Never Too Late

"I've read it through once. The expanded report. Give me the big picture, Ilian," Viktor said, flipping through the stack of parchments he had just skimmed, then setting them down on the desk.

"Could you be more specific?" Ilian prompted.

"If you were forced to give me your personal conclusions about the Tournament in a couple of minutes or less, what would you say?" Viktor elaborated, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I believe it would have an enormous beneficial effect on school relations and, by extension, international relations, especially a few decades down the road. Easily budgeted for, and well worth the time and trouble it would take to host the thing and organize it. But it needs a major reworking in structure, security, scoring and rules. How all the Tournaments didn't end up in either a bloodbath or a riot, I'll never figure," Evtimov said carefully. "The scoring and rules are a joke. If I were you, I would have most of my ideas about how the thing could be improved upon well rehearsed before even suggesting it to the board."

"Any ideas on that point? Fixing it, I mean," Viktor said. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Not a clue. It would be like telling the league they have to play on bicycles, instead, wouldn't it?" Evtimov said with a helpless shrug. "Was the cheating really that bad?"

"Rampant. Encouraged, even, from what I understand. Not that some of the cheaters needed any encouragement," Viktor said, pursing his mouth. "That has to go."

"I might start with what needs to stay," Evtimov suggested tentatively. "It's a shorter list, I suspect."

"That one's obvious. No changing the participating schools, or the method of choosing the participants. That's the only thing that's even remotely fair," Viktor said heavily. "And without that basic structure, it's not the same tournament. Besides, it's hard enough coordinating three schools."

"Scoring?" Evtimov inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"That... needs to be rebuilt from the ground up. For a start, there need to be more judges than just the heads of the schools. Trustworthy and impartial though they may be," Viktor said, rolling his eyes. "Some way of mitigating the favoritism factor. Problem is, this one can't be solved with neat little inarguable statistics like Quidditch seeds, where you can say numbers don't lie. Scoring of the completion of a task is almost always completely subjective. That's half the bloody point of the structure of the tournament. It's mostly in how you tackle the problem, not how you solve it. Or even if you solve it. Problem is, students sometimes take what you think is a perfectly clear cut problem and interpret it in a whole new way you never figured on. We need to allow for that."

"Encourage it, even?" Evtimov said.

"Heaven help, yes. The little buggers need to be as creative as possible, or they'll all get identical scores. Maybe I can think on it during all the ferry rides," Viktor said wearily. "Or at the inn. I won't be doing anything else."

"Going somewhere?" Ilian blurted out.

"Anna has that rescheduled match in Spain," Viktor said noncommittally. "And I have some other business to see to afterward."

"Not having dinner with Anna?" Ilian asked innocently.

"I imagine she gets enough of eating with me when she's home. The last thing she probably wants is me poking into the locker room after every other game like I'm checking up on her. Besides, prior commitment," Viktor said. "Match should be over by then."

"You said 'the inn'. I take it you're not coming straight home," Evtimov said. The maddeningly vague answers had made him a little bolder than he might be, otherwise. The repeated request to keep a Friday afternoon as free of appointments as possible had raised Ilian's suspicions.

"Setting me a new curfew, Evtimov?" Viktor said in a mildly reproving voice, arching an eyebrow. It was a rarely seen and oh so subtle reminder that he was treading a little too close to overstepping a minor personal boundary. The times when Viktor would go fiercely private with Ilian were few and far between these days, but when he did, Ilian knew not to press any further.

"No. None of my business, of course. I just wondered. That's all," Ilian said. "Rosters will all be filed in plenty of time, all the paperwork's done, there's no one camped out to see you. Go home early, have lunch, and go to the match. And enjoy your other plans, too," Ilian offered.

"Thank you. At least I don't have to worry about blasted reporters at this one," Viktor said, smiling slightly.

"Nice to see Iva finally got a clue about keeping her mouth shut. And Anna playing matches like those last three don't hurt in the giving them something else to talk about department," Ilian added.

"More likely it was Iva's agent that got the clue. And they would gladly turn like a pack of wild dogs if Anna has an off match. Don't count the press her friend just yet. We should know better," Viktor said ruefully. "And I have to start thinking about who goes on the selection committee for the national squad. That might be another kettle of newts I'm opening up there, assuming I go with my usual anchor. But I wouldn't trust anyone else to chair it. They wouldn't pick a squad in a month of Sundays if she didn't crack the whip at them."

"Lara? Why would anyone protest you putting Ivanova on the committee? It's not like she hasn't been on it and been chair the entire last decade," Evtimov said. "And more."

"Look at it from their point of view. You're obviously putting Lara on the committee because the two of you played together... you're friends from way back..."

"You're appointing her so she'll pick your daughter," Evtimov supplied. "I see the problem. But I still don't think anyone would protest too much. Lara wouldn't give her the spot if she didn't deserve it any more than you would. Anna wouldn't accept it, either. You're all that stubborn. And there are going to be far more committee members on tap that you didn't play with or against. I don't think anyone could legitimately argue she doesn't deserve the spot if she gets chosen."

"You would be surprised what the press can argue," Viktor protested. "But, I've taken heat before for my choices. Why should this be any different? I'll burn that bridge after I've crossed it if I have to. No point stewing over it just yet. They certainly can't argue that there's anyone more qualified to do the picking. I'm taking you up on the 'go home early' offer."

"You ignored my 'don't come in early' offer," Evtimov pointed out. "I could have done most of the budget review."

"And you would have had to stay late to do it. You had enough to do. Go home at a decent hour," Viktor ordered, standing. "If you need me, it can wait until Monday. I'm not that important."

"Safe trip," Evtimov said, following Viktor to the door.

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

"I owe you a bottle of wine, then," the Spanish Commissioner conceded, sounding disappointed. The match had stayed close until the ending catch. "Care to collect during dinner?"

"Some other time. Anna's going to go celebrate with her teammates, and I need to be elsewhere, shortly," Viktor said, checking his watch. "I appreciate the offer, though," he added hastily.

"Another time, then," Garcia said.

"Let me know next time you're in for a match. We'll have dinner," Viktor offered. "And you can pay up. Unless you want to go double or nothing on the next match?"

The Spanish Commissioner perked up considerably. "I'll take you up on that."

"Sorry to rush off, but by the time I say something to Anna..." Viktor said with a helpless shrug.

"Go on," Garcia insisted. "I'll let you know when I plan to be in Bulgaria. And I might as well get the second bottle ready while I'm at it."

"I don't know about that," Viktor called over his shoulder. He waded through the crowd of people as quickly as possible, slipping through to the less crowded sideline opposite the locker rooms, eventually. Luckily, the security had all been there long enough to recognize him and let him by without so much as asking what his business was and hardly a second glance. Soon enough, Anna spotted him and meandered across the pitch to the low barrier there.

"Where are you all going to celebrate?" Viktor asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know? If I tell you, you'll just worry. Garner another bottle of wine? How many does that make?" Anna said with a grin, leaning over and propping her elbows against the railing.

"If he doesn't stop trying to come out ahead, I'm going to have to start my own private label and open a vintner's shop," Viktor said with a sigh. "I've lost count. Don't let him know that."

"I'll try to avoid bringing it up. I think the chances are very slim I'll spill that you quit counting somewhere around ten bottles, though," Anna replied. "Especially as I don't think I'll be around him this evening."

"I need to go. Ferry leaves soon enough. You played a good match," Viktor murmured. That had been something of a running joke between the two of them ever since a rather sleepy Anna had offered the same assessment following one of the hardest fought and longest European Cup finals in history. The unusually close, smothering, muggy weather and the frequent, pelting rain had been as much to blame as a tenacious French team that simply refused to go away. It had seemed a marvelously absurd thing to have her announce to him in her high pitched and still babyish voice, out of the blue, when Magda had finally made it down to the locker room with the children, quite a while after the match had ended. By then, it had been more the wee hours of the morning, rather than the night. It had seemed equal bits highest possible praise and ridiculous understatement given the fact that he was still sitting in the middle of the locker room floor, legs feeling like rubber and lead, soaked through with stale sweat and rain, literally too worn out to make it any further, like most of the rest of the team. His legs had been cramping something fierce, the muscles knotted and seizing up.

Anna had promptly flopped into his lap, anyway, and snuggled up to him right after Magda had put her down, uncaring that he was about as appealing as a wet dog in desperate need of a bath. She had popped her head up off his chest just long enough to pronounce her judgment, then, without much further ado, fallen into that comatose, floppy-limbed, ragdoll sleep that only those under the age of seven or so can manage at the drop of a hat. They had ultimately had to reschedule the cup presentation for two days after, due to none of them being in any sort of state to make it to the Top Box and it being too dark for anyone to see the presentation in the first place. It had likely been the only trophy presentation at which there were more fans present than there had been at the match in question. The crowd, like the team, would have been too tired to enjoy it, anyway.

"Good? I'm practically faint from the praise," Anna teased, straightening and giving him a quick hug across the railing.

"I don't want to give you a swelled head," Viktor said.

"No danger," Anna said. "Not with you. Now, shoo, go on. You'll miss the ferry to wherever it is you're rushing off to," Anna scolded, not letting go.

"I will if you let go," Viktor replied, tugging lightly at her arms, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Where are you going, anyway?" Anna said as he hurried back toward the exit.

"Wouldn' t you like to know?" he called back without looking.

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

Viktor scribbled down a quick note in the margin. Different judging panels, each task, throw out high and low, averages. Prevent weighting or favoritism? Less biased? Any hope of getting as many as ten per without slanting judging? Unaffiliated with any of the schools? Affiliated with more than one school each, at least.. Suggested names... The train of thought slipped away slightly as Viktor felt the lurching little bump that signaled the ferry was at the dock. He hurriedly tucked quill and parchment back into his bag, hoisting it up onto his shoulder and making his way out onto the deck and down the gangplank before most of the passengers had even finished gathering their things.

He could Floo from here to near enough Ottery St. Catchpole. Apparating most of that last distance would be no trouble at all, even if it had been a very long time indeed since the last time the Lovegood house or The Burrow had been his intended destination. Hermione had assured him he would still easily recognize the old part, the part favored by those who would prefer to keep certain things away from curious Muggle eyes, even with all the new houses that had been added in the last few decades. Almost all directions were still given with either the Burrow, the ridge, or the hill nearby as the main point of reference.

Sure enough, though he could pick out several houses that had sprung up like mushrooms among and within sight of the older ones, most of the area looked comfortingly familiar. He was able to spot the ridge above The Burrow and head fairly confidently in what must be the direction of the house that had just been built when Hermione and Ron had moved into it. He could still remember how she had described it in the letter that had come a few months later, once they had finally stopped moving the furniture every weekend, in an effort to find out where it was supposed to fit. "Smallish, but ours, and paid for to boot, thanks to a bit of help from Arthur and Molly." The oft-moved furniture hadn't been paid up for a few more months, yet.

He rounded the bend not far past the old Lovegood house, and spotted it. Like most of the houses in the area, it seemed to have grown out of the landscape overnight like some monstrously fast growing melon, more than been built on it, as it was nestled back into a hollow at the bottom of a hill. It was a cheerful and rather unassuming robin's egg blue, with black shutters and a white picket fence around a middle sized front garden, trimmed short and hemmed in rock-rimmed flower beds, projecting a strong sense of neatness and order. Anywhere besides Ottery St. Catchpole, it might have seemed hopelessly twee, but here, it was simply open, cozy and welcoming, as tidy and humble houses were supposed to be. Houses in Ottery St. Catchpole had the curious habit of getting away with being every bit as folksy, eccentric and homey as the inhabitants.

Just to be sure, he double checked the house number, which was painted, every bit as neatly, in white on a slate tile, next to the door. It also helpfully bore the name "Weasley" directly below it, in script embellished with curlicues. Viktor stopped outside the gate and gave it another look. Somehow, the house managed to look exactly the sort of house one would picture Hermione living in. It was definitely a far cry from the ramshackle air The Burrow presented. That house had always looked held together by magic and a prayer, even on its good days. It hadn't kept all of them from having fondest memories of the place and the people in it, in any case.

Viktor reached over the gate and unlatched it, swinging it in and stepping through. The hinges gave a protesting squawk when he pushed it back together. He walked up the narrow footpath and knocked lightly on the door. "You did make it," Hermione said, swinging the door open. "Come on in," she offered, holding the door and stepping out of the way. "Let me take your things. Have a seat on the sofa. Didn't you wear a cloak?"

"I... thank you," he amended, after she had taken the bag. "It's still too hot with one when you're out walking. It's in the bag."

"You didn't have any trouble finding the house?" Hermione asked, putting the bag on the rack near the front door.

"It was just about where I expected it to be," Viktor said, sinking onto the sofa a bit uncertainly. "Can I help with anything?" he asked when she bustled back toward what he presumed, from the quick glimpse he had gotten, was the kitchen.

"No. The tuna steaks are just about ready, and everything else is done. Did you want a glass of wine? I've got some chilled. No unattended moppets are likely to get dropped on my doorstep unexpectedly. They all find their way to The Burrow, instead," Hermione said, pausing in the doorway. "Molly exerts some sort of magnetic force on every moppet in need of babysitting within a dozen miles."

"Sure. I'll take one," Viktor said. Hermione disappeared around the door jamb completely, and he could hear the clink of glasses and various other rustlings.

"Did you want something to nibble on with it? I've got some cheese and crackers. You must be starving. It's later back home," Hermione said. "You're probably used to eating before now."

"It's not so far off my usual dinnertime," Viktor protested, checking the clock. "Am I not allowed in the kitchen? I feel a bit daft, shouting back and forth from in here."

"If you don't mind the mess and the crowding," Hermione called back. "I'm afraid the kitchen isn't exactly roomy. You didn't answer," she added, holding out the full glass to him as he entered and pouring another.

"Is there such a thing as a kitchen big enough? Oh... cheese and crackers... Only if you have it ready. Otherwise, don't bother. I'll drink slowly. Or were you counting on getting me drinking on an empty stomach and taking advantage of me?" Viktor teased. The kitchen was not exactly roomy, but managed to look more efficient than cramped.

"They're on that platter on the table. And on getting you drunk, that's a laugh. Anyone who could put away half a bottle of vodka and a whole one of that Bulgarian white lightning in a single sitting and not even wobble when he walks..." Hermione said, shaking her head.

"It's rakia, and I can't drink like that any more. I'm out of practice. Besides, I've had enough of you Weasleys getting me drunk and taking advantage of me to last a lifetime. Only Bill, Charlie, Fred and George used to do it under the guise of 'teaching me to play poker'. Funny, I would swear the rules changed radically every time we played. Why do you think I switched to betting them on things like who could drink who under the table? Back then, I knew I had that one in the bag, because they were a bunch of lightweights. You could probably have gotten Fred and George drunk on three bottles of Butterbeer," Viktor said, taking a bite of cheese.

