. You're asking an awful lot, for a man to just up and introduce himself to a girl he likes. Or worse, tell her he likes her. We're positively destroyed if we admit it and she doesn't receive it very well. Besides, he gets that from me," Viktor admitted.

"You didn't stalk Mama. You ran her over," Anna pointed out.

"But I did that once. Watched this girl I liked for what seemed like forever, until I got up the courage to actually go talk to her. In the school library. It's a wonder I didn't fail at everything that year. I didn't make a very good first impression with her, either, even if I didn't cause her bodily injury right off the bat. Or maybe that should be second impression. Either way, she was rather peeved with me before I ever talked to her," Viktor said. "As for Iva, I suppose women are entitled to make complete fools of themselves, too."

"Well, she's going to be a completely dead fool if she doesn't stop doing things like that at practice, never mind during matches," Anna replied. "She's lucky she didn't get whiplash or break her neck." Anna hesitated for a long while, picking at the hem of her robe. "Iva's not cut out for this, is she?"

"You want my honest opinion?" Viktor probed.

"What else?" Anna said firmly, looking him in the eye.

"She should be a practice reserve. The rest of her career. She doesn't have the... ah... spirit for it. She always plays slightly out of the match, and like she's afraid of being hurt. And if there's one thing that's guaranteed to get you hurt, it's being afraid of being hurt and trying to avoid it. She plays cautious, and you just can't do that. Iva's a good, solid player when she forgets to be scared. But that's not good enough. I imagine they were trying to find a way to get her out of the lineup before this. But you knew that already. You shouldn't feel guilty about taking her spot," Viktor soothed. "It would have been Nadejda if it hadn't been you. And while we're being honest, let's keep in mind that you play a hell of a lot smarter than Nadejda and Iva put together, and you could knock either of them into next week. And I'm not just saying that. I ran into Lara a couple of months ago, and she was highly impressed. You didn't tell me she watched a practice."

"She was only there for half of it. She didn't see how many mistakes I made. You still think she's the best player you've ever seen, don't you?" Anna asked curiously.

"In that position, hands down. There's a reason the entire national stadium gave her a fifteen minute standing ovation when she retired six years ago. She played intelligently. And she was tough. You can't be a great Chaser without both of those things. She could still give you a darned fine run for your money. Trust me. The older you get, the more important the smart part becomes. You can only be young and reckless and throw your body around like it's nothing for so long. Lynch found that out. A little late, but he found that out. Get smart earlier," Viktor advised. "Or you end up stuck with all these creaky, achy reminders of why you should have."

"I still can't help but feel a little guilty," Anna admitted. "She'll be angry at me over it, the silly thing. Like I wanted to see her get replaced before the end of the season."

"You'll get over it. Iva will, too. The coaches may take some heat for it, but only until people see you play. You knew this would happen, someday. That things would change. Didn't you?" Viktor said, cupping his hand against the back of her head, smoothing her hair.

"I hate change. It always hurts," Anna said earnestly, her dark eyes flicking over the mantle, then back down.

"Sometimes, change is good. It's not good to be stagnant. You keep making the same mistakes over and over, you never grow, and you get boring. Save that for when you're ancient and already know it all. Like me," Viktor added.

Anna smiled in spite of herself. "Tate, you most certainly don't know it all. And you're not boring. And you are not ancient."

"Some days I feel it," Viktor said. "Especially when I look at you and wonder when my baby went and grew up on me."

Anna sobered. "I wish Mama could be there."

"I wish she could, too, pilentse. I do, too," Viktor said, cupping her shoulder and pulling her close enough that he could tuck his chin against the top of her head. "She would be so proud of you. Even if she would lose her head and be worried sick and tell you silly things, like not to get hurt. By the way, don't get yourself hurt, hmm?"

Anna chuckled softly. "Tate. I'm not going to get hurt in a match. You just said..."

"I meant with Iva. Or anybody else with a stupid opinion that they insist on giving you," Viktor explained.

"Never bothered me before," Anna said.

"Then don't let it bother you now. You earned the spot. Never let anyone convince you any differently," Viktor said.

"I won't," Anna insisted. "I won't."

"No, you won't. Hardhead," Viktor said affectionately.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mum? Hellooo... Earth to Mum... anyone home?" Simon said in a singsong voice, waving his palm in front of Hermione's distant eyes.

"Hmm? What? Sorry... I was miles away..." Hermione admitted sheepishly, putting down her teacup.

"Obviously. I said how is your first week back at work?" Simon said, looking amused. "You've just got one more day to survive."

"Oh. Fair enough. It's hard to get back to the old routine. It takes two days to catch up for every day you're gone," Hermione said distractedly, looking off toward the living room again.

"You... ah... expecting someone on the Floo or something?" Simon asked, following her gaze.

"Yes... no... not really. Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. I'm just tired. I still haven't recovered from last week," Hermione blurted out, rubbing at her eyes. Simon couldn't help but scan the kitchen and the back entry. No sign of a cloak that didn't belong. He was half afraid she had already ducked out of the invitation by sending it back with an owl.

"Mmm. Aunt Gin told me all about last week. Sorry to hear about his wife. That's rough. But I suppose I'm preaching to the choir," Simon said, probing.

"I imagine so. Losing your spouse to an illness can't be any easier than losing them all at once. Maybe it's worse," Hermione said, running a finger around the rim of her cup. "And since when does your Aunt Ginny tell you all about my week?"

"Since you barely said two words about it. So... are you going?" Simon asked hopefully.

"If he calls and asks. Not that it's any of your business. And I'm not going to go eat dinner at the man's house and harass him for an autograph," Hermione warned sternly.

"I don't want you to. I was only teasing. Besides, I still have the one Dad got, anyway, remember? I think you should. Go. Have a good time," Simon said.

"Thank you for giving me permission to have a good time," Hermione said tartly. "Honestly. Have the lot of you called a conference, headed by your Aunt Ginny, over whether or not I should go on a dinner date?"

"No. I just think it would be nice if you went and had a da... dinner date once in a while. And actually enjoyed yourself at it. Instead of spending the whole evening mentally listing the reasons why they aren't Dad," Simon explained. "I mean, I wonder sometimes if you kept an open mind."

"Trust me. The couple or three men who asked me to dinner had far bigger problems than not being your father. Not being your father was the least of their worries. And I hate to tell you, even if that hadn't been so, it's not as though any of them pursued me ardently. One of them was too busy being in love with himself to even notice me not having a good time. He made Gilderoy Lockhart look like Mother Theresa," Hermione said with a brief laugh. "He ended up with that singer, whatever her name was, Miss One Hit Wonder... before they divorced, anyway. I think they lasted all of a year."

"And how many of them turned tail just because you had a son?" Simon pressed. "Come on. I know about the mediwizard. Trent, or whatever his name was. You two didn't even make it out the front door once he found out. Spotted the toys and he was off."

"He was a shallow little bugger, too. And the third one and I just didn't hit it off in any case, son or no son. I hardly think three men is a scientific sampling. Besides, even if ninety-nine out of a hundred took off because I had a son, we came as a package. No negotiation. If they weren't willing to accept a little thing like having a son, they weren't going to be too charitable about any of my real flaws, either. And having you was definitely not a flaw," Hermione said firmly. "Any flaws you still have in your thirties aren't likely to get wiped out that easily. Simon, you needn't worry about me. Things always work out. However they're supposed to. I shudder to think about ending up with any of those three for more than a bad first date. You didn't want me keeping a mind so open that my brain fell out, did you? Because that's what would have had to happen for me to go on date two with any of those three. And the suitor line rather ended there."

"No. Just... have a good time. It's just... sometimes you overanalyze things. Get them down and examine them to death. Feelings... sometimes they don't stand up to logic," Simon said.

Hermione reached out and cupped his sharp chin in her hand briefly. "You sound like your father. Or more likely, your Aunt Ginny, because Ron would have just told me I was thinking things to death. Why are you so concerned about a dinner I haven't even been formally invited to, yet?"

"I don't know. I guess... I just... Seems like there's more to this than simply bumping into an old friend. I mean... didn't you... the two of you...?" Simon floundered and trailed off.

"That's not any of your business, either. You're every bit as dearly inept at asking personal questions you have no right to ask as your father was. What I did in my youth is my business. Besides. We're talking about someone I haven't seen in decades, who went off and had a separate life in another country all that time. You and Ginny seem to be forgetting that the two of us haven't lived the past thirty years sealed in little boxes and tucked up on the shelf. He's gone through a marriage and having three children and raising them, and a couple of careers. Or three. We might have changed a shade, you know. There's no guarantee he's interested in anything but talking. And there's no guarantee that either of us want to go mixing up our lives like a tossed salad to accommodate one another. That would be an awfully big change, even if everything aligned. We've both got baggage, you know. Simon, it's just not simple. This isn't a fairytale. And it's all rather premature, given that we've barely got a handful of lunches behind us and a bit of catching up," Hermione protested.

"Still... just try to have a good time, Mum. And if he doesn't leap at the chance to accommodate you, he's taken a few too many Bludgers to the head," Simon insisted, rising, then ducking to kiss her on the cheek. "I need to go. I've got to go in early tomorrow."

Hermione twisted in her chair and spoke when he reached the door. "Simon... he's still getting over putting his wife in the ground. Do you think that's like breaking up with your girlfriend? You don't shrug it off in a week. I know, remember?"

Simon paused in pulling his cloak on. "I know. But somebody used to tell me that change was good for you. I thought that was you. Right, I'll stop nosing in your business. You're right. It's none of mine. And you're old enough to make your own decisions. You give me that respect, I'll do the same for you. It's certainly not like you're some doddering old dear that needs her son-"

"I kissed him before your father," Hermione blurted out.

"What?" Simon asked.

"I kissed him first. Viktor. He was my first real kiss. He was a good kisser. Not that your father wasn't... it was just different. They were very different," Hermione summed up. "They always were."

"Oh. I didn't know that. The... kiss... not the different part. I think I knew that already." Simon paused a long while as though digesting it. "Well... g'night, Mum," he added, waving.

"Goodnight!" she called after him. After a few moments, well after the back door had shut, she added, "Nosy, well meaning son of mine," with a soft laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evtimov hovered expectantly for a while in silence. Finally he flicked his wrist slightly, rustling the bundle of parchments in his hand quietly. "I know you're there, Evtimov. You're allowed to sit, you know," Viktor said without looking up from his desk. Ilian sank into the chair and waited for him to finish. "Or was there some other reason you've decided to take up residence there like a human hat rack?"

"I have the rosters. If you want to look at them," Ilian said noncommittally.

Viktor looked him straight in the eye, then pulled his glasses off. "Do I want to look at them?"

"I don't know. Do you?" Ilian said evenly. "I was threatened within an inch of my life if I spilled it. You can look at them or not. No skin off my nose."

"She didn't call. But with her, that doesn't mean much. Do I want to look?" Viktor repeated.

"Or she could have called when you were in a meeting. I don't know. I haven't so much as looked myself. I don't even know if you really want her to be on there or not! Sounds like you don't, either. I have them in my hand. If you want to look at them, there they are. If not, tell me, so I can get on with processing, filing and distributing them," Ilian said in an exasperated tone, tossing them down on the desktop. Viktor drummed his fingers lightly, considering the stack. Then he snatched them up, slipped his glasses back on and flipped through the pages, pausing near the back.

He looked so thoroughly disheartened for an instant that it took a bit longer than normal for Ilian to process it when Viktor said, "Officially, Iva's on the disabled list, Anna's on the match roster."

"Then why do you look like someone just kicked your kneecap?" Ilian prodded. "I should think you would be happy. Your daughter just got put on a roster a year before you guessed."

"Because... you know this is going to start something. With Iva, anyway, if not more. Anna was worried that Iva was going to be angry. She will be. Iva's a player with mediocre skills and a diva disposition. She will complain. Loudly. And Anna won't be able to win a war of words, no matter what she says. Not that she would say anything in the first place. The only thing she can do is keep her mouth shut, go out there and play. As if there weren't enough pressure, already," Viktor said with a heavy sigh.