"You got here a bit earlier than I expected, really," Hermione said, leaning over to check the oven.

"Match ended fairly early and I was able to grab an earlier ferry. I just told Anna goodbye and left," Viktor admitted. "She was going out with the team."

"Where?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Well, she said 'Wouldn't you like to know?', so I'm sure that means they're going to El Pobrecito," Viktor said.

"El Pobrecito?" Hermione echoed, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Think The Hog's Head, with slightly cleaner glassware, fantastic tapas that are the only reason anyone without a death wish would chance going there, and one big, cranky bartender built like a bull. We have a tacit agreement. She pretends she's not going somewhere that I would worry about, and I pretend I don't really know teams still go to El Pobrecito to celebrate," Viktor explained.

"Odd sort of agreement," Hermione observed.

"Oh... I suppose it's safe enough if you go with a group, but I wouldn't walk in there by myself for a bet. You're liable to get mugged. However, I try to bite my tongue whenever I feel dangerously close to saying 'Don't go there, you're liable to get mugged' to her. I'm guessing you could do worse than going with a couple of burly men who wield clubs for a living. Even a pretty shady character has to be desperate or pretty damned drunk to chance running afoul of a couple of professional Beaters. Back in my day, we always went still wearing our uniforms, just in case some of the locals didn't follow the sports pages," Viktor pointed out.

"What good would having a couple of Beaters along do if they didn't have their clubs?" Hermione asked.

"Who said they left the clubs behind?" Viktor said with a shrug. "You take them with you and put them on the table in plain view, if you're smart. I know this all sounds horrible, but Anna's capable of taking care of herself. Besides, they're going to let something happen to her on their watch and chance the Commissioner deciding he wants their testicles strung up because they just stood by and let someone accost his only daughter? Hardly likely."

"That's an awful lot of faith you're putting in her teammates," Hermione said, taking a sip from her own glass.

"Safe as trusting her being out with her brothers. I imagine there's about the same level of willingness to pound anyone who looks at her cross-eyed. If you're lucky, teammates are about as close to family as you can get. It's something of a matter of honor that if anyone picks a fight with one of you, they've picked a fight with all of you, even if none of you get along in the slightest. Vulchanov and Volkov threatened to knock out their fair share of teeth on Lara's behalf when someone got a smart mouth. Not that she ever really needed it. Still, tough to turn down a primer on manners from someone who has a bicep the size of your thigh," Viktor said lightly. "Lara got some very squeaky apologies."

"I see. Are you going to have to rush off to make the last ferry home? Don't let me get started nattering on and on and make you miss it because you're busy listening to me and not paying attention to the time," Hermione said, using her wand to remove the hot pan from the oven.

"I just need to make it to The Leaky Cauldron, actually. I'm staying there tonight," Viktor said.

"You can Floo, then. Why the Leaky Cauldron?" Hermione asked, pausing in removing the dishes from the cabinet.

"For starters, they've got nice rooms. So I can go from there to Hogsmeade, then on to Hogwarts. Minerva and I are going to have a little get-together. I'm hoping she's got some brilliant ideas up her sleeve on how to help me sell the idea of this revamped Tournament to... anyone in their right mind," Viktor admitted. "Only fair. It was her suggestion in the first place."

"If you're so unsure about it, why get on board with it? Tell her to get Fleur or Harry to promote the idea if she's so keen," Hermione said dismissively. "Excuse me. I need to get past," she added, pointing to the other side of the kitchen. Viktor stepped aside, hugging the edge of the table. Hermione still had to brush slightly to make it by.

"Do you really think Minerva could be accused of being any less cagey than Albus was? She's just like him. Never did so much as pick what she was having for breakfast without checking which way the wind was blowing first and considering the effect it would have. Minerva picked me on purpose. And not all because of being on the Board, either. People are still afraid to so much as mention it in front of me. What's it say if I suddenly come along suggesting we should revive it? If Durmstrang is the one that offers to host? Trust me, Minerva looked at all the angles, first. She knew I couldn't refuse. Not in good conscience, at least," Viktor said. "Any more than I could say no when Albus called me up there for that little chat in his office before we left Hogwarts. How on earth could I say no to the first adult outside of my parents and a coach who took a genuine interest in where my life was going and how it was going to fit into the fabric of everything else?"

"So, Minerva's just as scheming, hmm?" Hermione asked, slipping by again.

"Positively devious," Viktor affirmed. "Those students don't stand a chance."

"Then, between the two of you, you ought to be able to come up with something workable. I get the feeling you've gotten just about as devious in your job," Hermione said lightly.

"I wish I had. Make things a lot easier," Viktor murmured. He took another sip of wine and considered the room again. "The house is nice. What I've seen of it."

"I'll give you the Sickle tour after dinner. Well, maybe more like the half-Sickle tour. It's not big enough for much of a tour," Hermione said, no trace of regret in her voice.

"Size isn't everything. The size isn't what makes it home," Viktor said.

"But sometimes everyone having a bit of space can help keep you from rubbing each other the wrong way. Dinner's ready," Hermione announced.

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

"That's a really good picture of the two of you," Viktor said, putting his coffee cup on the table in front of the sofa and picking up the frame. They had just finished the after dinner tour of the house and settled in the living room with their coffee.

"Our anniversary. Tenth. I'm sure we didn't have quite the photographer... that was at your twenty-fifth anniversary? That picture of you and Magda? The party?" Hermione asked, clasping her cup tighter.

"Photographer? Pfft," Viktor scoffed, putting the picture back down. "Lara took that. She gave it to me... after." He didn't specify, but his tone indicated he wasn't simply talking about after the party. Hermione decided not to press further. "She and Magda were close."

"Ginny took that. She's sort of the family Colin Creevey. I wouldn't be surprised if she has more pictures of all our children than we do. Lara and Magda were really close, hmm?' Hermione prompted.

"You tend to get close in the trenches. Especially when Magda traveled with me a lot. They were a lot alike. You have to have someone you don't live with to commiserate with when those lunatics that call themselves fans do something completely bonkers. Someone who can offer you a bit of perspective and remind you it's not just you," Viktor said with a fleeting smile.

"Such as?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," Viktor began, shifting on the sofa to face her a little more, propping his elbow across the back, "Magda got some not so nice mail when we got married."

"I can relate to that. There wasn't Bubotuber Pus in any of them, was there?" Hermione said.

"Not that I know of. A few not too happy Howlers from silly little teenage girls, mostly. Lara got some not so nice mail when she got married, too. Loonies who think they should be in charge of or part of your social life aren't confined to the female gender. After Lara's experience, I gladly let people screen my fan mail. I didn't need people I've never met crying about how I should have married them, instead. Or how I ruined their lives by not making a point spread," Viktor said. "Not that getting married completely cuts off that nonsense. Gets more insane, maybe."

"Really? Surely it doesn't get worse?" Hermione said.

"It used to be vaguely funny when people got so wrapped up in a stupid game that losing prompted them to send hate mail. Not so funny when you have a family. And you have to be careful about... people who show up at your hotel room," Viktor said carefully.

"I suspect you don't mean for a chat," Hermione replied.

"Lara had to toss out a few overly hopeful bellhops over the years. For that matter, her husband, Dragomir, had to toss a few out. And he had a few... propositions from groupies," Viktor explained.

"So you were only half kidding about not being met at the door by a woman in her nightclothes for a while?" Hermione asked, chin dropping.

"Happened a few times. I found yelling 'no thank you' and slamming the door pretty effective. Not necessarily in that order. Magda kind of found it amusing after a while. Especially when she was with me. I had this one really persistent girl in... France, I think it was, who didn't take the hint and kept ringing the bell. Magda had just gotten out of the shower and marched to the door, in nothing but a towel, and told her 'I got here first. He's already booked for the night,' and slammed the door. Sure beat the hell out of my solution. I was going to call the manager," Viktor said with a laugh. "From then on, if I got a persistent one, I just threatened to call my wife. Told them if the idea of confronting my wife didn't put the fear of God into them, nothing would. Argue with her, you would most likely end up seeing God."

"Certainly took a lot of self-confidence to do that," Hermione said, returning the smile and taking another swallow of her coffee.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same. Besides, I reckon she looked better in that towel than most of them looked in the dress robes and the tarted up lingerie. One or two, she suggested they go down the hall and find Volkov's room. He never did marry. He could have all the groupies he wanted," Viktor pointed out.

"I suppose when things like that happen, about the only thing you can do is fight back or laugh. Or both. Lucky you, having Magda around to defend you from those vicious, scary women missing half their kit," Hermione said, trying to hide her amusement and failing miserably.

Viktor laughed heartily. "Listen here, you, there were quite a few times I was glad to have her defending me. And not just from half-dressed women, either. She might have looked all dainty and sweet, but you messed with anyone she cared about, she would tear your throat out. You remember that crazy, scary look Molly used to get when someone threatened one of hers? Magda had her beat. She left more than one smart aleck reporter checking to see if his head was still on once she got through with him."

"I don't know about that. I think Molly might be the scariest she-bear I've ever seen when you cross her. But, then, what mother isn't? Especially when it comes to your children," Hermione said. "And let's be honest. Husbands are almost as defenseless, poor little dears."

"Probably worse. I think my favorite had to be what she did to this photographer, though. Anna was barely a few weeks old, and this guy was bound and determined to get a photo of her, despite the fact that Magda had already told him no. So she snapped the lens off his camera, popped open the back, pulled the film out, dropped the whole works, and cast Incendio on it. All without even taking Anna out of the carrier she was wearing. When he finally got his power of speech back, he said 'That camera cost me eighty-five Sickles!' So she picked up her handbag, counted out the money, slapped it into his hand and said, 'Then the satisfaction was had at a bargain price,' and walked off. Photographers gave us a wide berth for a while," Viktor said, laughing again.

"Where was she when Rita Skeeter was around?" Hermione asked.

"I seem to recall you didn't take any guff from the press in that instance, either. I don't know if Magda would have poked holes in the jar, though," Viktor said with a sly smile. "She might have just popped the top on and watched her expire."

"Don't think I wasn't tempted," Hermione said ruefully, finishing her coffee. "More coffee? Heat up your cup, at least?" she offered.

"Sure. I hate to leave good company, but I should probably go when I finish that," Viktor said, handing over his cup.

"Going home tomorrow from Hogwarts? Or staying longer?" Hermione called back from the kitchen.

"I think I'll be going home sometime this weekend. I'm not sure. Depends on how things go with Minerva. I need to be back at least by late Monday. Dinner meeting with Oblansk. Why?" he asked as she handed him the refilled cup.

"No reason. Curious," Hermione said, sinking into the sofa and carefully inspecting her own cup. Her voice sounded false and strained even to her own ears.

"I don't know. We'll see," Viktor said softly. "Doing anything Monday for lunch?"

"Not that I know of," Hermione replied, not taking her eyes off the swirling clouds of milk in her coffee.

"Maybe I can make it back by and we can have lunch. Monday," he repeated.

"We'll see," Hermione echoed.

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

Viktor walked across the Great Lawn, paying no attention to the occasional curious look he got from the few students who were out this early on a Saturday, lured out of bed and the castle by the bright sunshine and the unseasonably warm weather. The most of them were wearing only light cloaks. He had forsaken his own completely not long after leaving The Leaky Cauldron. It had felt too hot and oppressive. He paused halfway across and looked over the lake. He had taken the opposite view from a porthole in his quarters on the ship. The place had changed very little in the years since he had slept next to that dock. The trees might be a bit larger, the branches a bit different, some of the flowerbeds had likely changed borders, the faces of the children on the lawn had changed, even if he would wager quite a few of the names hadn't, but for the most part, he could have just as well been seventeen again. He glanced briefly down toward the Gamekeeper's Hut, then turned his attention back to the slip of paper in his hand. She had only sent it in case of her already being in the Office of the Headmistress when he arrived for some reason or other, with perhaps no one around to announce his arrival, it being the weekend, but it irked him that he couldn't figure it out.

Unlike Albus, Minerva seemed to favor the most obscure of office passwords, scholarly writers and such, rather than sweet names that any one of the children would be familiar with. He wasn't sure he could even hazard a guess at how to pronounce the collection of syllables on the piece of parchment she had mailed him. He had the vague recollection of having read it as a name in a textbook somewhere, but the pronunciation eluded him. Dutch, perhaps? Swedish, maybe? Some language with an incredible fondness for vowels. He had just about made up his mind to take the chance on going on in and finding her well before their scheduled meeting rather than trusting to the password when someone called his name. Or boomed it out, rather. "Viktor!" rang out across the expanse of the Great Lawn so loudly that a group of birds in the trees at the edge of the forest took flight, rustling leaves as they went, for a second, it looked as though a couple of the apparent first years were going to do the same, and Viktor started in spite of himself, even as he recognized the voice, nearly tossing the slip of paper to the wind. "I though tha' was yeh, lad!"

By the time he had collected himself enough to turn around and say, "I think 'lad' might be straining credibility a tad, these days, " Hagrid was within a stride of him and ready to engulf his hand in a shake that threatened to rattle his teeth. One of the few changes since his last arrival here were the deeper crinkles around the edges of the half-giant's eyes, and the even more generous sprinklings of silver in his wiry, black beard and unruly hair, particularly around the temples. Otherwise, he was as ruddy and hale looking as ever. Moreso, even, than when he had first left for home for good, perhaps.

"Yeh haven' changed much! Not much!" Hagrid said, finally dropping the hand.

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you. Not that I care to remember, but I've got some children you could call that without laughing too hard," Viktor pointed out, resettling his glasses back up in their proper position.

"Those are new, 'course. Any o' the young ones outta school?" Hagrid asked.

"Any!? Try all. Got a mediwizard, an apprentice wandmaker, and a Quidditch Chaser. I'm already starting to get little people coming along all over again. I've got a grandbaby!" Viktor pointed out.

"Can' be! I'll be... I'm sorry... I mean, I heard about yer wife. McGonagall an' Olympe both, o' course. Hear about ev'rythin' with other schools an' all. Olympe told me ter give yeh her sympathies," Hagrid said awkwardly.

"Thank you," Viktor said, equally awkward for a second. "Speaking of which, I figured you would be off visiting Olympe, it being the weekend and all. Minerva led me to believe the place would be darned near deserted."

"She's here. Yeh need ter come down an' visit, if yeh have time. Show pictures roun' an' all. That littlest one o' yers was still little more'n a babe in arms last time yeh were here fer testifyin' at tha' education summit," Hagrid said hopefully.

"If I had known they were going to stick their fingers in their ears and pretty much ignore our recommendations, maybe I wouldn't have bothered. You know, I'm not officially due until three. By the way, the toddler I was hauling around on my hip all that weekend now comes up to here," Viktor said, holding his palm parallel to the ground.

"Really? Hard ter imagine. She was a real Daddy's girl, tha's fer sure. Didn' wan' yeh outta her sight fer a minute. Cute little nipper. Come on down an' catch us up, me an' Olympe. Got biscuits an' tea. Olympe made 'em," Hagrid offered.

"Great," Viktor answered, relieved. "By the way, don't have any new... pets... do you?"

"Jus' the hound. Brutus," Hagrid said, sounding slightly disappointed about the fact.

"I see. Sure, I'll come down. Now, if that's okay," Viktor said. He figured the worst he had to fear was being slobbered on a bit by Fang's heir.

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

Viktor stepped into the Headmistress Office. It was still recognizable as the former Headmaster's Office, but it did have just a slightly more feminine feel than it had when Albus had occupied it. The flowery china set and the dainty sugar bowl on the desk being the most obvious additions. The sugar bowl was a contrasting and rather jarring Scottish plaid. The confusing and mysterious bric-a-brac from Dumbledore's term still hummed along just as it had when he had first stepped into the room, only in slightly different positions. Back then, he had still been nervously bracing for the expected tongue lashing from the old man, rather than the gentle, probing request for support it had turned out to be. Instead of feeling cornered while pinned on that gaze, he had found himself leaning forward, trying to suss out what, exactly, was going on behind that contradictory exterior. Being drawn into that soft, almost grandfatherly demeanor that could be so deceiving.

Well aware that heads of schools the world over tended to be a mite too fond of dramatic entrances, Viktor dropped his bag loudly beside the empty chair in the deserted office and waited an instant. "You're right on time. Not that I expected any different, unless Hagrid and Olympe were wont to keep you the rest of the day," a familiar voice said, coming up behind him, though there was no obvious way for a person to enter behind. But Viktor hadn't bothered looking for a cat anywhere in the room, and nervous students were even less likely to, so it tended to be very effective.

"Honestly, Minerva. The author of a book about the philosophy of Transfiguration? The Transfiguration Professor had to let me in, and she had to have three gos at his name at that. His name sounded like a drunken Scandinavian's wet sneeze. What's wrong with a simple password like Chocolate Frogs?" Viktor scolded good-naturedly.

"I'll pick my passwords any way I please, thank you," Minerva said primly, holding her arms out for a quick embrace. Except for the fact that the new streaks of silver were overtaking her dark hair, she, too, looked almost exactly as she had when he had been taking notes on her lectures in the classes with the seventh year Slytherins. "Have a biscuit?" she offered, pointing to a tin on her desk.

"I'm all full up on biscuits. And tea. And sympathy. But you go ahead," Viktor said, declining.

"Speaking of sympathy, I can tender mine in person, finally. I know I wrote as soon as I heard-"

"And it was much appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to do that," Viktor said, settling into the chair uncomfortably. You would think I would finally know what to say. Something that doesn't feel false and all wrong.

Minerva pressed her lips together in a thin line for an instant and seemed to be fishing about for something else to say. "I'm glad I got to meet her when the two of you were here, last. And when I was there to speak with the Durmstrang Board. She was a joy to talk to. Doesn't seem possible it could be eighteen years since you were here. I had to write another sympathy letter far too soon later that year, as well."

Viktor nodded. "Ron. I've kicked myself a few times since then. We were right here that summer. We could have gone and visited... before... But it didn't seem like a good time, what with traveling with the fussy toddler and the other two driving their grandparents mad back home and needing to get back for work... And you always think you've got plenty of time. You think you have all the time in the world to do it later," he said softly.

"If it makes you feel any better, I've kicked myself a few times for not having seen him for several years before that, too. Hazard of dedicating yourself to teaching. Far too many of your former students out there for comfort. And they all start unexpectedly sending their children in, soon as you've just about gotten comfortable with the fact that they're old enough to graduate. Speaking of which, I hear tell you've got some room to brag in that regard. Or I read, rather. Wee one's gone and followed in your footsteps, somewhat," Minerva said, smiling.

"She's not so wee, anymore. But since we're on the subject of wee ones, I haven't quite worn out the pictures of my granddaughter, so if you'd like to see them, you can. Before we get down to this business of figuring out how we sell this idea to anyone. And how we make it actually work this time," Viktor amended.

"I've taken the liberty of asking them to prepare quarters for you for the night. I doubt this is going to be a single afternoon job," Minerva said. "Besides, Hagrid and some of the rest of the staff, myself included, would be a little disappointed if you get away without a bit more socializing, first."

"I was afraid you were going to say that," Viktor replied, shaking his head. "About the job, not the socializing. Now, I've already got a few ideas about how to weight the judging of each individual task..."

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

Simon walked briskly down the hall and made for the old sofa in the lobby. Its slightly squashy springs had seen better days, but it was still where he usually settled when waiting to see if Mum was coming out for lunch. He didn't generally bother the receptionist. He was there well ahead of the time she usually popped her head out for some air, so he flopped onto the sofa and thumbed through the book he had brought along, ducking over it and skimming the page. He pretty well ignored the nervous looking young man with a roll of parchment in his hand, reciting something over and over to himself in the chair over in the corner, in his own anxious little world. Job candidate, most likely. It took a good few minutes for the other figure in the room, standing next to the wide window to even register in his peripheral vision.

Simon glanced up and looked him over. He was tall and lanky and dark-haired. There wasn't much else to be noticed, considering he had his back to Simon, busy looking out the window. Occasionally he would turn his head slightly, idly follow something across his field of vision, some of the traffic, most likely, then go back to looking straight ahead. For a bit, only a vague nagging feeling pricked at Simon's brain. The nudging of something very nearly familiar. Probably just wondering why he's at the window instead of sitting, if he's waiting for some... Then the jolt of recognition. No way. Simon turned his head and openly stared. Not that it did much good. All he could see at the moment was the man's back and the back of his head.

Simon put his hand to his mouth and coughed. It sounded ridiculously forced, even to him. The interview candidate stopped mumbling to himself and goggled at him. Already halfway made a fool of myself. Might as well complete the job. He let loose another torrent of barking, not taking his eyes off the figure at the window. The man took a quick glance over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the world outside the window. Ruddy hell, Simon thought, freezing for an instant, then quickly staring back down at the book. It's him. I'll eat this book if it isn't. Viktor bloody Krum is standing in front of the window, not twenty feet away from me. What the hell do I say? Hi, you don't know me, but you knew my Dad and Mum? My Uncle Harry? Fought a bit of a war and went to school with them, I think. You took my Mum to a dance, once? Harry and Dad used to go on and on about the way you played and Harry took me to your last match? Hi, you've never met me, but I've got your autograph? He'll think I'm bonkers! Just tromping up and saying hey, there, I'm Simon! Simon who? Who the hell is Simon-

"Weasley? Simon Weasley?" The voice was low, soft, and had a distinctly foreign quality to it, despite the excellent diction. Much like Aunt Fleur's voice, the vowels and the cadence held on to something distinctly "other". He'd heard it in plenty of post-match interviews on the wireless when he was a child. Always concise, clipped answers, generally consisting of either monosyllabic words or gentle attempts to deflect the praise back to the team at large. Simon looked out beyond the edge of the book, still firmly keeping his head down. Damn. He really is talking to me, Simon thought, studying the black boots the owner of the voice was wearing. The toes were pointed right at him. "You are Simon?" Simon forced his gaze up into a face he knew very well, despite never having seen it in person. Unlike the posters and most of the old photos, however, there was a slight, uncertain smile. The images he had seen had always tended toward the grim or solemn. And the wire frame glasses certainly hadn't been in any of them.

"Err... yeah. How did you know?" Simon blurted out. He immediately wished he could have it back and a few moments in private to kick himself for ever having said it. Brilliant. Shall I make an even bigger fool of myself?

"Well," Viktor said, crossing his arms and tilting his head, "first, I spent a considerable amount of time around a considerable number of Weasleys when I was roughly your age. The hair color tends toward the rare and it's hard to forget. And as far as I know, none of the younger Weasleys, besides you, work here. Second, I've seen your picture. And third, even if I hadn't, I still think I would recognize you. You look a great deal like your father. And you apparently read like your mother. Like the book's going to get away if you don't keep a close eye on it. And a firm grip," he added, gesturing at Simon's white knuckles. Simon could feel himself flushing when just the faintest hint of amusement tugged at the corner of Viktor's mouth.

"I... err... ah, it's a..." Simon slapped the book together and jumped up, nervously wiping his palm against his robes. "It's a pleasure. I mean... An honor! An honor and a pleasure, really..." he amended, thrusting his hand out for a shake, "... just ... I've heard so much about... you know, from Uncle Harry and all. And I used to listen... every match I could... when you played. Gosh. I mean, Dad and Uncle Harry were still talking about that first World Cup when I was a kid. Harry still says it's the best match he's ever seen. And that you were the most natural flier that's ever been on a broom. Dad, too. Said that." Simon willed himself to stop babbling, but the words seemed to be coming from somewhere else, almost. He was finally stunned into silence by the wholly unexpected realization that he was very nearly as tall as the man with whom he was shaking hands.

"That's... quite the compliment, then. Because Harry wasn't exactly a slouch on a broom," Viktor said solemnly. "And your father, from what I hear, was a pretty decent Keeper in school, himself. And both of them could talk the game. You never played?"

Simon shrugged. "For a little while, anyway. A year. More the enthusiast. I announced matches. Play by play and all. I played Keeper, like Dad, but more because they couldn't find anyone else over first year ready to fill the spot than anything... Everyone above first year always wants to be Beater or Chaser or Seeker, you see. All the glamour positions. Keeper's a bit of a thankless job, isn't it? Your daughter's playing now, isn't she? I heard the Aussie match the other week. Sounded like a real corker. The passing and the tackling was so fast that the announcer could barely keep up without his tongue dragging!"

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

Hermione looked up at the clock and dropped her quill. She was already five minutes late. She scrambled for her handbag and dashed for the door, heading out into the hall. But the scene in the lobby brought her up short. Viktor was there waiting for her, sure enough, just as he had said. Hermione had certainly not expected to come out and see him having a rather animated conversation with, of all people, her son. She froze for an instant, watching the two of them, thrown back into memories of similar conversations she had seen between Ron and Viktor.

For Ron, the truce had been a little uneasy at first, but calm and steady had won the day in the end. More importantly, it had earned Ron's trust. The nasty flare of jealousy and envy had slowly turned into a sort of grudging appreciation and admiration, and finally, a warm enough friendship. It had always been on its easiest footing when they were talking Quidditch, of course, but then, it had been the same with Harry. And Charlie, for that matter. Give them someone else to help break down a team's preferred defense or a broom model's pros and cons, and they could go at it half the night. Perhaps other subjects were just too weighty and depressing. Quidditch was possibly the only safe subject where the lot of them could find common ground.

It certainly hadn't hurt that Viktor had been just as willing to get his hands dirty and get into the trenches as anyone. Ron had once confessed that he had expected someone spoiled, pampered and largely useless. Someone more like Lockhart. It also hadn't hurt that Viktor was given to being blissfully unfazed by Ron's poorly veiled hostility, used to ignoring far worse done on the pitch as "just part of the game", to be shrugged off and forgotten once the final whistle blew. Managing to get on rather well with all of Ron's older brothers had tipped the scales as well. Even Percy and Molly couldn't find a great deal to pick at and complain about. Viktor had cared every bit as much as any of them about the outcome of the fight for the cause, and the safety of those who fought for it. And it was readily apparent that he had given up as much, and quite possibly, more, to make the same stand the rest of them had.

Soon enough, all of them, Viktor, Harry, even Ron, had occupied the same compartment of her life comfortably enough, and she no longer had to keep them completely separate, though she preferred to, just a bit. To keep back a little something for herself, private and just for her. She had even been the slightest bit selfish with Viktor, eager to keep some small taste of what she had felt when they had been writing to one another, one on one and no one else between or beside, no third or fourth. Harry and Ron always felt as though they came together, back then, her two best friends. No considering one without the other, no secrets, no sharing with one without sharing with the other. With Viktor, there had always been a tiny corner of their relationship reserved just for the two of them. Them alone. Carved out parchment by parchment, exchange by exchange, in the simultaneous shyness and boldness that letters afforded. The very cowardice of not having to speak face to face tended to make you brave about revealing yourself. Far braver and more reckless than you could ever be in person.

But this... Hermione wasn't quite sure if she was ready for this. She walked toward the two of them slowly, half wishing she could blink and make it go away. Prior to today, her life had still been fairly neatly divided into Before and After compartments, Simon firmly positioned in the After, Viktor just as firmly anchored in the Before. Or was it the Just For Me? Now those two sections had collided off her watch, without her permission, and she wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. It looks congenial enough. Simon was encouraging about this. But that was the abstract. This is the real. Ron had a bit of trouble telling the two apart... but he was fourteen at the time. Fourteen and a ball of hormones and total thickness about girls and people in general, all rolled into one. He didn't even know what he thought or wanted. But then, I'm one to talk, aren't I? I don't know what I want, either, and I'm a grown woman. So why do I feel like I'm bringing a date home to meet the parents? Like the two of them have to get each other's approval for me to have them both in my life? Because one of them is my son, and there's no such thing as having a life without him, any more.

"Mum, look who I bumped into while I was waiting to see if you wanted to go to lunch," Simon said, grinning at her.

"So I see. I suppose it would be rather useless for me to do introductions, then," Hermione said, smiling wanly. "Actually, I was already planning on going to lunch," she added, taking a small step closer to Viktor and subtly inclining her head, hoping Simon would catch the hint.

"Oh! Oh, errr... I'll catch Grandad, then. Wait, no I won't, he and Uncle Perce are at that off site meeting..." Simon stammered. Obviously the penny had dropped. Hermione winced inwardly. It was as uncomfortable watching her son do it as it was when she did it, floundering around for what to say, an elegant way to extract yourself from the corner you had just inelegantly painted yourself into. "I'll go-"

"You could just come with us. I don't mind. Really," Viktor offered.

"Really? I couldn't. You're sure... I mean, if neither of you mind..." Simon amended. He was smiling so broadly that Hermione just didn't have the heart to tell him that she did.

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

"I just couldn't do it. I couldn't stand there, and say, 'Yes, I mind, very much, thank you,' not when he was standing there with that same beatific grin that Ron used to get in those situations," Hermione complained.

"So, our Simon just invited himself along on your date, hmmm?" Ginny asked, joining Hermione at the kitchen table with her own cup of tea.

"Calling it a date might be overly generous. It's not like we got much talking in," Hermione added, taking a sip from her cup. "And Viktor offered. Simon tried to extract himself. Halfheartedly, anyway. He didn't exactly decline very hard."