"You knew that would happen. Regardless of when she got put on. Talk. By idiots who don't know any better. Anna, too," Ilian pointed out. "You said you were going to stand back and let her fight her own battles. Like always."

"I might let her fight her own battles, but it doesn't mean I enjoy standing back and watching it happen. I never did. Not when she was home, not in school, not now," Viktor noted, sitting back and crossing his arms.

"She survived it in school just fine, didn't she? And two older brothers at home, to boot. They all turned out just fine. Besides, she's too much like you. She wouldn't let them have the satisfaction of getting to her, would she? If they do, she can just beat them down, right?" Ilian asked with a sly smile.

"I hardly think the combined power of the press and a mouthy player with an axe to grind is equivalent to some snotty boy who couldn't stand being beaten by a girl calling her Sasquatch in her seventh year. And I don't think single-handedly beating up the entire press is a viable option. I doubt they would cry uncle as fast as Gustav Ziegenthaler did, no matter how good she is at getting you down and prying your wrist up behind your head. But you're right. She'll have to learn to deal with it. And I will, too," Viktor admitted. He pursed his mouth and thought a moment. "Did you keep that last hour open on Wednesday?"

"Clean as a whistle. Leave early," Ilian encouraged. "Go to your daughter's first professional match."

"Thank you for that wholehearted endorsement of my playing hooky," Viktor said with a faint smile. "Go home after you get the rosters done. It's practically the weekend."

"You won't play hooky. You'll come in two hours early the next day, and you know it. You needn't, but you will," Evtimov said, taking back the stack and neatening the edges against the desk.

"No, I won't. Half an hour," Viktor protested.

"You would break out in a rash," Ilian replied.

"Maybe an hour. But not two," Viktor insisted.

"I'll believe it when I see it. Any weekend plans besides stewing over what might happen to Anna?" Ilian asked, raising his eyebrows.

"That's plenty right there. Finish recovering. Make a call or two. Sit in my house and not move. Revise that. Lie in my bed and not move. Revel in not having to go anywhere. Until late afternoon, anyway," Viktor said, fidgeting with the quill.

"Still have to go to the Varna match?" Ilian said, making a sympathetic face.

"That fool won't be satisfied that he doesn't need money to repair the stadium foundation until I go look at it in person. That foundation is solid as a rock. Hell, the foundation is a rock. But if it finally shuts him up, I'll go. Should be a decent match. Or I can work on learning to sleep with my eyes open," Viktor said with a shrug. "Maybe Vlad will let me borrow some company. Conversation ought to be about Evangelina's speed. Or maybe he'll want to go. Stan, maybe, too. This is his off-week and he hasn't been to a match with me for a while."

"I'm sorry I asked," Ilian observed, grinning.

"Sorry. I shouldn't be bellyaching about seeing matches for free. That's the dream part of the dream job. It's the talking to the people that inevitably buttonhole me at the matches that I hate. Sometimes it makes me wish I had showed good sense and stayed retired. Or gone back into something sensible. Like broom design. Announcing. Coaching. Something where I would have a valid excuse for occasionally wanting to bang my head against a stadium wall," Viktor added.

"Something where you get to bellyache at the Commissioner instead of having to listen to it?" Ilian pointed out.

"That would be perfect! Could you arrange that?" Viktor asked, one corner of his mouth curling up slightly.

"Sorry. The Commissioner's booked right up. Couldn't possibly squeeze you in for months. Seriously, do you want me there Saturday?" Ilian offered.

"No... enjoy your weekend. There's no need for you to listen to it, too. I'll bellyache at you about it Monday," Viktor said glumly, propping his chin in his hand. "While I'm thinking of it, no late appointments next Friday if you can help it. If that changes, I'll let you know. Now file those things and go home. I'll be right behind you."

"I'll make note. By the way, I've almost finished that study. About the Tournament," Ilian elaborated. "Take a while to compile it into a report you can actually read."

"Hit me with it whenever you finish. No rush."

"I'll just file these, and we'll lock up, then," Ilian said, rapping the stack against the desk and hopping up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor glanced up at the clock over the mantle, then checked it against his watch again. He did the math in his head. Two hours. Britain would be two hours behind. It was still a bit early to risk calling. Assuming Ministry office hours still ran the same as they had when he had been a frequent visitor there, she probably wouldn't be home, yet. And he didn't want to disturb her at work, either. He would wait another hour, at least. Hopefully that would be late enough that she would have been home for more than a few minutes, but not late enough to interrupt her dinner. "You're overanalyzing this. It's just a Floo call," he chided himself, sitting down on the sofa, stretching his legs out. Viktor took a sip of coffee from the mug in his hand then considered the newspaper.

He weighed the decision about reading it for an instant. The rosters hadn't been released until well after press time. The coach wasn't one to gab with reporters, and he certainly didn't confirm or deny rumors. He wouldn't have let slip about the roster to the paper ahead of time. Maybe not even to Iva, if he knew what was good for him. Iva wouldn't have reason to complain and reporters wouldn't have a reason to ask until it had been made official. It would likely land her in the doghouse with the coach if she did make a fuss, but Iva didn't strike him as the most levelheaded player, either. Still, it was probably safe enough to read. Maybe he would call after he finished.

Viktor made fairly quick work of the paper. There just wasn't much of interest in it. There simply wasn't much in the way of news that didn't make the conversational rounds at the Ministry, And the rest, he wasn't very interested in, anyway. He could still do without reading about who said what to whom at a charity event, or which outfits people wore, or who ended up in the corner with someone else. He checked the clock again. "Near enough," he said out loud, draining what was left in the mug and refolding the paper.

He stood and stretched, then walked over to the hearth. Viktor hated making these long distance calls. The connections were almost always horrible, when they weren't downright impossible, and you had to have someone at the Floo hub patch you in to the other hub. It usually took a good ten minutes to connect, if you were lucky. Of course, five years ago, it would have been completely impossible to make such a call at all, even on a rotten connection. There were some who swore that you would be able to travel long distance, even transcontinental distances, by Floo in another decade, but given the state of the connections for talking, Viktor doubted anyone who valued having their body in one piece and all their limbs attached would be fool enough to try it before another twenty. He could nearly kick himself for not saying he would just write, instead. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, ducked carefully under the edge of the stone fireplace, tossed it in and stated clearly "Central Floo Hub, Sofia."

Hermione cast another anxious glance into the living room. She could have sworn she had heard something. But for the third time, she had been wrong. "Stop haunting the living room," she told herself firmly, turning on her heel and heading back toward the kitchen. "It's not going to make him call any faster. Fix your dinner and stop stalking the fireplace." She felt as though her ears were straining for the slightest sound the whole time she was gathering up the ingredients for her salad. Still, she nearly dropped the tomato on the floor when a woman's voice rang out "Hermione Weasley! Central Floo Hub, London, calling!"

"Coming! Just a minute!" Hermione shouted, hurriedly scotching the tomato against the other vegetables on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron and trotting into the living room.

"Ah! There you are! Now, hang on a minute, I've just got to get the ruddy thing patched in to the Hub in Sofia. It's a right pain in the neck. We've lost the connection three times, already," the dark-haired woman huffed. "Why people insist on these newfangled-y things like transoceanic Floo calls that don't work half the time, I'll never know. What's wrong with a nice letter and hiring an albatross? Or a pelican, if you've got a package? Even a nice penguin works if you're writing someone in Antarctica and it's waterproofed..." she muttered, her head disappearing from the flames. Hermione caught a great deal of mumbling and debating, all well muffled, on the other end of the call.

After a few moments of chatter fading in and out, she caught a distinctly male voice. Heavily accented. "Dobar vejjer... Hermione Veasley?" Her name hadn't been too badly slaughtered. Not quite like it would have been a few decades ago. She wracked her memory. Dobar... dobar... dobar den was good day... vejjer... vejjer was evening...

"Dobar vejjer! Da!" she said loudly, falling back on what little Bulgarian she remembered. "Err... iz zdrava... no... iz zdravai? Hello?" No answer. "Kazum se Hermione Weasley. Hello? This is Hermione..." Just as she was about to give up hope of getting an answer, a sandy head popped up in the flames. Spewing a rather lengthy bit of Bulgarian that she understood nothing of, save Viktor's name. "Oh dear. Now what?" She shrugged helplessly. The head disappeared again, and after a moment, it was replaced by a familiar face. The voice was a shade muffled and distant, but Hermione could at least hear and understand.

"Let's just make it quick and simple, before the connection drops. Next Friday?" Viktor asked.

"I think that would be fine. Time?" Hermione said without thinking.

"Pick one. Your time," Viktor said quickly.

"Oh! Er... I could probably be there around six, my time," Hermione stammered. "At the dock. How will I...?"

"I'll write with the directions," Viktor said, the connection fading slightly.

"Fantastic. Hire a penguin," Hermione said.

"Hire a... What!?" Viktor said, obviously puzzled.

"I'll explain it later. I'll say goodbye before we get cut off," Hermione said.

"See you next week," Viktor said.

"See you next week," Hermione echoed. She stood staring at the fireplace for a few seconds after his head disappeared. She shook her own, then wandered back to the kitchen, muttering, "Talk about anticlimactic. First truly long distance Floo call, and it lasted all of ten seconds. That's what you were waiting for like some anxious little schoolgirl?"

Viktor raised up carefully, promptly banging the back of his head on the edge of the fireplace anyway. "Damn it," he muttered, rubbing at the back of his head with his hand, "they never make these things tall enough." Enough fireplaces had left him with a ringing or throbbing head over the years to know. "And what did she mean, penguin? Had to be the connection..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're going to wear the hinges right off that thing," Ilian said, shaking his head and pulling the door closed behind him. "Do you really think we would let you miss it?" he added as Viktor guiltily snapped his watch shut and hastily dropped it back into his pocket.

"I wasn't... I... Oh, forget it. If she's a tenth as nervous as I am, they'll have to carry her into the stadium, anyway," Viktor muttered, sounding slightly disgusted with himself. "I notice you shut the door. That can't be good. How ugly is it? Iva. In the papers," Viktor elaborated.

"Never could fool you when I had bad news. Worse than it needed to be. Not as bad as it could have been," Ilian said, shrugging.

"That could mean anything, Evtimov," Viktor said, leveling a look at him, slightly skeptical. "In fact, I think it means nothing at all."

"Exactly. Why do you think I always say it that way?" Ilian replied. He heaved a deep sigh. "I imagine you had better have your best 'no comment' face on when you go. A few fluff articles on possible favoritism by people who have never once been in danger of getting a splinter in their bum, much less catching a Bludger."

"They're always the ones that know the most about the game," Viktor said, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth before he continued. "And Iva?"

"Centerpiece of most of the fluff articles. Tale of woe and her obviously superior talent being passed over in favor of the daughter of a legend. For a name. Poor little darling, jettisoned without cause. And similar rot. That agent of hers has figured out they've got nothing to lose. If she doesn't complain, they relegate her to practice status. Permanently. Maybe even cut her loose at the end of the season if they get a promising new prospect. If she whines, she gets some attention and sympathy. Maybe even a 'shut up' concession offer from the team. Coach won't willingly budge on the rosters if he likes the way Anna plays, but the owners might not like getting dragged along for the ride. You'll get asked about it. Anna, too. Sorry," Evtimov said. "She got pretty nasty in one of them. Personal," he added, swallowing hard. He hated to be the one to break the news, but he would hate it even worse if Viktor got jumped on the subject out of the blue.

"I imagine she's used to having me thrown in her face. It ought to be getting old by now," Viktor said dryly. "You would think people could find a new line."

"They have. Or Iva has. She made out like part of the reason was... that Anna... got the sympathy nod," Ilian said quietly. "Because of Magda."