"Why, Hermione Jane Weasley, I do believe you're jealous," Ginny said, after a moment's consideration.

"Jealous!? What did you put in that tea?" Hermione said indignantly.

"You're either jealous about your son being more wrapped up in meeting Viktor than he is being with his mum, or you're jealous Viktor spent a big chunk of the time he was supposed to be spending with you talking to Simon. One or the other. Or maybe both," Ginny pointed out.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard," Hermione said, finishing her tea. "If he had wanted to spend the time with me alone, he never would have invited Simon along. Maybe he didn't even consider it a date. And suggesting I'm jealous when my grown son wants to talk to someone else, that's mad."

"Is it? What was Viktor supposed to do? Tell him to 'get lost, kid' right in front of you? He did stay longer than he planned and go out of his way coming back just to eat lunch with you. Doesn't that say something?" Ginny asked. When there was no answer, Ginny added, "You always did want to keep Viktor to yourself. Didn't much more than admit you were writing to him, much less anything about what the two of you wrote in those novelettes. Or talked about when you were huddled up together on porches or couches or up trees in the back garden all the time."

"That may be," Hermione allowed, standing up, "but I was a teenager, then. Why would you want to accuse me of acting like a teenager now? I need to go, if I'm going to get a few things at the shops. Thanks for the tea and the sympathy, but you can just put your wild theories to rest."

"Well, see you later, then," Ginny said placidly.

"See you later," Hermione echoed, heading out the door. Ginny leaned back and watched her walk out of the back garden through the window.

"I'm accusing you of acting like a teenager because you are. Admit it or not, you're in love like one," Ginny murmured to herself. "Bet Simon will agree."

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

"I hear you and Viktor got on like a house on fire," Ginny prodded, sitting back down at the kitchen table after checking on dinner in the oven.

"He was great to talk to. And not just about Quidditch, either. He had some stories on everyone. Dad, Mum, you, the lot of you. How come you never told me about the time Uncle Fred locked you out of the house wearing nothing but a towel and you got him back by smacking him in the head with Viktor's broom when he finally let you back in?" Simon asked, laughing. "How did you swing and hold the towel at the same time?"

"I'm sure that would have made a lovely bedtime story for your impressionable young self. I hope hearing that story was worth intruding on your mum's date," Ginny said with a laugh.

"I didn't mean to. I mean... what was I supposed to do? Big thickie that I am, it didn't even dawn on me that he was there waiting for her until she said, and by then I had already said what I was doing there," Simon said, reddening. "And he invited me."

"Remember an urgent appointment. Made your Mum a mite jealous, I think, but she won't admit it," Ginny said.

"I thought the days of buggering up Mum's dates just because I exist were long past. I mean, it's not like anyone has to take on raising me or worrying about me being underfoot all the time, any more," Simon said ruefully.

"One, that guy was an idiot of the first order. Two, I don't think you had a thing to do with all the other ones being jerks, either. Just call ahead next time. So... is he still that good looking?" Ginny asked curiously.

"What? Is who what? Good looking?" Simon asked, mouth agape.

"Viktor. Is he still as good looking as he used to be? Oh, I suppose he wasn't exactly everyone's cup of tea. After all, he wasn't exactly a pretty boy, what with that nose of his and the way he used to slouch around like he would just as soon disappear when he was younger, but there was always something about him. Maybe part of it was just the foreign and mysterious air, and the ultra-formality, but at least half the girls at Hogwarts just about melted into a puddle if he so much as looked at them cross-eyed. The other half were busy swooning over pretty Cedric Diggory. Once he stopped trying to hide in plain sight and scowling at everything that moved the nose just gave him some character and made his face interesting. He was an awfully handsome man by the time he grew into his height and himself. Not that he ever noticed. Why do you think he has those massive posters sales figures?" Ginny said.

"Because he was a great player?" Simon answered, looking at her with a questioning expression.

"Oh, Simon. Not everyone buys Quidditch posters for the Quidditch. Some of them get sold because the man or woman in the uniform is easy on the eyes," Ginny said dismissively.

"I don't know..." Simon said uncertainly. "He looks exactly like he did when he retired, if you ask me. Except for the glasses. And not as... formidable, maybe. I mean, he seems... less serious than I expected."

"Well, he's still damned good looking, then. I don't blame your mum for being peeved. And he was always something of a closet softie. I ask you. Unbiased opinion, is he sweet on your mother? She seems to be having a hard time swallowing the idea that he might be. Or she's scared to admit it," Ginny added.

"Not so sure my opinion is unbiased. He sure did smile at her a lot. If that means anything. Always watched her while she talked and things. Held the door and pulled out the chair and whatnot. If that's being sweet on her, yeah, I guess he is," Simon said with a shrug. "Look, if they were so fantastic together, what stopped them from getting married back then? Not that I'm complaining. I wouldn't be here if they had... But, she's never said."

"Two terminal cases of levelheadedness and the good sense to know they weren't ready. I guess if the war hadn't happened, maybe they would have. But lucky for you, and your Dad, circumstances were what they were and Viktor and Hermione didn't push it. They loved each other too much to be together when neither of them were ready to give it everything they had. And then Viktor met Magda and... they parted on good terms. I don't think either of them would change a thing. Love and circumstance are a funny thing. I once called your Uncle Michael a dunderheaded fool. And meant it. Funnily enough, he went and grew up and I did, too, and it got to be the right time. All things in due time. Even love. Maybe both of them just need to get to grips with being ready for it again. A few nudges in that direction couldn't hurt," Ginny said, smiling.

"I told her to go have dinner at his house that first time," Simon said defensively.

"Good for you. Now don't invite yourself to any more of their dates," Ginny added, getting up to check on the roast again.

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

Viktor considered the cup of coffee he had just poured, trying to figure out what to have with it. It was barely dawn outside, the light still had a gray quality to it, as though it weren't quite awake, either, and the fog was still lifting off the ground, especially thick back toward the lake, a good way from the house. He hadn't even bothered to do the dishes from their dinner the night before, yet. The two table settings were still sitting in the sink. The kitchen still smelled faintly of lamb and mint. Though it was Saturday, he had been restless, unable to sleep past his usual rising time, so he had decided he might as well get up and have breakfast. He had just about decided that he would need the cup of coffee before he would be capable of deciding what to have with it when a light pecking came at the back door.

"Hey... you headed home from your shift?" Viktor said, swinging the door completely open when he saw that it was Vladimir.

"I saw the light on. I figured you were up. Got another cup of that?" Vladimir said, huddling up inside his cloak in the damp, inclining his head toward the cup in Viktor's hand.

"Sure. Come on in," Viktor offered.

"Aren't you freezing, door open and nothing but your pajama bottoms and a dressing gown?" Vladimir said.

"Not really. Besides, what am I supposed to do? Answer the door in my cloak? Got time for pancakes?" Viktor asked.

"If you're offering to make them," Vladimir answered, shucking off his cloak.

"Get your own coffee, then," Viktor said, starting to gather up the necessary equipment. They both stayed silent until the first batch was in the pan and Viktor had settled into the kitchen chair next to Vladimir. "Well?" Viktor said, raising an eyebrow questioningly and taking a sip of coffee.

"Well what?" Vladimir replied.

"Well, are you going to tell me what's eating you?" Viktor asked.

"Who said anything was eating me, Tate?" Vladimir snapped, lowering his eyebrows, hunching his shoulders and frowning at the coffee cup.

"You did. Or are you going to try to tell me you just happened to be passing through at this time of day on the off chance I might be up, and this slim possibility somehow won out over going straight home to a warm bed with your wife in it? I don't buy it," Viktor said, shaking his head. "My pancakes are pretty good, but they're not that good. And if your lip gets any lower, you're going to trip on it. Or that cup's going to burst into flames, the way you're staring at it." When Vladimir still didn't answer, Viktor prompted, "Work?"

"Had to deliver some bad news," Vladimir said finally, his face relaxing slightly.

"So, now you're going to make yourself miserable over it for weeks, too? And take all the rest of us with you?" Viktor asked. "You worry me when you do that."

"What?" Vladimir asked, looking up.

"Take things to heart so hard when you can't help it. What was it?" Viktor said.

Vladimir ducked his head again, fiddling with the cup for a moment before answering. "Had a kid come in who got up in the middle of the night and got into the potion ingredients. Mixed a few of the wrong things together while playing and the cauldron exploded. Boom, no more right hand," Vladimir said with a heavy sigh. "Not enough there to even attempt to regrow it. Prosthetic is the best we can do. Even that's not going to be easy. What's left has to come off, first."

"Otherwise, he or she is presumably okay? Or going to be okay? Happy and healthy and all that?" Viktor asked, voice even.

"She. A few minor chemical burns. Temporary ear ringing and hearing loss. Scared the hell out of her, so she's like a cat clinging to the curtains, but I guess if you consider going through life a hand down 'okay', she is," Vladimir said gloomily.

"I once knew a man who didn't have half his original parts. You name it, he probably had it replaced. He got on fine. Taught me a lot. Prosthetics are a lot more advanced these days. She'll probably never miss it much if she's young," Viktor soothed. "She'll adapt."

"Try telling her that right now. Or her parents," Vladimir replied.

"That's your job. And I don't envy you the job in the slightest," Viktor said, patting his shoulder and walking back to the stove. "You know why I wasn't crazy about you wanting to do this?" he blurted out suddenly.

"No. Why?" Vladimir asked, turning around in his seat to watch.

Viktor kept his attention on the stove. "I saw enough of that. In the war. To know it's not easy. Dying... and losing... things. Death and suffering... it's easy to start feeling responsible for it when you see it all the time. You almost feel like you control it somehow. And it's easy to take those things hard. You take things hard. I knew you would. You always did. When you lost your first patient, you moped around here for a month, at least. I couldn't do it. Not... day in and day out. I wouldn't be able to. All that death and misery."

Vladimir blinked in surprise. Though he had never asked, he had suspected something a lot more mundane behind the well camouflaged but not-quite-thrilled reaction he had gotten when he had announced the decision. The long hours, the long schooling, the responsibilities, the being on call almost constantly... Not this. And he couldn't remember a time when Tate had willingly brought up the war of his own accord. "But it's all worth it when you can help. When you can do some good. Make it better. Get rid of some of that suffering... It's not all death and suffering and misery. It's life, too. Mostly life, really," he found himself protesting. "And hope. I just hate it that we couldn't fix her hand. Okay, I hate it that I couldn't fix her hand. I hate saying 'I can't' to a patient. Especially parents."

"You said a prosthetic was the best you could do for her. Did you really mean it?" Viktor asked, not turning around, using his wand to set the table.

"Of course I did," Vladimir replied.

"Then you gave her your best, just like every other patient that comes through the door and you've got no reason to bash yourself. Or pout. So quit it. Does her and you no good. Here," Viktor said, putting down the platter of pancakes. "I'm fairly sure pancakes have no medicinal value, but they're good for the soul. And have a side of absolute lack of sympathy on my part. Stop kicking yourself about things you have no control over. You knew that was going to be part and parcel of the job," Viktor scolded lightly, ruffling Vladimir's hair and resting his hand on top of his head for a second before heading back to the stove. "Kicking yourself is not your job. Plenty of other people willing to do it."

Vladimir smiled in spite of himself, feeling the tension drain. "No sympathy, eh, Tate? So why did I come here?"

"Besides the pancakes? So I could kick your arse for you, I imagine. Try me again in a couple of hours. I'll try to work some up. You want sympathy, try your wife," Viktor said, starting another batch of pancakes, then leaning idly against the counter.

"If you think I would chance rousting her out this early to feel sorry for me, you're mad. Dawn's too early to hope for sympathy from her, either. Safer to come here. She wouldn't even offer the pancakes," Vladimir said, putting a couple on his plate. "Can I at least do the dishes or something? I noticed you've got a few piled up."

"No, I'll get them later," Viktor protested, watching as the pan flipped the pancakes. "Eat, go home and go to bed. Don't make yourself any harder to live with. Nikolina and Evangelina don't deserve that."

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

"If you're going to be grouchy, you can just keep walking," Stan said, only glancing up from the varnish he was mixing.

"Grouchy? What are you on about?" Vladimir asked, leaning against the end of the workbench in the back of the wand shop.

"I heard about the emergency pancake intervention and the reason behind it. I'm sorry, but if you're intent on spreading the misery, keep moving. I'm working," Stan insisted. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be? I thought Wednesday was your early shift."

"Not for another half hour. I don't go until two. I'm better. Really." When Stan gave him a skeptical look, he added, "I'm not... happy about it, but she's doing okay. As okay as she can be. We fit her for it tomorrow."

"You're not brooding on it? You're fine," Stan said, giving him a look.

"No, I'm not. I went home that morning and scoured the house for anything that might explode and got up four times an hour to check on the baby and thanked the powers that be a dozen times that it wasn't my daughter in the same situation and hoped it never would be. But I'm not exactly wallowing in it, either," Vladimir said, shrugging. "Besides, I hardly think a serial stalker is in any position to be lecturing me on my mental and emotional health," he added, following Stan back to the front of the shop.

"Don't you start that, again. I am not stalking her," Stan said, not rising to the bait. He adjusted the slender piece of wood in the vise before opening a drawer to rifle through the brushes.

"Have you ever talked to her?" Vlad said, crossing his arms. "Anything besides minimal polite interaction, I mean. Something more scintillating than asking her where they keep the art supplies over there."

"No."

"Then you're stalking her. Anna agrees with me. Damn it, go up to her and say something. 'Hi, you don't know me, but I've been watching you eat your lunch out here for a year' might be a good start. If she doesn't hex you for being a creep, it's a good sign," Vladimir replied.

"That would be rich," Stan said, shaking his head.

"Pack a sandwich for lunch tomorrow, go out there, sit on the bench and say hello. Talk to her instead of just mooning at her from a safe distance. What's she supposed to do? Read your mind and come in here and throw herself at you?" Vladimir asked.

"It's not that easy! Not everyone's like you and Mama. Not everyone can just waltz up to people and strike up a conversation and always know what to say. Some of us didn't get our levels in Socializing and have girls lined up for every dance," Stan protested, sounding flustered. "Mama could have gotten away with asking Merlin what kind of undershorts he wore and sounded just charming doing it. And you're just like her."

"And you're just like Tate. Wouldn't say ten words a week if you could figure out how to avoid it. You could have had girls lined up, too, if you had shown any of them the slightest bit of encouragement. Do you think those girls that asked you out did it for their health? No, they got tired of waiting for you to do it. Look, if you don't promise me you're at least going to go out there and try to talk to her, I'm going to come here tomorrow with a sandwich of my own, and I'll talk to her, with you or without you," Vladimir threatened.

"You wouldn't," Stan said.

"Try me. Maybe I'll bring Anna. She can... well, she won't say 'boo' to anyone, either, if she can help it, but I might get her to put in a good word or two," Vlad insisted.

"Soon. Maybe-"

"You've been saying 'soon' every time I ask for three months. Tomorrow. Even if it's nothing but 'Hello, nice weather we're having, isn't it?' you talk to her. She's not some untouchable exhibit behind museum glass. She's a flesh and blood person, just like you, and if she thinks she's too good to talk to you while eating her lunch, better you find that out now and tell her where she can stick it. Worst that can happen is that it turns out one of you doesn't like the other. If she snubs you, tell me and I'll go stick her lunch up her nose," Vladimir said.

"Okay, okay. I'll do it," Stan conceded, dipping the brush in his hand into the varnish and carefully cleaning it off against the edge of the jar. "To shut you up, if nothing else, you maniac. What was in those pancakes?"

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

Viktor fiddled with a quill as he read through the update from the opening of the summit for the Western European nations. A few of the Eastern European attendees couldn't seem to decide which side of the divide they fell on, since some of the same countries had sent delegates to both meetings, albeit different delegates. It seemed to be fairly encouraging, but Oppenheimer had always struck him as just a shade overly optimistic about nearly everything, so perhaps it should be taken with a grain of salt. The African nations and the Southern Hemisphere were still dragging their heels on setting up firm dates for their summits. He was still scanning the final list of registered representatives when a low, throaty voice rang out from the doorway. "Listen, I don't care what the Commissioner is doing or that I don't have an appointment! I demand to speak to him right now! I'm going to really give him a piece of my mind!"

The voice was so distinctive and familiar that Viktor didn't even bother looking up before remarking placidly, "The lady had better check and see if she's got a piece to spare first." He slid the sheet of parchment aside and faced her. "Lara, you nut. Not that I'm anything less than thrilled, but what are you doing here?"

"What? Isn't that how everyone comes in here? I need to talk to you," Ivanova said, grinning. "Some business, some pleasure. Have a few minutes?" she asked, stepping inside the doorway and running her fingers through her brassy hair as she brushed it back. She had taken to wearing it loose after retiring, and she still seemed to be impatient with it coming anywhere near her face, as though it were going to interfere with something. Her face was as exotic and lovely as ever, with fine bone structure, high cheekbones, strong chin, full mouth. Combined with that slightly smoky bedroom voice and tawny, hooded eyes, it was little wonder that Lara had always had a fair number of male fans who couldn't tell you the first thing about Quidditch. Wireless interviewers and photographers had just eaten her up at every opportunity.

"Is this a closed door issue?" Viktor asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Part of it, yes. Then I've got something that's going to take more than a few minutes. Let's take care of the quick question first," Lara said, pushing the door closed and settling in the chair on the other side of the desk. "First of all, how are you?"

Viktor studied her an instant before answering. It hadn't been asked in the usual breezy fashion one would ask that question in. It had all the hallmarks of a loaded question. "Fair enough. Busy. The kids are all fine, though. The baby's walking, believe it or not, and I still haven't been driven completely bonkers by them or the job, just slightly mad, so I can't complain," he said.

"That's not what I asked. I asked how you were," Lara insisted, looking at him intently.

Viktor sucked in a deep breath. "It gets easier. It never quite gets easy, though."

"Maybe it will, someday. By the way, nice job on shutting Iva up, whatever you did. Tell you what. You can fill me in on all the details about the kids during lunch. We'll go someplace nice, talk pension committee business for ten minutes and make the Ministry pay for it," Lara said, scrunching her nose up in an impish manner.

"You're completely wicked. That's probably why I always liked you. I can probably find it. In the entertainment budget. If they refuse to approve it, I'll pay for it out of my pocket. I hesitate to ask... does what you want to talk about before lunch have anything to do with anyone who shares my last name? Tell me it's not about the selection committee," Viktor pleaded.

"It's about the selection committee. We're deadlocked," Lara said evenly.

"You know you can't talk to me about too much. Confidentiality... conflict of interest... ethical violations, we never would get shed of the committees and journalists wanting to investigate," Viktor said, obviously flustered.

"I signed the exact same confidentiality agreement you did, and I did read it. I know what the consequences are. They wouldn't need a committee to figure out we broke it. You're allowed to break deadlocks. We have a deadlock. And I'm not going to name names. You have nothing but a hypothetical situation to consider and give me an answer for. We won't be violating anything," she said confidently.

"Okay. Give it to me," Viktor said, sounding reluctant.

"We have two Chasers that were unanimous choices. No disagreement whatsoever. Both of whom are probably what you would call long, real bangers, hardnosed. Our remaining two final candidates are totally different from one another. We want to complement the two we already have on the team, and we're not sure how to do it properly. We can either select a third with a similar build and style of play, or one who is much smaller, compact and more maneuverable. Both are excellent players, solid passers, good tacklers. I don't think we could go far wrong picking either, but we want to do the best for the team overall. The one who doesn't get chosen still gets to be an alternate. If you were coaching, what would you want at your disposal?" Lara asked.

"Large quantities of alcohol," Viktor shot back.

"That goes without saying. What would you like to be able to put on the field?" Lara pressed.

Viktor thought for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the desk. "I always was a big fan of diversity. If you already have two Chasers who can get in there and wrestle the ball away from someone bigger, take a stray elbow or knee or, Heaven forbid, a Bludger, and not pay much mind, make the third someone who can get out ahead faster than they can and squeeze into tighter spots."

"Is that your official recommendation?" Lara asked, eyebrows raised.

"It is," Viktor assented. Lara pulled a sheet of parchment from her inside pocket and jotted a name at the bottom, using the quill from Viktor's desk. "It's okay... she'll be thrilled with just being picked as an alternate," he added, more to himself than to her.

Lara looked up questioningly. "Who will? It was between Federov and Gorsky... You mean Anna!? She was a unanimous pick. You mean to tell me you thought you were voting against her just now? And you were worried about being accused of being unethical..." She shook her head and signed the list.

"What? She's only twenty-"

"So? You were only seventeen at that Cup. We all agreed. She's a solid player, and if we're smart, we put her on the national team right now and get her some experience with players of that caliber. In a few seasons, they'll be anchoring teams around her the way we used to anchor them around you," Lara said, putting the quill back and handing the list across. "The other Chasers have a few years on her. They'll be able to show her a thing or two. But I've seen her in enough matches to convince me she's a good gamble."

"You didn't browbeat her through?" Viktor asked, taking the parchment and looking at it rather disbelievingly.

"Browbeat? I didn't even nominate her for discussion. Didn't have to. Plovdiv's coach did. He rather grudgingly admits she pretty much made mincemeat of the Chasers he put on her at their last match. Don't get me wrong, she's still a little raw, plenty to learn about how to be smarter rather than tougher, but that comes with some time. And we all know that flies by. You can tell who taught her to handle a broom, though," Lara replied. "I'm sorry, but the pension committee talk isn't going to be that easy to solve. I'll give you the privilege of taking me out to lunch for that one. Come on, we can assault each other with grandchildren's photos and come back to work late."

"How is Hristina?" Viktor asked, standing.

"Growing like a weed. She's already eight. Baby's walking, huh? Who put her up to that?" Lara asked mischievously.

"Me, mostly. Talking next. So I can send her home and they can tell her to sit down and shut up."

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

"So," Lara said, propping her chin after putting down her coffee cup, "anything else of interest to share?" Again, it didn't have the air of an innocent question. Lara hardly ever asked questions she didn't already know the answer to.

"No. Why? What have you heard?" Viktor said, half wishing he hadn't added that last.

"Funny you should mention that. Plenty. Seriously. You have no other news? And don't try to hide from me. I've seen you in nothing but a towel and known you since Comets weren't classic models," Lara said with mock sternness.

"I've got no idea what you're on about," Viktor said. "Honestly."

"So you're not seeing someone?" Lara asked directly.

"See... wha? N... what made you ask that?" Viktor stammered, coloring. "I'm not... ready for anything like that..."

"I guess it was someone else Klaus Kroner saw at that restaurant a couple of weeks ago, then? Maybe he should get his eyes checked. Funny, he never forgets a woman's... well, let's be honest, he never looks at their faces much, does he?" Lara said, gesturing around her own torso. "And he never bothers with their names, either. But he never forgets a woman. He said it was the same one you were with in Russia. A lot. He obviously hates your guts ever since that summit, by the way. He almost shattered his teeth he was gritting them so hard when he said your name."

"Never was very fond of me. I didn't improve his opinion there. And why were you talking to that pompous windbag in the first place?" Viktor asked, recovering slightly.

"He talked to me. It's not like I could avoid it. Cocktail party. Dragomir's business friends, mostly. I'm sure Kroner's lady of the week was the one who got invited. You're trying to change the subject," Lara said, pinning him under a direct gaze that didn't allow for changing the subject any more. "You're not seeing anyone? Were you having dinner with a woman or not? It's not an accusation, Viktor."

"Not really. I mean, I was having dinner with someone, but... Dating? Not... exactly. A few lunches out, and... dinners at each other's houses... and a couple of dinners out... I mean, we've never called it..." Viktor trailed off and stared at the tabletop.

"A few? Sounds like you're seeing someone whether you admit it or not," Lara said gently. "I seem to recall you definitely 'not dating' someone else and you ended up spending twenty-seven years with her. Look," Lara said, putting her hand out and laying it over his on the table, "Magda wouldn't have wanted you to curl up and pretend you're dead or don't need anyone any more and cut yourself off because she's gone. You know that, don't you? She would royally kick your behind for it, in fact. I know you still miss her. I do, too. I won't pretend to know what it's like, but I do know letting yourself love someone else wouldn't be an insult to her memory. Not at all. Magda would want that for you if she couldn't be here. I do, too. I worry about you, sometimes. I would like to see you have that again," she added, giving his hand a squeeze.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to risk that again. Yet," Viktor said in a voice barely over a hoarse whisper. He turned his hand over and squeezed Lara's fingers, cradling her hand on top of his, studying that instead.

"Love?" Lara prompted.

"Losing someone you love," Viktor answered, swallowing hard.

"It's the price you pay. We all risk it. Any time we love. If you had known," Lara said, "when you got married, about Magda getting ovarian cancer, would you have called it off?"

"Not for the world," Viktor said, raising his gaze to hers.

"Then, if you're lucky, you'll decide this woman is worth the same risk. If she is, she should understand. It doesn't have to be all at once. It can be a little at a time." Lara gave his hand a final squeeze, then withdrew hers. "Do you mind if I ask who this unfortunate woman is? If it's none of my business, tell me."

"Unfortunate?" Viktor asked.

"Well, she's got a tough act to follow and she's stuck with you, that's two marks against. Three, if you count the misfortune that she's actually met Kroner," Lara said lightly.

"She didn't always follow," Viktor said, picking at the edge of his napkin. "Hermione happened to be at a conference when I was at the summit. We ran into... well, she spotted me. We had lunch while she was there. Kept me from strangling Kroner."

"It's not like you're easily missed," Lara said, covering her surprise. "It's been a long time since you saw her."

"A lifetime, more like. Several lifetimes. None of our children were alive the last time we saw each other. Well, here, anyway," Viktor said. "The children were still pretty small the last time we wrote, even."

"Older, but not wiser? She didn't have the good sense to keep away from you, hmm?" Lara teased.

"I suppose not."

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

"I've got some good news," Stan said tentatively, jogging his knee up and down with Evangelina astride his thigh.

"If it's about Mila, I already heard," Viktor said, not looking up from his book.

"Vlad has a big mouth. And that's not what I was talking about," Stan replied.

"What is it, then?" Viktor asked, closing the book and putting it down on the coffee table.

"Did he have to tell you about that?" Stan said peevishly.

"Yes, or he would have exploded. You know how he is. Shouldn't have told him first if you didn't want him beating you to it. News?" Viktor prompted again.

"I got promoted. Well, will be. Journeyman level. He's going to let me do a bit of design along with the usual production. As soon as we get some idea what the demand will be for fall, I'll know exactly how much I can do on my own," Stan said.

"From start to finish?" Viktor asked.

"From start to finish. Picking the cores and the wood and everything," Stan explained. "Not just deciding what they look like and crafting them to his specifications."

"That's... absolutely marvelous. Congratulations. I'll have to promptly brag on that come Friday morning," Viktor said.

"You won't," Stan protested, blushing and ducking his head. "You don't brag. About anything."

"I do about you three. I'm only half responsible, so I'm allowed. And that one," Viktor added, gesturing to the baby. "Speaking of that one, you care to keep her until sometime tomorrow evening? She's supposed to be staying overnight. I can probably be by to get her before her bedtime. Or you can just bring her over here to begin with if you prefer."

"Sure. Why?" Stan asked, looking up in surprise.

"Doing something else after work. Won't be able to go straight to pick her up," Viktor said vaguely, picking the book back up from the coffee table.

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

"So, did you stop by for any other reason than to keep me from working?" Stan asked patiently, rubbing a little more varnish onto the piece of wood secured in the vise in front of him.

"Isn't that reason enough? I've got a few minutes to kill before my shift starts. I might as well kill it talking to you," Vlad said, straddling one of the workbenches and sitting down. "Seriously, I've got something to ask you."

"What?" Stan prompted, not looking up from his work.

"Is it my imagination, or is there something up with Tate?" Vladimir said finally.

"Define 'something up'..." Stan said, putting down the cloth.

"Well... is he... acting funny... to you?" Vlad asked. "Not... funny... but... unusual. Different."

"Noooo... what makes you ask that?" Stan asked, swiping a stray tendril of hair off his cheek and leaving behind a wide chestnut streak.

"Well, it's all going to sound silly. Until you start thinking about it all together. He's been awfully... quiet... lately," Vlad explained.

"As opposed to his usually gabby self?" Stan said in a disbelieving voice, looking skeptical.

"I mean about where he's going or what he's doing. Not all cloak and dagger or anything, but more than usual. Okay, look, it's nothing by itself, but add it up. You remember a few weeks ago, when Nikolina had to do inventory at the shop and I got called in? I've thought about it. Tate was trying to get rid of me," Vladimir pointed out.

"I would, too. You hover too much. All up in everyone's face like none of us know how to handle a baby. All up in the air over whether the baby gnawed a crayon or chewed on some parchment or got a speck of paint on her or whatever. Even Tate. And considering he managed not to kill you, even if you deserved it, once or twice, that's a shade insulting. He probably wanted you to shove off so he could do what he pleased without you breathing down his neck and fluttering about what kind of socks he's going to put on Evangelina," Stan said

"That's just it. Normally, he doesn't pay much attention. Just tells me to come in and tunes it out. He never shoos me off. He shooed me off," Vlad said indignantly. "And I'm better lately."