"Throwing her dead mother in her face... That is a new low," Viktor said, leaning back and crossing his arms. He sat for an instant, not moving. "Thank you, Ilian. Now, at least my 'no comment' face won't look too surprised," he murmured, biting his lip. "Quick question, Ilian. Father or Commissioner?"

"Beg pardon?" Evtimov asked, looking confused.

"Which do I go as? Father or Commissioner?" Viktor prompted.

"Maybe it's just me, but I think you would have a better time if you left the job totally at the office. Just this once, at least," Ilian answered. He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by a frantic knock on the door. The door flew open and the gray-haired receptionist stuck her head in.

"Sorry to interrupt, but if we're going, we need to leave, soon," she said while pulling on her cloak.

"We? You're all going?" Viktor asked, looking stunned as the rest of the office dashed for their cloaks and capped off bottles of ink on desks.

"Absolutely! If you think we're missing our girl's first match, you've got another think coming!" the receptionist insisted.

"You people are totally ruining any appearance of impartiality on the part of this department. I love that. Let's go," he told Ilian, smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I know why you're here. You know how this whole conversation is going to go, and that I'm not going to say anything worth printing, so why bother asking?" Viktor said with a sigh, tossing his cloak over the back of his seat in the top box. "I don't care how long I've known you, Federov. The answer's the same. No, I don't care to comment. On anything," Viktor said, not unkindly.

"It's my job," Federov said with a shrug, equally easygoing. "I'm just doing my job like you are. So, how's the conversation going to go? Humor me."

"If I just waded through two dozen reporters and said no comment to whatever they asked, what do you think? You ask if I've seen the articles. I say no, personally, I don't read them. Didn't when I played, don't now. You summarize and ask me to comment. I decline. Like always. I don't know why you think I've changed. Talking to the press about player politics is a new trick, and I am a decidedly old dog. Get used to it," Viktor said, leaning against the back of the chair. "And by the way, I'm not doing a job. I'm just a father here to watch my daughter play in her first professional match. That's all. No more, no less. I wish you lot would get that through your thick skulls."

"I wish that were true. The part about just being a father. Now, what you just said, that I could print. Minus the 'thick skulls' comment, of course. Look, I'm sorry, I know this can't be easy," Federov murmured. "Reading those things."

"You're still assuming I read the blasted papers. If I did, I would have gone mad long ago. Off the record, Iva and her complaint will only be a story until you and your little friends down there find something else to talk about. Next week it might be 'Iva who?' again. Federov, I don't have anything to say to you, either. No matter what I say, it won't be the right thing. You know that. Not to mention, saying anything will get me in the doghouse with Anna, and that's not a pleasant place to be. Therefore, I stubbornly stick to my usual 'no comment'," Viktor replied, returning a similar shrug.

"Fair enough. I'll beat it down to the sidelines, then. My editor can't say I didn't try," Federov called over his shoulder.

"Thank you for not trying too hard," Viktor shot back, rounding his seat and flopping into it.

"Why do you two do that?" Evtimov asked. "I've never understood the point of that little dance."

"He did me the courtesy of actually displaying some integrity back when I played, so I do him the courtesy of occasionally talking to him. And this way he doesn't have to lie to his editor. Believe it or not, there are a few honest reporters. And Federov's one of the few I've met. He knows no means no, and that the press does not own your soul just because you have a public job," Viktor explained. "He gets to print one fairly meaningless remark that no one else got, it makes his editor happy and I get to leave with my vow of silence intact. More or less."

Stan, in the seat beside him, resituated Evangelina in his lap. "The nerve of that... that..." Stan floundered, seemingly searching for a word that adequately described Iva, but he was cut off by Evangelina squeezing her battered cow, which let out a strangled moo.

"From the toys of babes," Ilian observed, looking amused.

"I think you had best leave that sentence unfinished. Even if it's so," Viktor pointed out quietly. "Especially if you were about to describe Iva."

"What's Anna supposed to do when someone says something like that, in the papers?" Stan asked.

"If she's smart, keep her mouth shut and prove them wrong on the pitch," Viktor replied. "And if you two are smart, you'll keep your mouths shut, too."

"Easier said than done," Vlad muttered darkly.

"Why would that make things any worse?" Stan said.

"For a start, your sister would probably hex you a dozen ways from Sunday for trying to stand up for her when she didn't ask for it. Second, it's not going to make the articles go away. Anything you say only stokes the fire. Leave it alone long enough without any fuel, and it will die, eventually," Viktor explained. "Just sit here, and watch the match. And that goes for me, too."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Say something. I know you're dying to," Stan insisted.

"They're not going to win. Tie. It's going to be a tie," Viktor said, pulling the blanket further up, covering the small, dark head sleeping against his chest.

"Why do you say that?" Stan asked. "They still have time to make a hundred and sixty-"

"But they won't. They're tired. Look at them. They're not going to score any more. And the Seeker is practically falling off his broom. It's cold, it's dark, the opposing Seeker will catch it. It will end in a tie," Viktor explained. "First game with this lineup. No shame in a tie."

"How long do you give it?" Vladimir asked, pulling out his watch and squinting at it in the dim light.

"Five minutes at the most. The Keepers are all over everything. No one is going to score," Viktor said. Within three minutes, he had been proven right. After a quick dash for the Snitch, the Varna Seeker had it.

"How do you do that?" Vlad asked, closing his watch and tucking it back in his pocket so he could applaud.

"You devote a few decades of your life to doing something, you start to notice little things like a Seeker not keeping form because he's about to fall asleep. Are you all interested in a little celebratory dinner? Evtimov? What about the rest of you?" Viktor asked, surveying the front row. Most of the office murmured polite declinations, noting the late hour.

"I appreciate the offer, Viktor, but I think I had better get home. Or mine will be passed out just like that, too," llian said, nodding his head at the limp body of Evangelina. "If I go now, I can probably get at least one story in before tucking him into bed."

"Some other time, then. Goodnight. Vladimir, come here and fetch your daughter, I'm going to go fetch mine. She'll probably be out of the shower by the time I get down there," Viktor said, handing the baby over. "You three hash out where we're going to eat while I'm gone. Keep them in line, Nikolina."

It took a few minutes to make his way through the crowd, out of the box, and past a couple more very persistent reporters, down to the locker room. "I'm not used to the Commissioner coming down to visit the locker room after a regular season tied match," a familiar voice called out.

"Radomir," Viktor said, nodding at his old coach, "for your information, the Commissioner didn't come down here. I did. I'm off the clock."

"You never get off the clock with that job. You can be extremely proud," Radomir said, shaking Viktor's hand. "She played a hell of a match on short notice. Sorry about the fuss," he added under his breath.

"Knew to expect it," Viktor replied. "Maybe not quite so vicious..."

"Expect more. I'll be in next week to file papers to fine Iva. She didn't show tonight with no warning. Team rules. Be present, even if not slated to play, unless there is a medical reason. I didn't put up with that diva nonsense when you were here, I sure as hell am not going to start, now," Radomir said gruffly.

"Wouldn't ask you to. Make sure all the paperwork is airtight, though. I don't want her coming back on me saying I could have opted not to fine her," Viktor warned.

"It will be. Kiril! Is Anna out of the showers?" Radomir called when the door to the room with the lockers and equipment swung open and Kiril walked out, hair damp.

"Sure. Anna! Commissioner's here!" Kiril shouted back through the swinging door.

"Impossible. The Commissioner doesn't come trooping down to the locker room after every match," Anna groused, stepping out with her equipment bag on her arm.

"Try your father, instead. He does. Especially after his daughter's first match," Viktor replied.

"Which was a tie," Anna said, crossing her arms and scowling fiercely in a way that seemed a little too familiar.

"Be glad. My first professional match was an eighty point arse-kicking. Sofia handed us our heads on platters. And it was only that close because I lucked out and got to the Snitch first. Opposing Seeker was probably too distracted watching his team score every two or three minutes. Now, come on, your brothers are waiting to go eat and you're probably starving," Viktor cajoled.

"Why do you think that?" Anna asked.

"Because I never ate before matches, either," Viktor said.

"You should be proud. Fine first match. Not many mistakes. No practice tomorrow. Be ready for a tough one the day after. Keep that up, your name earns a permanent spot on the roster," Radomir said. "Under the circumstances, you kept your head in the game admirably. Don't let them get to you," he added quietly, touching Anna's arm. "You earned that spot. You earned a right to keep it. Ride out the rest of the trial period like this, it's yours, free and clear."

Anna nodded. "Let's go, Tate."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I can't believe no one else wanted dessert," Viktor said, walking into the kitchen and rummaging through the icebox.

"No one else could hold their eyes open," Anna said, settling into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Here," Viktor said. He put two pints of ice cream on the table, then fetched two spoons. "You eat out of that container, I'll eat out of this one, and we won't tell anyone," he said, sitting next to her, giving her one of the spoons and nudging the container of plain chocolate toward her.

"I'd rather have the chocolate and cherry," Anna said, smiling faintly.

"Fair enough. I won't arm wrestle you over it," Viktor said, swapping them. They pried the lids loose and ate a few spoonfuls in silence. "Want to talk about it?" Viktor asked casually, not looking up from the container.

"Not particularly," Anna said. A long pause followed. "I could strangle Iva," she said fiercely, jabbing her spoon into the container.

"I could, too, but I think we would definitely be the number one suspects if she turned up dead. They'll get tired of listening to her whine in a day or two," Viktor advised. "Keep playing like you did in that match today and they'll have something else to talk about."

"I made mistakes," Anna complained. "Too many."

"Everybody does. So, you'll make fewer next time," Viktor said.

"But if I hadn't missed that one open pass, we might have scored another goal and-"

"And you might not have. And if you hadn't made every one of those six goals you did make, your team would have lost. No one player wins it or loses it. You can do everything right and still lose the match," Viktor said, reaching up and absently skimming a finger over the crook in the bridge of his nose. "Just concentrate on playing the best you can in the moment and forget about the last match and the match after. Nothing you can do about those. Play the match you're in and everything else falls into place. Even things like Iva. You have nothing to be ashamed of." Viktor said, pushing her hair back from her face. "Look, baby, there are going to be a lot of Ivas. Let the coach and me worry about Iva, take care of the part of her behavior we actually have some control over, strictly by the book, and you just worry about playing."

"She could have left Mama out of it," Anna spat. "Dragging you into it was bad enough. Tired line. You only got it because he's your father."

Viktor sighed. "She could have. But she wouldn't have gotten as many headlines. Let Iva dig her own hole. Your silence just hands her a bigger shovel. Play her a little deeper, too, while you're at it. Today was a good start. Varna's no pushover, and you lot held them goalless. And scored fifteen goals on them. That's not shabby. Especially under the circumstances. I'm proud of you. For all of it. Your Mama would be, too."

"It felt good," Anna confessed. "Playing that well, I mean. It felt good, doing that in a real match."

"You looked good. You played smart. And tough. I bet that one was surprised that elbow didn't have any effect."

"All those butt-kickings the rest of you put on me when I was little. Even Mama didn't have any mercy," Anna said with a laugh, putting the last spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. "And you. You were the worst. Worse than Vlad and Stan put together, with the not letting up."

"Because I knew I had better enjoy it while I could. You weren't going to be easy to beat for long. Go home and get some rest, you'll be sorer than you think, tomorrow," Viktor insisted.

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, Tate," Anna said, wrapping her arms around Viktor's neck, kissing his cheek. He patted her between the shoulders briefly and returned the kiss. "I had better go," Anna said, jumping up and grabbing her cloak. "Thank you for the ice cream," she tossed over her shoulder as she stood at the back door.

"You're welcome. It's here any time you want some," Viktor called after her. Once the door had swung shut, he added under his breath, "And the advice, too. For what it's worth."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mrs. Weeeeeasley! Hermione Weasley!"