"I beg to differ, Mister 'Oh my heavens, you didn't let her swallow paint, did you?'," Stan shot back. "I'd shoo you, too, if I thought it would do any good. But obviously, it doesn't. Shoo. See?"

"Okay, fine. First baby. I worry. So sue me. I still say, it's like he had another pressing appointment and wanted me gone. And that's not all. You remember that morning I stopped by? I realized later, he had dishes in the sink," Vlad pointed out.

"Well, alert the media. Tate didn't do the dishes. So what?" Stan said dismissively, picking up a bit of sandpaper and going to work on another piece of wood, smoothing it.

"They were the nice set of dishes," Vladimir elaborated.

"Gasp. Whatever's next? Sitting at the kitchen table? In the chairs? He grabs whatever's closer, I imagine," Stan replied. "It's not even like Mama saved them for anything special."

"Two place settings," Vlad said.

"So he didn't do the dishes for more than a day. It's not like he has anything else to-"

"I think there was lipstick on one of the coffee cups," Vladimir blurted out.

"What? You think..." Stan said, looking up finally.

"I think. I can't swear to it. I mean, I was pretty upset, bleary and tired, and I didn't think much about it at the time, but... I don't think anything on the plate was that color. It looked more like... lipstick. It was just around the rim. In one spot," Vlad said, illustrating with his hands.

"That's a pretty big leap..." Stan said skeptically.

"Not when you consider it with everything else. And how he reacted when I told him about you and Mila! He got the oddest look when I said, 'Oh, I'm so excited about the family dating news,' or whatever I said. Like he had been caught out at something for an instant. That got me to thinking," Vladimir said. "Do you think he might be... seeing someone?"

"It's always dangerous when you start thinking. But now you mention it... he has been going back and forth a lot. Could it all be for Hogwarts and McGonagall and trying to hammer out that Tournament? How many times can you talk about it? I mean, I know he's working on it, he said... And what about the other week? When he wanted me to keep Evangelina for him for a little while? Said he had something else to do after work. Never said what it was..." Stan said, trailing off. "Maybe he's not even taking the ferry because of Britain. I mean, I just assumed..."

"Tate's got a girlfriend," Vlad said bluntly.

"You really think?" Stan asked. "Who would it be? And where?"

"I think so. I have no idea. I doubt it would be anyone we know. I can't think of anyone about his age. He's not the type to go in for some little chippie half his age like... what's his name... Kroner. And I can't think of anyone his age that we know that is single or that he would be caught dead with. Certainly not that awful Madam Putin. He would have hives if he had been spending more than ten minutes with her," Vlad snickered. "Whoever invented the word 'harridan' must have known her personally."

"Don't even joke about that, she's horrid," Stan protested. "He would probably sooner cut his own arm off. I can't think of anyone, either. But... good for him if he does," he added after a moment's consideration.

"You would be happy about that?" Vlad asked, sobering.

"Well... sure. Wouldn't you? I mean, I worry about him. No reason he should be alone the rest of his life. Mama's been gone almost five years, we've all moved out, I think he's lonely, sometimes. I don't like the thought of him being lonely. Not when he doesn't have to be," Stan said after some thought.

"I would be happy for him, too. You know who wouldn't be too thrilled, though," Vlad said with a quick bob of his head.

"Madame Putin?" Stan replied with a grin.

"Anna," Vladimir said, all seriousness.

"Anna? Why wouldn't Anna be happy about it?" Stan asked.

"Because that was her mother and that's her father and she's his daughter," Vlad said matter-of-factly, as though that explained it.

"And? We're his sons. She was our mother, too. Same situation," Stan argued.

"Oh, no, it's not. Believe me. Not the same situation at all. Not by a long shot. We used to think it was downright funny when some woman was flirting with him. Well, Mama did, too, but that's neither here nor there. Remember how angry it used to make Anna? Even when she was small? Or for that matter, when she got older?" Vladimir explained. "Tate isn't just protective of her. She's probably worse about him."

"I wouldn't talk overprotective. I seem to recall someone making me go scare the hell out of some poor little second year that took Anna to a dance. Poor child wouldn't have known what 'behaving improperly' was, much less dared do it in the first place. Anna could have hexed him silly, anyway. She didn't need us stepping in. And thanks to you, I'm the one that got my ear chewed about it after, when she found out," Stan said. "And I still don't see how it's different. She's the baby, but that's got nothing to do with it. Tate sure didn't take it any easier on her than he did on us. He didn't coddle her any more, either."

"Do you remember what Tate said, after Evangelina was born? Congratulations, you have my sympathies, and good luck, because you're going to need it. And to think, I laughed. He warned me, and I didn't listen. He was right. You'll see, daughters are just different, he said. Fathers and daughters just are. I shouldn't have laughed. Trust me, I'm seeing it already," Vlad insisted.

"Now I think about it, I suppose you're right. She wouldn't be very happy about it, would she? You think she suspects anything?" Stan asked.

"Well, we're just speculating, really. But I doubt she would. She and Tate both travel so much, I doubt she would keep track like we do. We're the ones that see them both off and meet them when they come back. Tate knows where Anna is all the time because of the job. Anna's got no real reason to keep up with where Tate is absolutely all of the time. And I don't know about you, but I'm not about to be the one to tell her what we think," Vlad said.

"I'm not about to, either. If it's something he wants told, he'll tell it sooner or later. Until then, it's none of our business in the first place," Stan said. "Any of us."

"True. Doesn't mean it's not fun to speculate about, though. I had better get going, or I'm going to be late. We'll talk later," Vlad said, heading for the door.

"You mean you'll come harass me while I'm trying to work, later," Stan called after him.

"Same thing," Vlad tossed over his shoulder.

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

Anna went to the icebox and picked out a few cubes of ice, dropping them into the small towel she carried. She limped to the sofa in the living room, sat down, swung her long legs up onto the cushions and gingerly put the towel to the hard, black bruise on her thigh. As expected, the cold stung her bare skin and the bruise throbbed when the muscle clenched. The scrimmage at practice had been a hard one, and one of the new practice reserves hadn't held back from going after the ball at all. Getting rammed by the broom handle had been almost expected.

She could have had the mediwizards look at it, but Anna welcomed a few bruises and aches to take home with her. It reminded her the new season was about to start. She liked starting over with a clean slate, a whole new season of possibility stretching out in front of you, bigger and better than the last if you were willing to sweat and work for it. The quite respectable third place finish in the standings, just forty points out of first, with the National Team had only served to whet her appetite for the next season. It gave her something else to think about besides autumn and how much she hated it. How much it depressed her.

She had always hated autumn for some reason or other. When she was small, because it meant Vlad and, later, Stan would be heading back to school for what seemed to her eons at a time, though in retrospect she realized they made frequent visits back home, rarely away for more than a month without at least one weekend or a holiday break home. Most other students didn't come home nearly as often. Autumn had been the annual loss of her brothers, their chatter and teasing and fussing and coddling and even spoiling. She never truly appreciated their willingness to include her until they were both gone and there was nothing to be included in. No one to savor delicious little childish plots and plans that adults never understand.

The house had always seemed dreaded quiet in the first couple of weeks after getting back from the dock and seeing the two of them off in the ship.

Though Mama and Tate had been just as willing to drop what they were doing in order to read her a story or play at something or walk to the lake for an afternoon, just for her alone, it simply wasn't the same. Not the same as when all three of them could gang up against mock protests of being too busy doing something very important and pretend to wear them down. Not nearly as wondrous and forbidden as all five of you playing hooky on a summer day from nothing much at all at the same time. It hadn't mattered that there wasn't any school to worry about, or that Mama could paint or draw just as well after your bedtime as before, or that when Tate was home instead of at practice or away at a match, there really wasn't much else to demand his attention besides Mama.

Fall had always meant everyone going in different directions. School started, and the boys headed back to school. Then Tate had preseason practices again, and matches, and she and Mama didn't always go along. When she had gotten old enough to look after herself well enough within the fairly friendly confines of the stadium, she had at least gotten to go to some of the practices when Mama couldn't or wouldn't.

That, at least, had been good for some grand little conspiracies of sorts between her and Tate. Secrets that took a bit of the sting out of autumn. Like not mentioning just how close to her head a rogue Bludger had come before one of the Beaters had gotten to it. It had seemed more funny than scary after Tate had stopped squeezing her so hard that her ribcage hurt and she couldn't get her breath, and laughed a bit instead. And there were a few chances to handle a broom model well beyond her capabilities, without much intervention on Tate's part, save sitting behind her and nudging an elbow or giving a succinct bit of corrective advice now and again. But mostly, he silently trusted her not to run them into something, steer wrong or go too fast. And occasionally, when she begged just right and practice hadn't gone too long, a chance to sit in front and hang on for dear life while he did a Wronski Feint that put her close enough to the ground to smell the grass before they pulled up.

It was a ride that never failed to be equal parts dizzying, terrifying, and exhilarating, taking her breath completely. The arms braced tightly around her waist and the way he leaned over her and forced her down low over the broom handle meant she never budged. Anna couldn't have fallen off, even if she hadn't been holding on, but it always gave her white knuckles, nonetheless, going that fast and seeing the ground rushing up at her, the wind and the speed threatening to push her backwards and clear off the back of the broom if Tate weren't behind her, the blur of green, and then seats, boxes and banners, then sky, sun and clouds after pulling up, an instant after your heart stopped. He had finally taught her how to do it. She couldn't go nearly as fast or as low, but she had eventually been able to do a fair enough one. Not nearly convincing enough to plough a half decent opponent in his ranks, of course, but good enough to give her that same wild, barely controlled feeling that made your heart pound after it sunk in that it hadn't stopped for good.

He had done the same for Vladimir and Stan, too, when they had been at home. But neither of them had begged for more the same way she had. Neither of them had hounded him into showing them how. When she had gotten old enough to get on the ship, it had mostly put an end to going along to the practices, too. Autumn had claimed something else from her. Autumn had meant getting on the ship, without Vlad even her first year, with him nine years older, already out of Durmstrang and in the Mediwizard training program, dragging in at all hours with black circles under his eyes and reading over enormous medical texts when he wasn't sleeping after a long shift at the hospital shadowing someone else. She and Stan had only gotten in two years together before he was out, and in the same arts academy Mama had attended instead, and she was getting on alone every fall.

Anna had refused to admit how lonely and scared she had been, getting on the ship the first year, even with Stan unashamed to sit with her most of the trip and encouraging about what it was like. Tate hadn't talked much about it, except to reassure her that she would be fine, that the professors and classes wouldn't be anything she couldn't and wouldn't handle, and that Stan would be there to help take care of her. It had still pulled at her, the way Mama and Tate had held onto her just a little bit longer than necessary before letting go, and how Mama had just about successfully hidden the fact that her eyes were tearing up a little, and not from the wind. Anna had overheard part of the rather depressed sounding conversation the two of them had held at the kitchen table about sending the baby off to school at last, when they had thought she was still outside.

Autumn always seemed to bring that same heavy, oppressive feeling of finality with it. No more baby at home all the time. No more spur of the minute mid-week trips to matches that Mama pulled off with nothing more than a duffle bag and no plans whatsoever on what to do when the match was over until the last possible second. Trips worked out around school took planning. No more staying up late in her pajamas, listening to the wireless and trying to figure out what the pairings were going to be come time for the National Team to play, or better yet, at the beginning of a Cup run. No more following every single match to guess who might end up playing against Tate. School demanded consistent bedtimes. No more feigning sleep by the time the announcers had signed off in order to get carried to bed. No more being woken up at odd hours of the night or near-dawn when Tate came back home from the occasional match where Mama and Anna hadn't gone along. He had always come in and sat on the edge of her bed, no matter what the hour was, tucked any wayward limbs back in, smoothed her hair back and kissed her temple, just as he once had for Stanislav and Vladimir, until they had declared themselves too old for kissing. Tate had still checked on them both for a good while after that, in any case. Apparently they weren't too old for getting their hair ruffled and a squeeze on the shoulder. Anna usually drifted back off to the comforting low drone of Mama and Tate's voices before they shut the door to their bedroom.

And fall wasn't even content to stop at taking that. Worse than the years where she had gotten on the ship was the year she hadn't gotten on the ship with the others. The year the season of death hadn't stopped at taking everything green outside. The autumn when not just the flowers and the trees had faded, withered and died, but Mama had, too. Anna had felt just as helpless in the path of Mama's illness as she was in the face of the advancing seasons.

Everyone else had been so maddeningly calm. The three of them had been called together into the living room, Mama had laid the situation out almost as though she were recounting what they were having for dinner, and no one had said a word. Not even Vlad, who always had something to say. Later, she realized that they were all three thinking they couldn't have really heard what they had just heard. Anna had waited for Tate to say something, something to fix it, or at least make it better, only he never did. He just sat there, in resigned, stoic silence. Nothing else could have driven home the fact that there was nothing that could fix it or make it better any more clearly.

In her head, she had wanted to kick, scream, rage against it, how unfair it was, that it couldn't be true. Not Mama. Not the most alive person she knew. But her body hadn't responded. She had sat there, just like the rest of them, taking it in without moving for a while. Finally, Vlad had ventured to ask, "So... they think it's too far advanced... spread," his voice had cracked on the word, "too much for a course of treatment to be effective?" It had been a question, but not really. Anna could tell from the way he asked it. He already knew the answer.

"It's a matter of quality versus quantity. It wouldn't buy much time, anyway," Mama had said simply. "A mediwizard and a mediwitch said as much." The mediwizard would surely be the one they all knew. Vlad had asked who the mediwitch was, and Anna held her breath. But he had nodded grimly at the name, making no comment. Anna's heart sank. She had been hoping for an accusation of incompetence, at the very least, maybe a demand that she get another opinion from someone who wasn't a quack. Nothing of the kind. Obviously Vlad knew and respected the opinion and skill of whomever had pronounced the death sentence.

And that was that. It was the last time fighting it had been brought up and discussed. No matter how many times Anna had wanted desperately to ask why she wouldn't at least try, she had always bitten her tongue. Instead, talk had turned to "managing" things. Always the passive act of managing them. Managing the symptoms and the effects. Managing the discomfort. Eventually, managing the pain. The same mediwizard they had all gone to for childhood immunizations and repairs had come over a few weeks after and shown Vladimir how to brew up a simply awful looking potion with a cloying, sickly sweet smell, to numb the pain, how to adjust the potency and figure the proper dosage. Vladimir had come over from his flat and spent hours hovering over the necessarily small batches, with the same attention he had given to those enormous medical books, until the smell of it seemed constantly embedded in his hair and robes. After a few days, the smell of it had made Anna sick to her stomach. Vladimir had been able to retreat into being a mediwizard, into putting those skills to use. Into doing something. At least he could offer her a bit of relief.

Stan, not surprisingly, had retreated into art. He had already been working on his final portfolio for school in any case. He would come over from the nearby dormitory frequently, and Mama advised him on what to include, what to change, and why. They had spent hours, whole afternoons, sometimes, prattling on about concepts like angles and composition and lighting, things that seemed so foreign and garbled to Anna when she tried to wrap her head around them. More than once she had fought the urge to interrupt and ask them why it mattered. What did a bunch of pictures matter under the circumstances? Why would it matter if a line here were a bit thicker, or the shading a bit darker, or the texture a bit different? How could Stan even think about a thing like school and a possible internship when Mama was dying? But in her more charitable moments, Anna saw that it was a welcome respite for Mama to go off into that isolated world that only artists knew, that only Stan completely understood. She had obviously enjoyed watching him sketch even after she had stopped completely, seeing the hands so like her own coax images out of nothing but parchment and smudges of charcoal. At least he could offer her a bit of distraction, make her feel involved and useful.

Tate had retreated into everything and nothing, all at the same time. By the time the illness showed on her face, he had requested and been granted an open ended leave of absence, length undetermined. He had gone and talked to the school, made arrangements for Anna to stay at home when the ship left, to do any necessary assignments on her own. She would return... after. Not surprisingly, the concession was granted rather quickly, thanks to who was asking and why. A tutor would come if necessary, they offered, but it never was. Sometimes she had to ask Mama or Tate for a nudge in the right direction, but she had always been able to keep up with or ahead of her schoolwork. It had been repeated over and over that schoolwork came first and sticking to a disciplined schedule was imperative. And for her own part, she knew it left more time for flying and such if she got homework out of the way. At home, at school, it made little difference. The assignments were worked on promptly and completed and returned in the same manner. Always. The reading and assignments arrived by owl, every day or two, in neat little bundles compiled by one of the professors, and Anna sent back the ones she had completed by the same bird, a never ending cycle almost as regular and nauseating as the batches of potion. She did them, but what did assignments matter?

Tate had said very little, as always, but it wasn't the sort of comfortable silence it used to be. There was a nervous and anxious, heavy air about him instead, so much so that Anna avoided asking any more than she had to, for fear of provoking something. As the weeks wore on, he always seemed to be just a wrong question or statement away from either raising his voice and snapping at you irritably or crying, and Anna couldn't have said which would have horrified her more if she had been the cause of it. It never happened, but it made Anna think twice about the way she had always shamelessly made demands on his time before. Before long, he was just as tired looking as Mama had been, dark circles under his eyes from the worry and catering to her at all hours, staying up with her when the ache was too bad to sleep, then getting up early, letting Vladimir know the next batch needed to be stronger. Every once in a while, he would simply walk out the back door without a word, and stand in the back garden, not moving, as though he needed to get away. But he never went too far, never out of earshot. The weaker Mama had gotten, the more she had latched onto him, clung to him. Literally and figuratively.

Though any one of them could have done a perfectly good Mobilicorpus to get her to either the bath or the kitchen table for meals, or indeed, even carried her, she was so light and petite, Mama had always insisted on Tate. She claimed being moved by the spell was far more uncomfortable, and seemed to have drawn the line firmly at her children having to move her. The single time that Vladimir had tried to insist on doing it himself rather than going to fetch Tate just to pick her up and carry her to the kitchen for breakfast, Mama had snapped at him so viciously for it that he hadn't done it again. She had meekly apologized a few minutes later, of course, and Tate had murmured a quiet "That had nothing to do with you," and squeezed Vladimir's shoulder when he told the two of them to come eat some breakfast, but the sicker she got, the more Mama seemed to steadfastly refuse assistance of any kind from anyone but Tate. The company of her children she welcomed, even pleaded for, but she hated their help. It was a fearsome thing to so much as offer her a glass of water she hadn't requested first by the time she was taking her meals in bed as well. Nothing could provoke Mama's anger quite like insulting her pride. Anna supposed that having spent their entire lives protecting and providing for them, it made Mama ashamed to suddenly ask them to do the same for her.

Tate had been able to baby her like none of the rest of them could, without provoking as much protest or nastiness, aside from the occasional slightly sharp complaint when the potion was doing little more than taking the edge off the pain and she had to be moved right then. If Vladimir had become more a mediwizard, and Stanislav more an artist, Tate had become more of a father, steering sometimes directionless, hapless children toward where they could do the most good, smoothing over the rough spots between them and taking care of one increasingly petulant and needy patient that made almost as many demands as any infant.

If the rest of them had become more themselves, Anna had felt, if anything, she was becoming less and less herself. She had felt more purposeless and useless the longer it had gone on, no particular role to fulfill but occasional companion, cook and fetcher. In the beginning, Anna had at least been able to keep Mama a bit of company while she listened to matches on the wireless, to talk a bit about which teams were better than last season and which were likely going far in the standings. But it was nothing Tate didn't already do, and it wasn't the same as it had been when the three of them had sprawled around the living room listening to a match, commenting and arguing good-naturedly with the commentators and each other about calls and players. It just wasn't the same when she had to sit anxiously on the overstuffed chair beside the bed, or on the king-sized bed that was easily big enough for all three of them, and with Mama and Tate both so worn down that it wasn't unusual for one or both of them to doze off well before the match was over. More than once Anna had turned off the wireless before it ended, put out the light and slunk out, pulling the door closed behind her.

More and more, she felt like an intruder in the bedroom. It seemed reserved for Mama and Tate and that mysterious give and take, whatever it was that allowed Mama to let her guard down and accept help. It took more of Anna's willpower all the time to make herself walk into the room, to face down exactly how sick Mama was, and how little she could do about it. Anna was ashamed of herself for being so horrified and pitiful, so sorry for herself. Anna had only cried the once during those weeks, and it had made her even more ashamed that Mama had been the one to see and comfort her. Anna had been getting increasingly unfocused, and the schoolwork had gotten harder and harder to do without practical lessons in the classroom. While she once wouldn't have hesitated to ask any of the rest for help with it, now, she was unsure where to go. The frustration of being unable to solve something so simple as a homework problem had been magnified beyond all proportion, wearing on her already frazzled nerves.

It had happened when she had fretted for hours over a particular potion she was required to work out the recipe for and then brew, started it, refigured it, and thrown it away three times when it had gone glaringly wrong, and had just about resolved to leave it until she could capture on Vladimir and beg his help. Even in her frustration, though, she realized it was unfair to ask Vladimir what she was doing wrong. By the time he came in from night shift, he was every bit as exhausted as Mama and Tate, and he had his own brewing to do for Mama. He was having to change it every few days by then, and it sometimes took him a couple of tries to get it right as well. She had finally resolved to swallow her pride and ask Mama or Tate when she was having a good moment. That was where Vladimir had gotten his knack for Potions in the first place, after all. From Mama.

Anna had pecked timidly on the bedroom door, afraid to wake either of them if they were asleep. But Mama had been awake and called her in. Tate had been sleeping instead, in his clothes and on top of the covers, snoring softly, barely louder than Mama's by now slightly raspy breathing. Mama must have had a particularly bad night the night before. Tate only slept that heavily when he was exhausted. Anna had crept around to Mama's side of the bed with her book, trying to ignore how ashen and pinched Mama's face looked, how bruised looking the smudges beneath her eyes were, how bony and wasted her wrists and arms seemed. Most of all, she tried to ignore how swollen her abdomen was beneath the covers as she sat propped against the pillows. She had overheard Vlad telling Stan that was a bad sign, the worse it got. "I need help with this," Anna had said pitifully, holding out the book.

"Of course, pilentse, sit up here," Mama had said, scooting over and patting the bed. Anna had shamelessly crawled in like a child, tucking herself as much as possible into Mama's side, her head against Mama's shoulder and arm, but mindful not to jostle the mattress much. Sometimes even the smallest things could make Mama wince. She was sure it looked absurd, with the way she towered over and dwarfed Mama, but she didn't care. She felt like the little child she had been addressed as. She had studied Tate, too, worried that she was going to wake him. "Is the snoring distracting? Taken care of," Mama had teased, reaching over and tickling a fingertip lightly across his cheek. He turned his head in that direction without waking, and the snoring stopped completely. It was the sort of thing that had made her laugh when she was smaller and invited in on a morning after a late match, when Tate was sleeping in. The badly broken nose he had earned at seventeen meant he almost always snored slightly when flat on his back. Not that it bothered Mama. Mama would complain it was far too quiet without a bit of snoring every once in a while. "What is it, baby?" she had asked, cupping Anna's face with that same hand. Her hand had felt oddly clammy. One of the side effects of the potion, especially at higher potency, was sweating. Her skin was almost always damp, now.

"They want me to figure out the recipe to brew this. And I can work out all the ingredients, but not the right proportions. It's not right. I've started it three times and tossed it... it's all wrong... I can't do it... it's all wrong. It's just all wrong... I can't... can't-" To her horror, she heard her own breath unexpectedly hitch, and turn into a hiccupping sob, and fat, scalding hot tears were pooling in her eyes and flooding down her cheeks when she blinked. She would have bolted from the room if it hadn't been for Mama's arm around her shoulders and the hand on her cheek.

"It's okay, baby, let it out," Mama had said, pulling her in tighter and resting her chin atop Anna's head. Permission granted, Anna had buried her face in Mama's shoulder, clutching at the covers and Mama both, her whole body shuddering as though it were trying to wring her inside out, her crying almost completely silent. It was as though she had bottled it up for so long, she couldn't even sob or wail, just gasp for breath. It had seemed to go on for ages, until her face was a hot, wet mess, her nose and eyes burning, swollen and dry, no more tears left, her throat constricted and aching, and her body felt limp and rubbery. "Better?" Mama had asked simply when Anna dared show her face again. Anna had nodded mutely, even though it wasn't, really. "You'll figure it out without me, I'm sure. You'll see. You all will," Mama had said, brushing the sodden hair away from Anna's forehead and cheeks. Anna had stayed there in a heap, clinging miserably to Mama's waist, tasting salt whenever she licked her raw lips, for a long while. Until Mama had patted her cheek and said, "Go wash your face, it will make you feel better. And give that another try. I bet you can figure it out on your own. I need to get up."

Anna had complied, slipping off the bed and hurrying down the hall to the other bathroom, before Mama even woke Tate. She would have been even more ashamed to have him see she had been crying. The damp patch of her tears wouldn't even show since Mama's pajamas had already been soaked all over. Besides, she couldn't bear to watch it any more, to see Tate have to work out how to pick Mama up without making her moan.

By the time Anna had been asked to stay with Baba and Diado instead, it had almost been a welcome relief. The last couple of weeks Mama had been alive had been reserved mostly for Tate, and Vlad poked his head in daily, but not really to visit. Anna had said her goodbyes and I love yous before leaving the house, the words catching in her throat. Stan hadn't gone back to the house after that day, either. Mama simply wasn't up to company any more, even her children. From what Vlad passed along, it sounded like the only person she even tolerated was Tate. Instead, the two of them got daily updates from Vlad, carefully filtered words chosen from words that had already been carefully filtered by Tate in the first place. No matter how clinical they were, they all amounted to the same thing, anyway. Mama's dying. The words had pounded in her head relentlessly, a tattoo that beat behind her eyes and wouldn't leave her be. She had jumped at every knock on the door and Floo call, sure it was Vlad coming with the news that she was finally dead. Anna didn't know whether to hope against it or hope for it. Both seemed equally cruel.

When he finally had come in one morning with Stan to deliver the news, Anna had cried again, great whooping sobs, unable to hold back when Vlad and Stan's faces had both crumpled. They had all three sat on the sofa and she had shamelessly let them take turns cradling her head against their solid shoulders, and cry with her. She had gone home late that same evening, after Tate had finished making arrangements for the funeral, already cried out. The funeral and the days home afterward had all passed in a dreary, lifeless blur, with a gaping hole where Mama should be. Tate hadn't even mentioned her going back to school until early December, and even then he had suggested going back after Yule, seemingly reluctant to even bring it up. He had gone back to work at about the same time. Reluctantly, but he had gone back in December, back to a routine of sorts.

The two of them had fallen into a comfortable enough pattern after a bit, Anna doing schoolwork while he was at the office, Stan and Vlad in and out throughout the day as their schedules allowed, Tate home promptly when the day was over, for dinner and quiet evenings. After a while they even listened to a match sometimes, without talking much. It was as much a worry as a relief that Tate never cried in front of her. On the one hand, she dreaded the possibility. On the other, it nagged at her. Why didn't he cry, not once, not even at the funeral? Weren't they allowed to cry? Didn't he miss her? Or was he so relieved it was over he didn't even want to cry? Was he maybe even glad to be rid of her, her constant demands and neediness?

Maybe Tate had kept his crying private, she reasoned. She certainly had, after that. Yule had been a subdued affair, spent together eating and talking, not much in the way of presents or celebrating between the four of them. None of them had the heart for it. Tate had put her back on the ship in January, after a hug that reminded her a little too much of the first time she had gotten on. Anna had thrown herself into her schoolwork, into prepping for final exams, into flying, into her spot in Quidditch, into everything fiercely, as though she could get some control back by tackling every project, wrestling it into submission and ripping its throat out. She had stayed on until the next holiday break, no weekends home, trying to catch up in one on one sessions with the professors. But outside of that, everyone gave her a wide berth, even the professors, uncertain what to say but a wholly inadequate "I'm sorry". She had always kept somewhat to herself anyway. Most of the personal attention she had gotten from anyone other than her teammates had always tended to be the negative kind. People whispering about who she was, that she got special treatment. Even a few of the professors, she knew they had said that, before they taught her. A few of them had been completely surprised to have her prove them glaringly wrong, or to have Tate come in and talk to them and demand not that they go easier on her, but that they go that much harder. And if the scars on her heart hadn't quite healed by the time spring had fully come and she had gone home for a week's holiday around Easter, they had at least scabbed over.

Spring proper had been a little better, giving her exams and the distraction of scouts coming to matches to watch her play, congratulating her on her skill, slipping her their cards, jotting schedules on the back for tryouts. Tate eventually sat down with her one weekend to weed out a handful of them with terse commentary like, "Bad news, that one," and "I wouldn't consider that squad unless you have to," after glancing at the names on them. She hadn't dared to say it out loud, but she was really seriously considering only the one. Vratsa. His finger had lingered on that card for an instant longer, the all too familiar names on it, and then left it. She thought Tate knew, or at least suspected that she had her heart set on it, anyway. He hadn't discouraged her from it, but he hadn't exactly encouraged it, either, maybe hedging his bets against her being disappointed. He had kept himself at a slight arm's length during these things, because of how it would have looked, otherwise.