"Hmm? Sorry, what?" Hermione said, looking up and blinking owlishly. She had been engrossed in an equation, staring at it and puzzling over it. In fact, she had the nagging suspicion that for all her staring at it, not one bit of it had sunk in or made any sense.

"For about the fifth time, now, Arthur's called up here and wants to know if you're free for lunch. I've been standing here in this doorway, talking to you for the last three minutes, for all the good it's done," the receptionist said, looking slightly peeved.

"Oh. Of course. Tell him to come up when he's ready," Hermione said distractedly.

"He's already in the lobby, waiting. I told him you would be out when I could pry you away from those parchments."

"Is it lunchtime already? I'm so sorry. I hope I haven't kept him waiting long," Hermione fretted, standing and grabbing her cloak, throwing it on as she hurried along. "I'm sorry, Arthur, I was... well, I was doing absolutely no good, is what I was doing," she admitted.

"Only been here a tick. Come have a bite with me, and it will all look rosier after," Arthur said with a smile. The red hair had long since completely silvered, of course, the corners of the eyes crinkled a bit more, and the face was a shade fuller, but the eldest Weasley still looked remarkably like he had when she had first met him. Equally cheerful and optimistic, despite everything. "How about a sandwich in the Leaky Cauldron?"

"I could do with a sandwich," Hermione allowed. The two of them made their way there and placed their orders mostly in comfortable, familiar silence. It was only after they had taken their seats and started in on their lunches that she suspected there was more to this lunch than usual.

"Anything exciting planned for the weekend?" Arthur asked, trying to feign indifference and failing at it miserably.

"And why would you be asking that?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Just wondered if you had anything interesting planned, is all," Arthur insisted.

"Arthur," Hermione warned. "Did Simon put you up to asking that?"

"No! No, Simon didn't..." Arthur replied, shaking his head.

"Molly, then," Hermione said, putting her sandwich down and crossing her arms, suddenly certain.

"Now why would you think that?" Arthur stammered.

"Because in nearly thirty years as your daughter-in-law, you have never once asked me what I was doing this weekend?" Hermione pressed.

"Well, Molly was just a bit curious-" Arthur admitted, blushing.

"For Merlin's sake, does everyone in the Weasley family know? What did Ginny and Simon do, send out a newsletter?" Hermione interrupted.

"There, there, dear, it's naught to be getting all wrought up over. We would just all like to see you happy," Arthur soothed, patting her hand.

"Is there some... myth brewing among you that I'm living under a rock all by myself and I'm terribly unhappy and lonely?" Hermione said indignantly. "I don't need the lot of you pushing me at just anybody that happens to pass for reasonably eligible, like I have some sort of expiration date! If it weren't for Molly, I never would have gone on those other dreadful dates," she spat. "I'm going to have to tell Viktor it's not just young people that see you as some kind of project!"

"No! And this isn't just anybody. Is it?" Arthur asked gently. "You seriously considered... marrying... or is that a myth, too? And you're never lonely?"

"That was a long time ago. A lot's happened. And you be just as lonely with the wrong person as you can be by yourself," Hermione said. "That's why no second dates with those others."

"So... maybe a lot had to happen for the time to be right," Arthur said earnestly. "Not everyone is so lucky as me and Molly girl. Where it's so sure. Right from the beginning. Sometimes, a lot has to happen," Arthur repeated.

Hermione sighed and smiled weakly. "It may ease Molly's mind to know I'm going to dinner tomorrow evening, then. We'll see," Hermione allowed. "You lot seem ready to marry us off if we have more than two meals together!" she scolded.

"Good. Enjoy yourself," Arthur said cheerfully, going back to his sandwich.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Make it quick, Ilian, I have to go to the grocery," Viktor said, pausing momentarily in pulling his cloak on.

"The grocery? On a Thursday evening?" Evtimov said thickly.

"People do eat on Thursdays," Viktor said. "What is it?'

"I thought you should know. Paperwork came in to fine Iva," Ilian said, holding up a sheaf of parchments.

"I know. Radomir warned me. As long as it's airtight, I don't care. Fine her," Viktor said.

"I haven't reviewed it yet, but I think so. But Iva wants an appointment tomorrow," Ilian replied.

"What for? She knew she was going to get fined! If she didn't, she's thicker than I thought. Radomir doesn't take that from his players. You follow team rules, or you get fined. It's in your damned contract!" Viktor snapped.

"Well, don't yell at me about it. I think she wants to talk to you about dipping into her pension fund while she's on the disabled list," Ilian explained.

"Oh. So that's her game. She wants to apply and have me deny it. So she can say I'm persecuting her. I'll show her. As long as it's filled out correctly, I'll approve it. Bet Iva doesn't see that coming," Viktor said. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. Squeeze her in. Half an hour. No more."

"That wasn't even a good snap. It'll have to be toward the end of the day. I know you wanted to keep that clear. I can still keep that last hour clear," Ilian offered.

"Do it," Viktor said.

"Done. Now, go buy your groceries," Evtimov said, waving Viktor toward the door. "I'm right behind you. Want me to strangle Iva? I'm half tempted to do it for you."

"No. She's not worth strangling. Or that's what I keep telling myself," Viktor said, turning the lights out behind them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evtimov stuck his head inside the office. "She's here. Send her in?"

"Got the papers?" Viktor asked, looking up from his desk.

"Here," Ilian said, holding them out. Viktor stood and met him at the door, taking them. He riffled through them quickly.

"Well... come in if you're coming in," Viktor called, looking into the outer office, seeing Iva standing at the other end of the room. Some of the looks she got from the staff as she walked to the door were less than friendly. "Close the door behind you if you want this to be private," he added when she stepped in.

"Should it be?" Iva asked pointedly.

"Up to you. Bring a marching band, for all I care. Have a seat," Viktor offered, rounding his desk and indicating the chair opposite. "Unless you want to be contrary about that, too." he added as she pushed the door shut.

"About my fine-"

"I'm not repealing it. It's cut and dried, the paperwork and the rules are airtight, it was filed properly before the deadline, I've signed it. No negotiation," Viktor said, sliding the sheet in question across the desk.

"It's not fair-" Iva began, but Viktor cut her off again.

"It's the team rules. They're there in black and white, and it's in your contract, it's on file here at the commission. No notification of your absence, you get fined. If you don't like the team rules, take it up with the coach and owners. I have no power over their rules. I just enforce them and levy the penalty," Viktor said, holding his hands up in a helpless gesture.

"He only did it because it was me!" Iva pouted, crossing her arms.

"Here's where I'm going to point out that argument is a load of fertilizer. This same man fined me at least a dozen times in my career. Certainly made sure I got my behind to practice on time. And it didn't matter if I was a minute late because my watch was slow, ten minutes late because I overslept or thirty minutes late because I had a sick baby and a sick wife and couldn't find a sitter, he still fined me. Radomir doesn't cut people slack because of who they are. Nor does he persecute them. Find a new tune," Viktor said flatly.

"Oh, and I suppose the fine would have gone through if it had been Anna," Iva taunted.

"I don't imagine Radomir would hesitate, and if it got filed properly, I would sign it. She needs fining if she breaks a team rule. That's what fines are for. First time she's late, see if he doesn't fine her," Viktor said evenly. "Now, was there anything else?"

Iva narrowed her eyes and thrust out two folded sheets of parchment. "I want to receive my union benefits while I'm on the disabled list. And I don't want any unnecessary delaying or-"

"That your medical statement?" Viktor asked, unfolding one of them. "Signed?" he asked when she bobbed her head. "Is that your application form? Signed and filled out?" He studied them for a brief space, then smoothed one of them out, grabbing a quill and writing across the bottom.

"What are you doing?" Iva demanded, leaning forward, straining to see.

Viktor paused and peered at her over the top of his glasses. "Signing it and dating it," he explained patiently, in a tone very close to the one he had used when the children were being particularly persistent and exasperating, if not quite in need of reprimanding. "That's what I have to do when I approve payments from the player's union." He went back to signing his name.

"Just like that?" Iva asked, narrowing her eyes. "You needn't think that's going to buy my silence."

"I expect your pension will pay your rent and buy your groceries, or whatever you want to spend it on. Your mouth doesn't enter into it. You pay into the fund in case you need it. You applied for it properly, I approved it. That's the way it works for everyone," Viktor said, sliding the parchments back across the desk. "Just like the fines. I've been accused of a lot of things since I took this job. Being a skinflint, wasting too much money, not understanding scheduling, scheduling in lesser venues, not being politically minded... but there's one thing I have never seriously been accused of. And that's not being fair. In fact, if anything, they get angry at me because I'm too fair. I don't cut anyone a special deal. I treated you like I would any other player."

"Oh, I see. You think if you do this, I quit talking to the press about Anna," Iva scoffed. "It's not going to shut me up about the truth, just because you give me what I deserve anyway. She got the spot because of who she is."

"If by 'who she is' you mean what kind of player she is, you've finally hit on the truth. While we're on the subject of the truth, let me give you a little friendly advice," Viktor said, taking his glasses off and setting them down. "Completely off the record and totally outside of my role as Commissioner," he elaborated, resting his palms on the desk and leaning forward, lowering his voice. "If you think she got the spot over you because she's mine, you're deluding yourself. I've seen it before. A player who doesn't want to admit that they don't have what it takes, looking for someone to blame other than themselves. It's the crowd's fault, the equipment's fault, the venue's fault, the owner's fault, the coach's fault, a teammate's fault, everyone's fault but their own. I hate to tell you this, but I've been seeing players get nasty since before you were born. The bigger the excuse, the nastier they get. Congratulations. You have the dubious distinction of sinking the lowest of anybody I've ever come across."

"You just don't like me saying it's because she's got your last name. Heaven forbid anyone point out that everybody knows she's your daughter," Iva replied.

"No, I don't mind that. That's open season. In fact, it's old hat. All of my children have heard that line of nonsense about how everything was easier for them because they were mine, probably since they were toddlers, and they all know it's bull. Anna, especially, I imagine. If anything, they had it harder. I sure didn't cut them any slack or do them any favors, and I made sure their professors and coaches didn't show them any favoritism, either. I asked them to be harder on them. I knew they were going to need it. They've always had to work harder to prove they have nothing to prove. Hell, I expect to be thrown in their faces when someone's looking for an excuse. It ought to be a tired old line to Anna, by now. But you have a lot of damned gall, coming in here and making demands and threats after throwing my dead wife in my face. You've got a lot of fucking nerve, implying Anna losing her mother had a thing to do with her replacing your sorry behind on the roster," Viktor hissed.

"So maybe I'll talk about her a little more," Iva shot back.

"I wouldn't if I were you. Because I am only so patient. You can talk about me all you want. Hell, talk about Anna all you want. Call me sixteen different kinds of fool, say I've spoiled all my children rotten and bought them their careers with my name, and say I'm the worst Commissioner in the history of the office as much as you like. Until the press gets tired of hearing it and won't give you any more column space. I don't care. It wouldn't be the first time. Say Anna is the worst player you've ever seen, she only got the spot because her last name's Krum, and she couldn't outplay you if her life depended on it. Be my guest. It would only serve to show how ignorant you are of what it takes to make a real player. Anna can take it. She's heard meaningless trash talk before. You aren't the first load of hot air she's encountered. You're just background noise and extra motivation, you and your favoritism charges. But if you mention Magda as a reason one more time, I will go toe to toe with you in the press and I will... eat... you... alive," Viktor said, leaning in closer and biting off each word.

"You never talk to the press," Iva replied, but she leaned back slightly.

"Exactly," Viktor said, sitting upright once more. "But for this, I'm willing to make an exception. I only speak to the press when whatever I say is important. Therefore, they think anything I say is important. I can snap my fingers and get about fourteen papers in here, eager to copy down whatever I want to give them. If you think you scare me, threatening to haul Magda into it, you're badly mistaken. I can destroy you in about three sentences. Two, maybe, if I'm feeling particularly pithy. And best of all, I can do it without defending myself or Anna, and still make you look about that big," Viktor pointed out, holding his thumb and forefinger a small distance apart.

"Fine, then. Let's hear it," Iva said, looking smug. "Let's hear what the press would eat up."

"I think it a real shame that Iva finds it necessary to resort to disrespecting the memory of the dead by dragging my wife's name into a debate that can and should be settled on the playing field. She's behaving like an average player with a diva's ego that just can't quite accept responsibility for the quality of her own playing and improving upon it. I'm sure she doesn't mean to come off as a difficult, spoiled player more interested in her own agenda than that of the team, but it certainly does sound that way, since she thinks my being widowed is more important to a veteran coach's decision than her own talent," Viktor recited, raising an eyebrow. "I could possibly edit it down if I gave it some thought."

"You wouldn't..." Iva said.

"I don't even have to insult you directly, and no team on any continent will ever touch you, even as a practice reserve. No coach would have you. Not because I'm the Commissioner, either. Because they'll know I'm right. I never resorted to name calling when I played. If I said it, it wasn't just talk. They won't want some whiny little reserve that thinks she's the best thing to happen to Quidditch since the invention of the Quaffle. Who doesn't know when it's in her own best interest to back off and let her playing do the talking. It's your call. Let it blow over as a momentary lapse in judgment that Anna and I were big enough to ignore, or drag it out unnecessarily and hex the rest of your career." Viktor offered. When she didn't respond, he added, "I've been around player politics since before you were born. Just because I didn't play that aspect of the game back when I played Quidditch doesn't mean I wasn't paying attention to the rules. I was on the receiving end of plenty of it. You knew Anna would keep her mouth shut, and that she wouldn't let me step into it if I wanted to, which I don't. She doesn't need it. You banked on the two of us keeping quiet and giving you enough rope to hang yourself. You crossed the line, though. You just had to have that extra big headline by saying something new. Well, I can say something new, too. And the best part is, I don't even have to resort to lying or pulling something completely irrelevant in, like you did. Did you really expect me to rise to that pathetic bait? I do my job, no strings attached. My personal feelings don't enter into it."

"What do I have to do?" Iva asked in a small voice, looking sour.

"Leave my wife out of it. That's all I ask. Leaving my daughter out of it, too, would only be good common sense, but that's up to you," Viktor allowed. "You don't have to worry that I'm going to pull out the stops if you're silly enough to keep saying she shouldn't have gotten your spot. Critique her form, her play, her decisions, hell, the way she maintains her equipment and wears her uniform. Anything that actually has to do with her being on the field. But her mother is off limits."

"Fine," Iva muttered. "How long does the pension go?"

"Until Vratsa releases you from contract or removes you from the disabled list. At that point, if you don't get picked up, you go onto the former player's pension scale and you have to reapply when you wish to start drawing. You draw more the longer you play and the longer you wait, obviously, since it's a sliding scale. It's all in the league handbook," Viktor answered evenly. "Any more questions?'

"No," Iva said, pouting.

"Good. I think it's about time you left. Forgive me if I don't show you to the door. I might be a little too tempted to hurl you out it. Hand the paperwork in to the nice young man who showed you in. Ask him for a copy of the league handbook if you've misplaced yours. And if I were you, I wouldn't make any appointments for a while. With me or the press. I suggest you practice your 'No comment,' and leave it at that," Viktor said, lowering his eyebrows and glaring at her. "But if you're lacking rope and are still determined to hang yourself, I can provide just enough."

"I wouldn't expect me not to talk about whether or not she deserves the spot, though," Iva sniped, getting up and stalking toward the door.

"I wouldn't expect them to stay interested long. Especially when you're proven wrong," Viktor said dryly. Iva stepped out and closed the door behind her harder than necessary. Within a couple of minutes, the door swung open again and Ilian stepped inside.

"I take it that went well?" Evtimov asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"About as well as it could. Shut the door," Viktor said with a heavy sigh. "At least I think I managed to get the main point across without saying what I was really thinking," he added once Ilian had complied.

"Which was?" Ilian prompted, settling into the chair.

"Shut up and leave my little girl alone or I'll gut you, you stupid, vicious wench," Viktor said, in a tone so light that Evtimov couldn't help but guffaw.

"I hope you phrased it better," Evtimov said, regaining control.

"Oh, I gave her open season on the two of us," Viktor said, waving his hand dismissively. "Carte blanche to run the two of us down as long as anyone will listen for anything from our choice of shoes to our career skills. Just no mentioning Magda. I had to tread very carefully around anything that sounded like I was warning her off of me or Anna. Especially Anna. Come on, Evtimov. You know that's the only reason it bothered Anna in the slightest. Because Iva brought Magda into it. Otherwise, it wouldn't even have registered. Iva could have suggested putting the two of us on pikes in the town square, and Anna wouldn't have cared. I wouldn't have either. Much. I admit it. Sometimes I wish she weren't so insistent on standing up for herself. Every once in a while, I wish she would let me do it," Viktor complained. "Against my better judgment, occasionally I'm seized by the overwhelming urge to be protective. And she won't let me."

"It's your own damned fault for raising them all to stand on their own two feet," Evtimov pointed out.

"I know. I should have gone for more whiny and dependent," Viktor said, shrugging. "Just as well. I would be accused of impropriety up and down the board. That's the problem with this job. Figuring out where it ends. Most people seem to think it doesn't. So I have to bite my tongue and let all the players take their lumps. Anna included. Builds character. Or so I keep trying to convince myself."

"Taking your lumps or biting your tongue?" Evtimov asked pointedly.

The corners of Viktor's mouth turned up subtly. "Both. Anything else character-building that I need to do before I leave?"

"I think you're free and clear. And well deserved it is. For not saying that to Iva, if nothing else. I don't think I could bite my tongue if it were Danail," Evtimov admitted.

"Danail is still getting the hang of talking, much less speaking up for himself. Enjoy it while you don't have to ask for permission. That comes all too soon," Viktor said, standing and stretching. "If that's all the torture you have for me this afternoon, I'm leaving, then. Have a good weekend, Ilian."

"You, too," Ilian replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor looked up at the clock when the pecking came at the back door. It was too early to be Hermione. The ferry couldn't even have docked, yet. There was no way it could be her this early. He wiped his hands on the dishtowel and went to the back door. He was a bit surprised when it turned out to be Vladimir, with a fussing and exceedingly cranky looking Evangelina perched on his hip. "Oh, good, you're here," Vladimir said, sounding relieved. "I thought maybe you were working late and I would have to try to catch you at the office. Or run Anna down."

"Why didn't you just let yourself in?" Viktor asked, sounding puzzled.

"Can't come in. Don't have time. Look, I hate to do this, but could you keep her? I know this is last minute, but Nikolina's doing inventory at work, and I was supposed to be off tonight, but they called me in. They're swamped. I can't find another sitter. We can't pick her up until late, eleven, maybe, but-"

"Leave her all night. Come get her in the morning," Viktor said, taking her.

"You're sure? All night? It won't be keeping you from doing anything? You don't have anywhere you need to be? And she's pretty fussy right now. Teething. She's liable to keep you up half-"

"Nothing more important than this. Leave her," Viktor said. "I'm just fixing dinner. I don't have anywhere to go. And I've had some experience with teething, remember? She'll be fine."

"I didn't bring things for overnight. Gah! I forgot the gum ointment. You can run over to the house and-"

"She's got clothes and food, her own bed here, and toys in the bag. Some people wish they had it so good. And the three of you survived without gum ointment. You managed by gnawing on frozen waffles and such. I had a hand in raising you three without killing you or scarring you beyond repair. She'll be fine. Go on," Viktor said impatiently.

"You're positive? I mean, she won't be interrupting something or driving you mad while you're trying to do something and you're just not saying? And I'm serious about her being up and down a lot. If she's too much trouble-"

"She won't bother a thing," Viktor fibbed. "I rather like being with her, remember? We'll be okay. Hand over the baby's bag and go on. You're going to be late for shift change. You and Nikolina sleep in tomorrow. I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow." When Vladimir didn't answer for a beat, Viktor added, "Goodnight, Tate. You can say it or she can say it, but one of you say it," Viktor prompted.

"Thank you, you don't know how big a help this is, taking her, last minute. Goodnight, baby," Vladimir said, kissing Evangelina's cheek. "Behave, now."

"Oh, Mama and I had to throw ourselves on the mercy of Baba and Diado last minute a few times, too. Any time," Viktor demurred.

"Goodnight, Tate. Call if you want us to come early-"

"Get out, don't show up before noon or I won't let you in," Viktor scolded good-naturedly. "Goodnight," he added, pushing the door together. He stood for a moment, looking at the door, blinking. "You know," Viktor mused, hefting the squirming little girl higher on his own hip, "I was planning on having dinner with a younger woman this evening, but you weren't exactly what I had in mind. Come on, then, pilentse, let's see if we can't finish dinner. And get you in a better mood," he added, chucking her under the chin. Evangelina rubbed at her mouth with her knuckles and looked that much more disagreeable.

Viktor picked up the bag and took it into the living room, dropping it on the sofa. Then he went and pulled the old high chair from the corner of the kitchen where it now sat. It had been dragged down from the attic a few months back, having earned a long sabbatical there after surviving three childhoods. Viktor settled her in and fastened the tray on. Being confined instead of being carried didn't set well with the occupant of the high chair.

"Now, look, I need both hands free, at least for a few minutes," Viktor cajoled over the pleading whimpering. "Just hang on a little while. I swear it's not for the whole evening. Five or ten minutes," he said, turning his back on her and going about the business of finishing dinner. Evangelina made no secret of the fact that the last place she wanted to be stuck at the moment was in the high chair. Viktor resolutely ignored her for a few minutes, rummaging through the drawers, cabinets, vegetable bin and ice box for things he needed. It was safe enough to Accio the things from the bin and the ice box, but some of the drawers and cabinets were so tightly packed that it was less trouble and racket to look for things yourself, without a wand.

"Grand. I've lost my mind," Viktor muttered, holding the large, wooden salad bowl he had just finished pulling out of the cabinet, looking at the empty bit of counter where he was sure he had put down the spoon for stirring the moussaka just a short while before. He only had to puzzle over it for a few moments before the mystery was solved, as the solid banging of wood against wood joined the generally unhappy cacophony behind him. "Oh, very cute," he said, setting the bowl down and turning around. Sure enough, Evangelina was pounding away at the wooden tray of the chair with the spoon he had left on the counter. "Well, I suppose I don't have to worry about you being a Squib, then, do I?" he admitted, walking over and unlatching the tray. He hefted her out and settled her back on his hip, which seemed to improve her mood by leaps and bounds. "I know, your gums hurt," Viktor soothed. "Here, trade you a Popsicle for the spoon," he offered, summoning one out of the icebox. Evangelina warily accepted the trade. "That will make your mouth feel a little better, at least. And try not to have three quarters of it on Diado by the time you finish, hmm?" Viktor said absently, dropping the spoon into the pot and setting it to stirring.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the next, firmer knock came at the door, Viktor was dead certain it was Hermione after checking the clock. Allowing for the ferry being reasonably late, disembarking, Flooing from the station to the nearby inn, and walking the remaining short distance, there had been plenty of time. He had offered Flooing directly from the station to the house, but he had known she would likely opt for coming to the door instead. Even years ago, she had stubbornly held onto the Muggle custom of not dropping directly into someone's house, even when invited, but knocking instead. He suspected half of it was due to her not really liking travel by Floo, either. He wouldn't put it past her to have walked all the way from the station, instead, if she could get directions.

"I'm fifteen minutes away from being finished," Viktor groused, putting Evangelina back in the high chair, "I still haven't changed, and I'm covered in slobber and popsicle drippings." He pointed his wand at the biggest sticky red patch near his shoulder and muttered the charm. It lightened only slightly, still stubborn. Thankfully, Evangelina was distracted enough by the remains of the popsicle that she didn't protest being left in the high chair again. "This is not how I pictured this going," Viktor complained, grabbing the dish towel and slinging it over his shoulder on the way to the back door.

"Hello," Hermione said, the instant he pulled the door open. She was standing there, a shopping bag in her hand, her own cloak pulled up close around her. "Sorry, am I early?" she asked, the smile on her face faltering slightly when she noticed the towel. "I didn't misunderstand the time difference, did I?"

"No... no, I'm late," Viktor admitted ruefully. "Come on in," he added, stepping back and holding the door.

"How can you be late to dinner in your own house?" Hermione asked, smile returning, as she stepped in.

"I've managed. Slight change of plans. Unexpected company. Dinner for two is going to be dinner for three, instead. I wouldn't worry she's going to monopolize the conversation, though," Viktor said with a weak laugh. "Throw things during dinner, maybe, but not butt into the conversation, much."

"Oh... oh, Evangelina?" Hermione asked, catching on. "Emergency babysitting?"

"Poor little urchin just got dumped on my doorstep. Vlad got called in last minute and Nikolina's doing inventory," Viktor explained, bobbing his head. "I would steer clear if you don't want to get sticky," Viktor advised, brushing at the damp patch on his robe with the dish towel. "Popsicle," he elaborated.

"A bit of stickiness never hurt anyone," Hermione protested, moving on into the kitchen. "I've been sticky before and survived. Hello, sweetie," Hermione said to the little girl, who surveyed her curiously in return with wide, dark eyes. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Keep this one occupied for fifteen minutes, " Viktor said, taking away the sticky popsicle stick and cleaning the sugary fingers and face. "Sorry, I'm slower working one-handed and hauling her around."

"Nonsense. I'm not even used to eating all that early. Here, pumpkin, I don't mind hauling you around at all," Hermione offered, holding out her hands. Evangelina still eyed her warily, uncertain.

"I would also be careful if you have anything removable on your person that is within easy reach," Viktor warned. "She's in that stage where she'll take anything that's not nailed down. Glasses, especially. And she's a load."

"Well, I haven't any glasses, and anything else she's welcome to," Hermione said, putting down the bag, shedding her cloak, then unfastening the tray and picking up Evangelina. Evangelina looked her over intently for a bit, then shyly plucked at the top button on Hermione's robe. "You're sure there's nothing I can lend a hand with?"

"No. Mostly it's just waiting for the bread and moussaka, and finishing up the salad. And making the coffee, assuming you want some. There's some wine... if you want it. I don't think I will, now, with her staying... Don't let that stop you, though," Viktor insisted, shutting the oven door again. "Sorry, I should have set the table ages ago."

"I don't need wine. Coffee's fine," Hermione protested, watching the table settings drift by. "I take it I shouldn't have held you to the literal when you said 'the chef'?"

"What? Oh! No, sorry, I'm afraid I'm the chef. Magda used to laugh at people who inquired about 'the chef'. She would tell them we had taken on two, full time, and trained three assistants. We got enough of eating other people's cooking when we were on the road and had to eat out. There's something to be said for eating your own cooking, imperfect though it may be. We had plenty of time to swap off when we were at home. Although I do admit to occasionally having to eat around a bit of sandwich because there was paint on the crust. But I didn't mention that any more than she mentioned it when I would burn something around the edges on the stove because I was too busy listening to a match on the wireless. Grant you, she did that occasionally, too," Viktor said. "The kids would come up with the most incredibly outlandish combinations for meals, sometimes. Stan went through this stage where every dish he picked would have Feta in it. And Vlad used to make this truly horrendous sounding omelet sort of thing with shredded chicken and cheese and peppers. We were ashamed to admit to anyone that we actually ate it. It's really quite good if you can get to it before it gets cold and soggy. To me, things like that were a lot more fun than having a real chef on hand. I think a professional would have been boring. I can manage feeding myself. To cook for one person who isn't even here a lot of the time? No point. "

"I suppose not," Hermione demurred. "With Simon it was eating peanut butter all the time. He lived on peanut butter his entire tenth year. You would have thought Hogwarts was going to completely deprive him of peanut butter the instant he stepped onto the grounds. I read you must have had quite the week."

"Beg pardon?" Viktor asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Anna. I read she was in a match. Or wasn't the Prophet right about that? The Prophet had a little blurb on it Thursday," Hermione said. Getting a mite bolder, Evangelina riffled her fingers through Hermione's hair. "Was a tie, wasn't it?"

"That's it? Just a blurb about her being in the match? Then you don't know the half of the week I've had," Viktor said with a derisive snort.

"Sorry? I feel I'm missing something vital," Hermione said.

"Player politics," Viktor spat, closing the samovar with much more force than was necessary. "Let's leave it at saying the girl Anna replaced wasn't so charitable about it, and the more I think on it, the angrier I get about it. And she had the gall to come in for an appointment today. Do you know how frustrating it is to know you can't say much of anything about it when somebody just starts... making things up because they don't have a real case?"

"Because you're the Commissioner," Hermione said.

"Because Anna would wring my neck," Viktor corrected. "Don't you dare stick up for me, Tate, I'll do it myself, became her favorite phrase somewhere around age seven."

"Oh. Well, that's not what I expected. I wouldn't have expected something like that to upset you much. I would have figured you had heard it all before," Hermione said, catching the little fingers that were prodding at her chin.

"Oh, I've been called any number of things that aren't repeatable. This one came up with a new line. Blamed it on Magda. The other bits about me... nothing she hasn't heard a hundred other times. But that... that bothered her," Viktor said more softly.

"Bothered her or bothered you?" Hermione probed.

"Both," Viktor admitted. "She mentioned it. She hasn't so much as mentioned anything like that for years, no matter how hard I try to pry it out of her. Anna's used to people making snap judgments. One way or the other. She's heard 'your famous father' as a reason for everything from grades to team spots her whole life. 'Your dead mother' is a new one to us both." Viktor smiled faintly. "If I stood up for her directly, though, Anna would never let me hear the end of it. Commissioner or no Commissioner. Just as well. She had better learn to stand up for herself. On the pitch. And I had better be getting used to that, too."

Hermione gaped for a moment. "You're... kidding... She said it was because... Magda's..." she stammered. "I'm definitely seeing the downside of your daughter's choice of career. My sympathies. Still, I bet you're proud," Hermione said.

"Of course," Viktor replied, his expression easing. "But I think I'm going to die a thousand deaths by the end of her first full season. I admit it. There's still this stubborn little corner of me that wants to go and be a father when I read things like that. So I try not to read things like that if I can help it. Thankfully, I got into the habit of ignoring things like that a long time ago. Healthier for me and Anna. And whoever is saying it," Viktor said with a laugh. "I've had better weeks. Professionally, at least. I can't complain about the personal. It was a good match and she played well. I can't ask for much more than that. How was going back to work for you?"

"Jarring. And maddening. It took about a week to even begin to catch up with all the notes on my desk, and I feel like I've stared at a million parchments and drawn a complete blank all this week. Of course, it didn't help that it took most of that first week just to get my mind back in the same time zone as my body," Hermione said ruefully.

"Time zones, nothing. Travel just plain takes it out of you. The strain of not being able to completely relax while you're somewhere strange and always worrying about making the next leg of the trip or the next meeting," Viktor mused. "And then there's the worrying about what's going on back home that's going to be waiting for you when you get back. Did you want a bowl or a plate? For the salad?"

"A bowl, I think," Hermione answered, watching the intense concentration on Evangelina's face as she went back to plucking at Hermione's button.

"Sorry, I'm being a terrible host. Did you want anything while we're waiting? And sit, you don't have to haul her all over the kitchen," Viktor scolded mildly.

"I'm fine, really. It's actually a nice change after being cooped up on the ferry. And in the office all week. Unless you count a nag session with Arthur over lunch," Hermione said.

"Arthur? Nag? I can't imagine what he would nag about," Viktor replied.

"He took me out for a sandwich, but he had ulterior motives. I think it was a case of Molly nagging by proxy, if you want the truth," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Let's just leave it at that. That bread smells incredible."

"Needs to cool a bit before it can be cut. Supposedly, you can do it with a Cooling Charm, but I always overdo it and end up with cold bread. I would rather exercise two minutes of patience. Besides, the coffee needs at least that long," Viktor said, glancing back at the samovar on the counter.

"What are you going to feed the little one? She can't survive on popsicle alone, can she?" Hermione asked, ducking her head to peer into Evangelina's face. The baby had slyly shifted from plucking at the button to poking at the ends of Hermione's hair to watch it bounce.

"Oh, she'll eat a bit from the table. Some bread and some soup. And I threw a potato in to bake. She'll eat most of that. What she doesn't attempt to launch across the table. Sometimes she's really bad about throwing things if she's not particularly hungry. Look, I'm going to go change. I doubt I'll be much cleaner by the end of dinner, but at least I won't be quite so sticky, maybe. Make yourself at home. Be back in a minute," Viktor said, pulling at his robe.

Hermione stood for a moment, looking around the kitchen. Curiosity got the best of her after a second, though, and she boosted the baby up higher and wandered to the doorway, to peer through into what appeared to be the living room. Not surprisingly, it was a fairly large room. The house had looked fairly large all over, as well, two stories, at least. It was certainly on a sprawling piece of property, since the only other houses visible once she had reached the gate had been far distant, barely winking lights in the clear night. The long walk up the slight rise to the house had made her glad she had chosen sensible shoes. She could, of course, have taken up the offer to Floo directly, but it hadn't felt quite right, doing so. It would have felt too much like intruding.

She took a small step through the doorway, letting her eyes trail over the furniture and the end tables, the photographs sitting here and there in frames. A couple of the baby, obviously, and if she wasn't mistaken, the group photo on one of the tables contained several former players. It looked as though it had been taken at a dinner party or gathering of some sort. Zograf, she was quite sure of, and, if she weren't seeing things, the woman next to him was definitely Lara Ivanova...

"Here, stop that!" Viktor snapped, and Hermione jumped guiltily. "Don't let her pull your hair," he added, gently disentangling the little fist from the back of Hermione's hair.

"I didn't even notice," Hermione protested.

"You wouldn't be saying that if she gave it a good hard yank. Trust me, she's stouter than she looks. Ready to eat?" Viktor asked.

"Sure. Smells like the coffee is ready, too," Hermione observed, wandering back into the kitchen.

"Here. You can put her down before your arms give way," Viktor offered, nudging the high chair closer to the edge of the table. "And if you don't mind, could you look in the side pocket of her bag and see if there's any baby food in there?" he asked, ladling a little bit of moussaka into a wide bowl, then preparing a small slice of bread and the small potato on an equally petite plate. Hermione made sure the tray was fastened on firmly before going to check the bag.

"Two jars," she said, holding up one in each hand. "But surely she's not going to eat all that? I mean, it's been a while since I fed an eight-month-old on a regular basis but-"

"Nope," Viktor said, taking the jars from her and nudging open one of the upper cabinets. Without really looking, he shoved them in among a host of other miniature jars of pureed vegetables and fruits. Hermione gaped.

"What was that?" she asked, jerking her head toward the now closed cabinet door.

"My way of avoiding an argument. And technically, she's a nine-month-old by now," Viktor said, handing over the ladle. "Help yourself. Look, you know how kids think they know everything? For some reason, my eldest has it in his head that his medical textbooks, written mostly by people who have never so much as been spit up on once in their life, know more about when a baby is ready to eat from the table than I do, despite the fact that I managed to help raise three real, live babies who all ate anything and everything from the table well before the textbooks recommend. So he insists on sending that stuff over here and I pretend I actually feed it to her. I mean," Viktor said, pulling out one of the jars, "honestly, would you actually eat stewed prunes? They look disgusting. And strained peas? What's in mushy peas that needs to be strained? Given the choice, what would you eat? She usually eats like a yeoman when she's over here because she actually likes what I feed her. She spits half of this out and Vlad wonders why. I tried this argument once and lost. I figured it wasn't worth fighting over. I'll just do it behind their backs. What's the point of having teeth if all they ever feed you is mush?"

"So, you just shove it in the cabinet and feed her whatever you're eating?" Hermione asked, serving herself.

"Guilty as charged. It's a way of winning the battle without having to fight the battle. I'll... donate it, or something, some day," Viktor said with a shrug, tearing the bread into miniscule bites. "You know how it is. First baby, you realize they don't come with instructions, so you look for some. With us, it was throwing ourselves on the mercy of our parents. With them, it's medical texts."

"And what are you going to do if he ever opens up that cabinet?" Hermione asked, filling her salad bowl.

"Tell him I just stocked up. He doesn't have to know I'm stocking up from the baby's bag. Remember what I said about grandparents. We get to do these things," Viktor said, packing the things he had prepared over to the table. "Did you want milk and sugar?"

"Please," Hermione said, taking the full coffee cup from him, once he had poured it.

"Sugar's in the bowl on the table, and you can leave the milk there, too," Viktor said, handing over the bottle. "It's sheep's milk. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine," Hermione said, taking it to the table. She fiddled with her coffee while Viktor finished preparing his own bowls and plate. "So... what else are you doing behind their backs?" she asked as he settled his own things in and fed Evangelina a bit of bread.

"Oh, all kinds of reckless things. Not only do I feed her real food, I sometimes take her outside without wrapping her up so much that she's sweaty by the time you get out the door. I mean, there has to be a decent middle ground between letting her freeze and wrapping her up in fifteen layers. Although, truth be told, Vlad and I are probably pretty close together on that one. If anything, Vlad kind of errs on the side of keeping her too cool rather than too hot. It's Nikolina who thinks the child's been used to tropical weather in some prior life. And if you let this get out, I will deny it to my dying breath, but I've had her on the broom with me a bit, and there's a toy one up in the attic for the not so distant future," Viktor admitted.

"Why, you completely wicked influence, you," Hermione said with a smile.

'On the flying, I think Vlad just follows the don't ask, don't tell policy. He doesn't ask, and even if he did, I wouldn't tell," Viktor pointed out. "Anna does the same thing," he added, after giving the baby a spoonful of potato.

"Doesn't ask?" Hermione supplied.

"Doesn't tell. I'm afraid to ask her. I imagine she goes a lot faster than I do. And Stan, a lot of his don't tell involves paint, I think. I've found a suspicious amount of green or purple behind her ears once or twice after she gets back from there. And funny, Stan always seems to give her a bath before she returns home," Viktor said, looking amused.

"That sounds more risky for the adult involved. Or like it entails more cleanup, at least," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"Eating a few crayons and tasting a little finger paint never killed any child. If it had, none of my three would still be breathing," Viktor said with a shrug.

"But none of them took to art but Stan?" Hermione asked.

"All three of them could run rings around me. Not that it's saying much. I can't draw a straight line with a ruler. We didn't push any of it. If they enjoyed doing it, they did. If they didn't, we didn't force the issue. They can actually tell you what makes a good painting. I could tell you one if I saw one. Just," Viktor explained. "Magda never quite gave me up for totally hopeless on that score. Do you still haunt museums?"

"Every chance I get," Hermione replied. "Occasionally, Simon even comes along. He doesn't protest too much as long as I'm not asking him to miss a good match."

"Is he as crazy about it as Harry and Ron used to be? Or for that matter, Charlie?" Viktor asked.

"Worse, if that's even possible. Charlie and Harry are terrible enablers. Encouraged him to build up this collection of player autographs that I couldn't even begin to shake a wand at. Yours is one of them. He's probably had that one the longest," Hermione said.

'Why on earth would he want to keep that old thing?" Viktor said.

"It's the one Ron got. At Hogwarts," Hermione explained. "Simon started adding to Ron's old collection when he was about twelve."

"Ah. Want to hand me a crowbar so I can get my foot out of my mouth?' Viktor said lightly.

"Well, it's not as though I expect you to remember every autograph you ever handed out," Hermione soothed.

"But, that one I ought to. It's not as though I handed out a ton. Besides, he didn't giggle or ask for it in lipstick," Viktor pointed out. "It was a nice change."

"I wouldn't have put it past him. He was shameless about getting autographs," Hermione murmured, draining her cup. "Almost as shameless as Simon is. I swear, I think he would break line in front of a four-year-old if he thought he had to. Is there more coffee?" The two of them had finished, and even Evangelina was nearly through.

"Plenty. There's dessert, in fact. Baked apples, assuming I get them in to warm sometime this evening," Viktor said, blotting a little broth from Evangelina's chin.

"Stay put, I'll get it. I'll get the dessert, too, if you'll just tell me where it is," Hermione said, jumping up.

"In the icebox. You should see it when you open the door. Just set the dish in the oven," Viktor instructed. "It's hot."

"I don't know what your grandfather was talking about. Your table manners are impeccable," Hermione said, brushing a wisp of dark hair back from the baby's forehead as she returned to the table.

"Says the woman who hasn't ever let her guard down for a minute and gotten a lap full of potato," Viktor said. "Must be hungry. When she's bored with it, more of it ends up in various spots in the kitchen. Sorry, I should have thought of the dessert before now."

"I'm in no hurry. Last ferry leaves at midnight. I have nowhere to be tomorrow," Hermione protested, propping her chin against her hand.

"I'm sure there are more exciting things you could be doing," Viktor said, spooning up the last bit of broth from the bowl and tipping it into the little girl's mouth.

"Exciting is overrated. Besides, how often do I get a meal that I didn't have to cook that doesn't come as part and parcel with a whole mess of Weasleys? Not that that is an entirely bad thing, but Molly just doesn't do small dinners," Hermione said. "Sometimes it would be nice to have a meal that doesn't involve at least a dozen people and two rooms."

"I apologize in advance. This is probably the most annoying toy ever created," Viktor said, getting up and scrounging through the baby's bag again, coming out with the obviously much-loved stuffed cow, "but you have to act like it's the most amazing thing you've ever seen, or she practically takes it as a personal affront." He handed it over and wandered back to the stove.

"What's it do that's so annoy-" Hermione started to ask, but she was cut off by the bleating moo. "Oh! That!" she said with an exaggerated expression of surprise, laughing. "Oh, that's nothing! Simon had this whizzy top that sounded exactly like a dying Jabberknoll. A sick, dying Jabberknoll. With indigestion."

"That's just as annoying when you've heard it a few thousand times. In one night," Viktor argued, shaking his head and smiling indulgently. "Trust me. I know. Although it's an improvement over the sheep."

"There are more of these, somewhere, I take it?" Hermione asked.

"A whole barnyard's worth. The noisier they are, the better she likes them. It's quite the racket when she gets them all going at once. Dessert's warm. Did you want some ice cream with it?" Viktor offered.

"I'll skip the ice cream, I think. Smells marvelous just as it is," Hermione insisted. They ate dessert mostly in comfortable silence, punctuated occasionally by Evangelina's babbling and playing. "Don't forget to hang your cloak back up," Hermione reminded him, while they gathered up the dishes and set them to washing. "I probably should have reminded you when I brought it in."

"Actually... do you want one of those cloaks?" Viktor asked.

"One like it? Is the shop nearby, then?" Hermione said.

"No. Came from Russia, best I remember. I... thought I had already gotten rid of everything, but the other day when I went to put the bag up in the attic, I found Magda's. She hadn't had it all that long. It's still good as new. It might as well be put to some use, if you want it. Since it's a cloak, it should fit. The measurements don't have to be exact. In fact, I think they only make three standard sizes and just measure the length for the hem," Viktor explained.

Hermione hesitated a long while. "Anna wouldn't rather have it? I mean, I think she would appreciate her mother's cloak more than..."

A smile flitted over Viktor's face and Hermione was surprised when he folded his arms and actually chuckled out loud. "Sorry... I forgot. You haven't really seen Anna, have you? Not even a recent picture?"

"Well, no..." Hermione said uncertainly, clearly puzzled. She couldn't think why that should matter.

"It's just... well, Anna comes up to about here on me," Viktor said, making a gesture much like a salute across his forehead. "She stopped borrowing her mother's clothes well before she went off to school, because there was no hope of them being long enough. Anna has all of Magda's things she wanted. It was just sitting in the attic, going to waste. Nikolina has a couple, or I would give it to her. If you don't want it, it's just going to get donated."

"If you're sure," Hermione cautioned.

"I'm sure. Come on, I'll show you some of the house while we're at it," Viktor said. "Come on, sugar, no leaving you in a fully stocked kitchen by yourself. Too many little temptations and things that will break," he added, lifting Evangelina from the high chair. "I laid it out on the bed so I wouldn't forget. You've seen the back entrance, and the kitchen. And the living room," Viktor said, pausing just a short while in that room before heading on down the hall.

But Hermione didn't follow. Instead, she stopped completely, frozen in her tracks. The cursory glance toward the half of the room she hadn't gotten to in her initial sweep of the room had revealed the fireplace. Or more importantly, the group of paintings over the fireplace. She stood and looked at the grouping, speechless for several moments. "Viktor," she said, not able to take her eyes off of the paintings.

Viktor stepped back out from the bedroom door. "Sorry, did I lose you at the turn?" he asked, coming back out and standing beside her. He followed her gaze up over the fireplace.

"They're a wonder," Hermione said, finding her voice again. "Anna, obviously," she said, pointing to the teenaged girl in the grass. "Stan?" she asked after another pause, studying the portrait of the boy in the window seat. Viktor simply nodded. "And Vladimir, right?" Viktor nodded again. "Wedding portrait? Magda did that as well?" Hermione queried, catching the signature in the corner. She kept studying the softly lit portrait of the two of them, fitted so naturally together, smiles subtle and unforced, in the wedding regalia she remembered so well even now, complete down to the tiny wreath of woven greenery and small white blooms, stark against Magda's glossy black hair. While it was the most posed of any of the portraits, it still lacked the air of a formally posed portrait. It was more a perfectly captured random moment beneath a heavy bower of flowers.

"From a photograph someone took. We had a formal one done by another artist at the time, but I always liked hers better," Viktor said. "The other one got relegated to the bedroom. I never could talk her into doing a painting with just her in it," he added, sounding regretful. "She said she thought it looked pretty conceited to do a painting of no one but yourself. Begged her to for years. Then, I never had much luck talking her into anything. She had her notions and she stuck to them."

Hermione scanned rapidly over the rest of the portraits. "But isn't that Magda?" Hermione asked, pointing to one of the smaller canvases, featuring a female figure in dark blue robes, seated on what looked to be the same swing Vladimir occupied in the larger portrait.

"Yes, but she's not exactly alone in the painting, either," Viktor said with a laugh. Hermione stepped forward and peered at it more closely. Magda displayed the same wide, easy smile, as well as the same choice of seating. Her hair was shorter than in the wedding portrait, loose around her shoulders, and her face fuller, cheeks flushed. Hermione let her gaze trail downward. Sure enough, Magda's right hand rested on a large and, once one looked closely enough, obviously very pregnant belly jutting forward beneath the robes. "It was when she was pregnant with Vlad. She gave it to me for my birthday that year and said I had better enjoy it, because that was the closest I was ever going to get to catching her doing a true self-portrait. Magda was always big on symmetry," he added, glancing over at the painting of Vlad. "Sometimes, I swear she knew somehow he was going to spend half of every spring, summer and fall out there in that same swing."

"When is that one from?" Hermione asked, gesturing to another one of the smaller portraits. If she wasn't very much mistaken, it was set in the Bulgarian National Stadium. The almost ominously dark mountains looming in the background and the light fog swirling around the face of the rocks towering above the seating was certainly one of the more distinctive features of the facility. In it, Viktor stood on the pitch in full uniform, looking off somewhere into the distance, hair fluttering slightly in the wind, the sunset filtering through the fog and the rings in the background. Like the others, this one wasn't deliberately posed, his stance was loose and casual, and he wasn't even facing the viewer. Instead, it was mostly a rendering of his very distinctive profile.

"The first year we won the World Cup. I tried to talk her out of putting it up there. At least my track record on talking Magda into or out of things is perfect. I lost them all," Viktor said dismissively. "She had this whole system about what went up there and where. Damned if I know what it was."

"Well, they're all... absolutely exquisite," Hermione said earnestly, stepping away.

"Some of the subjects could have stood some improvement," Viktor said bluntly, pushing his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose before heading for the hall again. "Well... nothing too exciting back here. Studio up here at the far end," he said, leading her to the far end of the hall, then pushing the door open. "I keep meaning to ask Stan if he wants some of this. Might keep a little of it. She might take to painting," he added, hefting the baby up further into the crook of his arm. There was a jumble of easels and palettes, tubes of paint and brushes, cups full of pencils and charcoal sticks scattered here and there on work tables throughout the room. Some rough pencil sketches and charcoal drawings were draped over tables or tacked to the otherwise bare walls. "Guest room, guest room, bath," he said, counting off the doors. "Well, that guest room used to be the nursery an eon ago. Ou... master bedroom," he corrected himself.

"It's lovely," Hermione said, looking around at the furnishings. Neatly folded on the deep green comforter was the cloak. What really caught her attention, though, were the photos and paintings scattered around the room. "I'm not being horrendously nosy if I browse the photos, am I?" she asked.

"No. Feel free," Viktor offered, sinking down onto the edge of the bed facing the door and settling the baby on his lap, back to her. One shelf was fairly overflowing with pictures of the children and Magda, some separate, some group shots. A few featured Magda proudly displaying either a swollen belly or an infant cradled in her arms, some with a sibling or two posing alongside. A few were similar shots, featuring Viktor with the children instead. In some of the photos, the two of them looked incredibly young, still easily mistaken for teenagers or new graduates. She could barely remember him looking that young when he truly was in school. The strain of the war had made them all look, and certainly feel, older. The only real clues that they were older than that were the little ones cradled on laps, being swung around, or tumbling or running about, in and out of the frames. One seemed to be a fairly recent picture of Magda in the studio, hair in a haphazard bundle at the nape of her neck, a pencil jabbed through it, paint smeared liberally on her cheeks, hands and smock as she studied a canvas.

As the infants in the photos progressed from babies and wide eyed toddlers to children on the verge of adolescence to lanky teenagers, the adults looked more mature, as well. Hermione's eyes fell on a cluster of photos with just Viktor and Magda. The small wedding snapshot that had certainly been the model for the painting over the fireplace. Several taken in various stadiums. Cup finals, probably. A few that were plainly in the midst of victory celebrations. A handful from the backyard or living room, where they were smiling broadly, or in some cases, falling about laughing, holding and clinging to one another as though they needed the propping up. Those fascinated her, because she could never remember Viktor smiling or laughing quite that freely or easily. But one in particular stood out.

In it, the two of them appeared to be outside, the light soft behind them, a few people milling about with glasses in their hands, as though at a party. Judging from their appearances, it was a fairly recent photo. Magda seemed to be seated on Viktor's lap, and his arms were wrapped tightly around her, his chin tucked in over her shoulder. Their eyes were closed, or mostly closed, and just the barest hints of smiles played over their lips. The tip of his nose just barely nuzzled against her cheekbone, and one of her small hands held onto his wrist. The other rested on his cheek. Magda seemed to sink back into him with the same sort of ease and trust that she had seen in other longstanding couples, the type that could disappear into their own world, even in a crowd. She had long admired Molly and Arthur's ability to be alone together, regardless of how many were in the house with them at the time. She was just about to ask when it was taken when she noticed the printed napkin on the table beside them. She could make out the word "twenty-fifth", at least, rusty though she was. She was quite positive from the few trappings she could see on the table that it had been taken at their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Hermione couldn't help but feel a real pang of envy. A milestone that big had been a still far distant thing, when Ron had been killed. Celebrating even ten years seemed rather paltry by comparison. For another thing, Hermione envied Magda her looks. In every picture, even the ones where she had definitely taken no pains with her appearance, she was unquestionably striking. Hermione had always thought herself not particularly photogenic. She cringed at some of the candid shots from the family photo album. She had felt frumpy and fat in most of the pictures Ron had coaxed her to take in late pregnancy. She had bluntly stated that the glow of pregnancy was definitely a myth in her case. Even in the photos where Magda sported an enormous belly, swollen fingers and full face, she was still undeniably beautiful.

If Magda's hair was a mess, it didn't seem to matter. It was still shiny and black, stark against her light complexion, echoed in the dark lines of her eyebrows, sooty lashes and nearly black eyes. Pregnant middle nearly straining at the empire waist of a maternity top? Nothing compared to the radiant glow she seemed to project. Figure swallowed up by a too large painting smock? It only drew attention to how petite she was. Cheeks smeared with paint? It only served to draw attention to her fine bone structure. Prominent Roman nose that would have seemed overpowering and overlarge on anyone else? Somehow, it worked in conjunction with the high, strong cheekbones, the strong jaw and chin. It was a face that could have just as easily belonged to an exotic empress. The camera obviously loved her. And Hermione admitted silently, just as enviable, or perhaps more so, someone else obviously loved her. "She's so gorgeous. In all of these," Hermione breathed without thinking. "Magda was a really beautiful woman. I think I had forgotten just how striking she was."

"Being beautiful cannot make one loved, but being loved can certainly make one beautiful," Viktor murmured without turning around.

"Where's that from?" Hermione asked curiously.

"I'm not sure it comes from anywhere. It's just what I remember Magda saying the first time I made a big deal over how pretty she was," Viktor said, shrugging his shoulders. "She always said it was like congratulating someone on being tall, anyway. What are they supposed to say? Thank you? Like they had something to do with it?" He laughed and the baby giggled and squealed in response. "She accepted compliments on her looks about as poorly as you always did."

"Beg pardon?" Hermione asked, rounding the bed and sinking onto it beside him. Evangelina proudly waved her toy at Hermione. "What are you on about? It's not like I got a ton of compliments on my looks."

"You got plenty from me, and I'm sure Ron. And you took to them every bit as poorly as Magda ever did. Most girls would not start explaining in gory detail how they spent three hours getting ready or admit to the use of hair potion at the mere mention of how nice they look. For future reference, in case Ron didn't teach you any better, the proper response to 'you look absolutely lovely' is just 'thank you', not a blow by blow account of how you wrestled your hair into submission," Viktor said with a grin. "Don't get me wrong, it was a nice change from those girls that claimed they were natural beauties while wearing four inches of makeup, but most girls would just accept the compliment and move on. You're supposed to act like you roll out of bed looking that way. Or so I hear. Or if you're Magda or Anna, most likely you did roll out of bed looking that way. Neither one of them took pains very often. Anna still doesn't."

"You men never appreciate what we go through," Hermione protested.

"Wrong. We do. It's just there's not that much we can do to gild the lily in our own cases, so to speak. Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Besides, you didn't have to go to any trouble to be pretty for me. I thought you were, anyway," Viktor replied. "I much preferred the hair not being wrestled into submission. It was more like the rest of you that way," Viktor said quietly. Hermione had the rather mad thought that if they leaned just a tiny bit closer they would quite nearly be kissing. She frantically tried to think of something to say, anything, but her mind seemed to have locked up just as firmly as her muscles. She had just nearly made up her mind to lean forward slightly, to see what would happen, when Evangelina made a grab, then squealed loudly. Hermione looked at her, and the baby proudly held out her trophy. "Oh, thank you so much. I had gotten so tired of leaving my glasses on my face, like you're supposed to. Give me those," Viktor scolded mildly, taking them back before lifting her up and giving her a playful shake.

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever get complimented, again," Hermione said. "A simple thank you and no mention of all the travails I went through in getting ready."

"This might sound odd..." Viktor said, pausing a long while, not taking his eyes off of the baby standing in his lap, "but, do you feel like you're forgetting, sometimes? I mean... I never really thought of it from that side, before. I used to feel sorry for Harry, not ever knowing James and Lily. I never thought about what Remus, Sirius, Albus and Hagrid went through. You never realize what a big charge it is, being the keeper of someone's memory. I keep worrying about what little things I'm going to forget by the time she's big enough to hear it." He turned and looked at Hermione once more. "I know Simon knew Ron, but..." The baby, bored with being in one spot for so long, leaned over and held her arms out to Hermione.

Hermione gathered her up under the arms and shifted Evangelina to her own lap. "I had this massive panic attack, once. A few months after he died. I had gone back to work, and for some reason, I got to thinking about what Ron's voice sounded like. And I couldn't for the life of me remember. I couldn't make myself hear it in my head. And the more I tried, the worse off I got, until I couldn't even picture his face when I closed my eyes. And I thought 'What kind of person can't remember the person she was married to for more than ten years?', until I got myself so torn up, I had to go home early and dig up this Howler Ron had sent to Simon when he was on a training trip, for not taking out the rubbish bin when he was supposed to. Took me a good two hours to find it, and then I had to just lie on the bed and cling to it and cry for a while. I spent days after that just staring at pictures, trying to burn his face, the shape of his hands, the way his hair fell, everything, into my memory, how many freckles there were on the bridge of his nose, like there was going to be a pop quiz." Evangelina bobbed forward and flung her arms around Hermione's neck. Hermione patted the soft, plump shoulder, then buried her face in the hollow between the baby's shoulder and neck, breathing deep, the light scent of baby powder filling her nostrils. "But you never really forget. You think you will. You worry you will. But you don't. They won't let you. It all came back, when I didn't force it. When I just let myself remember, or let Simon remind me."

"That makes me feel better," Viktor said simply. "You'll take the cloak, then?"

"I'd love to. It's beautiful. I really appreciate the offer," Hermione replied.

"Care to see the rest of the house, or is the python cutting off all your air?" Viktor asked, one corner of his mouth curling up.

"I'd love to see the rest of the house. And I haven't had a good baby hug in a long while. She can python me any time she wants," Hermione insisted, patting the baby's back and rocking back and forth.

"I warn you, she's due to get cranky pretty soon. She fusses something fierce when she gets sleepy. Doesn't want to give it up for fear of missing something. Though she might be extra wound up, since she has someone different to show off in front of. Sometimes you can't get her down before eleven," Viktor cautioned.

"I can stand a little fussing. Lead on. And remind me to take the cloak when I leave," Hermione said, standing up with the baby still clinging to her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You can either Floo direct to the station, or I will be putting on my cloak and walking you back, hauling a sleepy baby. I'm not having you traipsing off all by yourself down to the dock when it's pitch black out," Viktor said stubbornly.

"Fine. I'll Floo, then, if you insist," Hermione said, flustered, gathering up the shopping bag she had carried in. Only now it contained the other cloak.

"I do insist. No point being crazy just because you can. Take the Floo, And take care," he added, ducking to give her a slightly awkward embrace with one arm. Hermione caught the vaguely familiar scent of him, as their cheeks brushed.

"I will. You, too. I'll see you in a couple of weeks, then? If nothing comes up?" Hermione queried.

"If nothing comes up," Viktor echoed. "It shouldn't. But, then, I thought I wasn't doing anything tonight, either," he said, going back to swaying a bit with the baby slumped against his shoulder, her thumb socked firmly in her mouth.

"Well, if something does come up, don't worry about it. Goodnight," she said, taking up a handful of powder from the bowl next to the fireplace.

"Goodnight," Viktor said. He stood watching the fireplace for a few moments after she had disappeared. "I think it's well past time for you to say goodnight, too," he murmured, kissing the top of Evangelina's head. She squirmed and snuffled against his shoulder, already half asleep, her eyelids heavy. "Shh, pilentse. Come on, let me set up your bed, hmmm?" he said, resting his cheek against her hair and carrying her down the dim hall.