He had cautioned her over and over about the sort of opposition she should expect, at any of the tryouts, but it was nothing new. It had always been that way. Just a little extra hurdle, a little extra challenge, a little extra fire to make her want to prove herself. Every cheeky reporter or photographer, every snide comment, every smart remark, every derisive, muttered taunt of "Daddy's girl," from the other players at the tryouts made her that much more determined that if she was going to go out for a squad, it was damned well going to be the one that was the best squad in the league eighty percent of the time. If she put on a uniform, it was going to be the same one Tate had worn, or none at all. She simply refused to let herself merit anything less. Not that she hadn't been realistic. Far from it. If she got onto Vratsa's roster, it would be as a practice reserve, not an active squad member right away. Unlike some of the others trying out, she wasn't too proud to accept a place on a squad that didn't put her straight into matches the next season. Some of the others would have been disdainful of such an attitude. But she knew Tate was right. If she was going to be her best, she needed a challenge, and time to develop, not pampering and preening as a token name on a subpar squad. Chasers just didn't come in at seventeen or eighteen and take over a team. If Vratsa's coaches knew anything, it was how to develop a player, not a prima donna. A lot of the others would have thought her insane for sifting through four eventual offers early that summer, discarding all the ones that offered her first string, and immediately accepting a second string appointment with Vratsa. She had signed it and owled it back, afraid to tell Tate until she had gotten the final contract back, lest it evaporate unexpectedly. Somehow it had made her prouder to hear him tell her she had made the right decision than it had to have gotten the offer in the first place.

For her first season, she had lived at home, Tate had sat in on a lot of the scrimmage sessions, and they had both traveled a great deal. As their schedules diverged further all the time, it seemed more practical for her to get a small flat of her own instead of barging in and out at home. Anna stopped feeling like she needed to keep an eye on him. Slowly, very slowly, Tate had started mentioning Mama again in casual conversation, and Anna had, too. The scabs slowly scarred over, healed, but not ever the same again. Holidays were still a little bittersweet, birthdays and would-be anniversaries were a shade somber sometimes, but life went on, and there were things to celebrate again. Stan graduating into the exclusive internship at the wandmaker's shop, Vladimir getting his certification, Vladimir and Nikolina getting married, the birth of a plump, dark-haired, snuffling little whelp they all doted on, with the ridiculously oversized name of Evangelina Magda Krum.

Those things seemed to dull the throbbing of the scars. They only got truly raw and red when it was autumn, and everything started dying again. Then she sometimes got maudlin for no particular reason that she could put her finger on, more frequently as the days shortened and the sun hid away earlier and earlier in the evening. That was when she would usually wander over to Tate's, no matter what the hour, without an excuse of any kind. She thought he understood without her having to come up with one. She didn't need an excuse with Tate. Anna had even woken him up a few times, obviously, unaccountably desperate for some company, but far from being annoyed, he had seemed pleased. She couldn't count the times they had eaten a spur of the moment breakfast at midnight, just indulged the baby if she happened to be with one or the other of them, or walked to the lake for a swim that would have had anyone else complaining about possible frostbite.

Anna lifted the towel from her thigh. The skin was an angry red, the blood beneath the skin a nasty mixture of purple and downright black. The skin was hard and rigid, and the throb was spreading. She cursed herself for not having the mediwizards look at it. No matter. It was as good an excuse as any, not that she needed one. Anna was sure Tate kept some ointment for bruises, and she needed him. Needed him to help keep the weepy feeling at bay before it threatened to turn into full-fledged weeping. She hated feeling sorry for herself when there was no excuse. But Tate always made her feel like she didn't need an excuse. She got up and limped off in search of her sandals. She could Apparate to the bottom of the hill and slog up it well enough, without freezing before she got there. It wasn't that cold out yet.

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

"I really should do something about that coffee table," Viktor said, nudging the leg of the table with the toe of his boot.

"Like what?" Hermione asked, leaning back and resting her head against his arm.

"I don't know. Padding Charm, on the corners, maybe," Viktor replied.

"What's next? Padding the entire world?" Hermione said.

"If only. I do feel a little bad about it. My granddaughter seems to have inherited my unfortunate tendency to cushion all serious blows with the face. She had quite the shiner. I almost sent her home with a piece of steak for it. She ran straight into that corner, there, full tilt. I suppose it hurt me worse than it did her. And Vlad. She only sniffled around for about thirty seconds," Viktor admitted. "Looks worse than it is, really. Little rat ordered me to put her back down not long after. She's getting pretty good at that bossing. I knew there was a downside to her learning to talk. Not that she had any trouble being the boss when all she could do was point and grunt. She's got several very willing minions."

"You're not in trouble, are you?" Hermione asked with a laugh.

"No. I think Vladimir's gotten his head wrapped around the fact that toddlers... well, toddle into things, by now. And that you can't altogether prevent it. You could pad the entire house, and a child will find the one corner you missed and promptly run smack into it. Twice, probably. And almost certainly with her face. Next, we'll see if we can't get across that kids occasionally eat things that aren't exactly food items and still come out none the worse for the wear," Viktor said with a chuckle.

"Toddler school of hard knocks, hmm?"

"Have to eat so much dirt before you die," Viktor said. "Or that's what my Baba used to say." He absently reached up and twined his fingers in her hair, then slipped them under, skimmed them against the bare nape of her neck. Hermione closed her eyes for a few moments, tipping her chin forward so he could brush her hairline. Viktor's fingers trailed around beneath her earlobe, then drifted down the side of her neck, onto the hollow of her shoulder. Without thinking, Hermione tilted her head away again, letting his fingertips slide up and down over her warm pulse, which seemed to have picked up, down into the dip next to her collarbone. They stilled after a bit, resting lightly on her shoulder, hesitant, uncertain.

"I would rather you didn't do that," Hermione blurted.

"Touch? Sorry... I-" Viktor stammered.

"Stop. I would rather you didn't stop," Hermione amended. The fingers came back to rest on her shoulder again, perched there like a bird about to start. After a few moments, they trailed down her arm and back up. Hermione put her left hand on his thigh, stroking, kneading the muscle. Her eyes were still closed and her head tilted forward when she felt his mouth against her jaw and neck, warm against the thin skin. It made her suck in her breath, it was such a leap from the chaste kisses on the cheek that they had finally gotten up the courage to exchange upon parting. Hermione had kissed other men after Ron, of course. Some of the not so successful dates had insisted on going through all the motions, but none of them had been half so good as even the early, shy, delicate brushes of her cheek that she had gotten from the two of them. And they certainly couldn't hold a candle to the kisses either Ron or Viktor had given her when the shyness and hesitation had fallen away.

It might seem absurd to some that they had started again at the ground floor, shy and uncertain, when they had once been anything but reserved with one another, had known each other, technically, longer than any of their children, even, but somehow, it seemed right to act like naive teenagers again. The first time, they had been completely inexperienced, feeling their way along together. Now, they had led whole other lives apart, and were just taking their hearts out of the boxes again. But the kiss currently tickling at the lower hollow of her neck felt anything but naive. Hermione could feel her cheeks flushing. Another kiss like that, and her cheeks wouldn't be the only thing flushing. "Kiss me," Viktor whispered in her ear, then nuzzled against her cheek. There was an edge of pleading and need to it.

If Hermione had been thinking straight, she might have hesitated, wondering how, where, should she? But only two men had ever been able to rattle her our of her usual pattern of thinking things to death, and one of them had been gone a decade and more. The other had just asked her to kiss him. Before she knew it, she had turned into him, put her hands on either side of his face, and pressed her mouth into his. They fumbled for a moment, a shade rough and clumsy for an instant, then found just the right balance and angle, the only noise their breathing, sucked in sharp through their noses, his breath warm on her cheek. Viktor's large hands snaked around her waist and hips, around behind, cradling her back and then rubbing up and down, up between her shoulders, his palms hot through the material on her skin. Hermione ran her fingers back, twined them in his hair, clutched at it almost desperately, making a quiet near whimpering sound in the back of her throat.

Viktor pulled back for a split second, then kissed her again, mouth wandering away from her lips, nose pressed against her cheek, trailing over it, wandering over even her jaw and chin as she slipped her arm under his, around his waist, pulling him closer, pulling herself closer. He kissed the very corner of her mouth, just barely skimming her lips, and a noise registered. A quiet, almost indistinguishable gasp. A noise that Hermione was certain neither she nor Viktor had made. Hermione pulled away and looked over his shoulder, toward the kitchen doorway, the direction where the noise had seemed to originate. There, looking so much like the lanky sixteen-year-old in the portrait above the mantle, and even more like her father in person, was surely Anna. Her hair was pulled back in a similarly haphazard ponytail, slender legs and arms long and mostly bare beneath a pair of gray shorts and a worn, gray shirt. With the wide, dark eyes and the frankly shocked expression, she reminded Hermione of nothing so much as a startled deer, too surprised to move, but every instinct screaming at her to run. A massive bruise blemished most of one thigh.

"Viktor..." Anna was obviously caught with her guard down, now, and Hermione's first thought was to wonder if she was usually as good as Viktor had been about keeping her face neutral. Hermione had only seen the nearly unreadable expression slip a very few times during the war. When it had, it had been startlingly easy to read his face. Just as easy as it was to tell when Anna's shocked expression dissolved into one of recognition, then, unexpectedly, she looked as though she had been completely and utterly gutted. Hermione's heart lurched in her chest just to see it. "Anna's-" Hermione was cut off by Anna's muttered words. Her Bulgarian was rusty enough, but it was clearly recognizable as a guttural obscenity, just from the tone, if nothing else.

"Anna..." Viktor said, turning to face her. He, too, seemed taken aback by the expression on Anna's face. He stood up and walked toward her, pausing uncertainly when she stepped back and bumped her hip into the doorframe. Viktor started speaking in Bulgarian, and walked toward Anna again, the words so rapid that Hermione couldn't hope to keep up, only catching a syllable or a word here and there, especially when Anna started talking, too, a confusing crash of foreign sounds overlapping and colliding. Viktor looked as though he were having a hard time deciding whether to be hurt or angry after a few sentences.

Hermione could barely understand a word of what Anna was saying, but the tone wrenched at her again. It sounded like a cornered, wounded animal given voice, pure anguish with a rising tide of fury behind it, equal parts of each coming through when she broke into nearly the same impeccable but still heavily accented English Viktor had employed by his late twenties, pointing an accusing finger back at the couch and asking, "How could you?" Anna's voice trembled, whether from anger or from being on the verge of tears, Hermione couldn't tell.

"How could I what? Want to be with someone?" Viktor asked incredulously. Though he had said Anna was nearly his height, Hermione was still stunned by the way Anna could look him directly in the eye, with the same determined set to her jaw, the same stubborn tilt to her chin.

Anna looked Hermione over, obviously struggling with what to say. Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Anna wouldn't have been nearly as thrown if she hadn't recognized the woman whom she had caught her father kissing. Or if it had been anyone but her. Anna turned back to face Viktor, crossed her arms, and forced the words out through clenched teeth. "In this house... in front of... with that...with her..." Finally, a coherent sentence. "What about Mama? What about her?"

Viktor's mouth worked soundlessly for an instant. Quietly, almost so quiet that Hermione couldn't make out the words, he answered flatly, "Mama's dead. I'm not." Hermione would have thought she had imagined Anna slapping him completely, had it not been for the sound of it and the way Anna looked totally horrified with herself, ashamed, the instant she had done it, dropping her chin and looking away. Viktor reached out and forced her chin back up, made her look him in the eye once more. He looked positively wounded, and his voice was firm but breaking. "Don't you ever do that again. I think we need to have a talk. Long overdue. Now."

"I think I had better go," Hermione announced to no one in particular, getting up and moving closer to the door.

"I think that would probably be best," Viktor said without even looking her way. "We'll talk later."

"I... of course..." Hermione floundered for something to say, and came up wholly and completely dry. In the end, she decided there was no way to extract herself elegantly, so she settled for grabbing her cloak and hurrying out the door, tears blurring her vision by the time she was at the bottom of the hill. It was hard to say what hurt worse. The way Anna had looked at her, or that it was made glaringly plain that at least one of his children had absolutely no idea that she and Viktor had been seeing one another. Or indeed, that he had been seeing anyone at all.

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

After the door had slammed shut, Anna's legs finally seemed to respond to the get out command her mind had telegraphed earlier. She turned and would have run for the back door, if Tate hadn't grabbed her arm. "Here, now! You don't get to come in here, yelling at me like a banshee and expect to just run off when you're finished. Sit!" He steered her over to one of the kitchen chairs and gently pushed her down onto it. She could barely see it for the tears fogging up her eyes "We're going to talk, you and me. Let me get you something for that awful looking leg, first," he added. It made Anna's throat constrict even more to hear his voice crack like that, strained and broken over the words. She could dimly hear him rummaging through the cabinet over the sink. "Put your leg up here," he ordered, flopping into the neighboring chair and pulling it closer to her, where she could easily drape her leg over his.

He jerked his glasses off and set them on the table hastily, soaking the cloth in his hand with the liquid from the familiar vial. Anna kept her head down, watched him brace her leg with one hand, swabbing the cloth gently over the massive bruise with the other. "Tate..." she said miserably.

"Why didn't you let them look at this? It's settled, even," he added, swabbing the underside of her leg, clear down behind the knee, where the blood had seeped and settled beneath her skin. "You're going to be sore for a week. That's what team mediwizards are paid for, you know. To fix you up when you need it. Stop being so stubborn and pigheaded and admit you need a little taking care of once in a while!" he scolded sharply.

Anna made a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. "You sounded like Mama getting after you just now," Anna squeaked out.

"Well, maybe Mama knew what the hell she was talking about!" he snapped angrily. "Maybe if she had taken her own damned advice-" Anna felt something warm and wet drop onto her leg. It certainly wasn't the potion. That felt cold. Anna looked up in surprise. She realized now why he had removed the glasses. She hadn't noticed until just now that he was weeping. Maybe he hadn't been until just now. He bit down on his lower lip hard and made a half strangled sound in the back of his throat. "Why would you think I didn't love your mother? How on earth could you even ask that?"

"I didn't... I..." Anna wanted to reach out and touch him, but she was half afraid he would crumble, somehow. Part of her would give anything now to be able to take the words back. But the last of the hurt and spite welling up in her chest needed out. "It's just... why her? Why that woman? You were with her, before Mama. I know her. Mama showed me the pictures. You might have married her, she said. Would have if it hadn't been for... whatever... Were you just waiting around to go back to her? What was Mama? The consolation prize? You didn't even cry when she died," Anna wailed, dissolving into tears, burying her face in her hands.

"Like hell I didn't!" he said, setting her leg off of his before snatching her wrists away from her face.

"But you didn't... at the funeral... We cried. You didn't!" Anna accused.

"Because I was afraid if I got started, I wouldn't be able to stop! I didn't have anything left, anyway! You can only cry so much," he added softly. "I was trying not to fall completely apart in front of all of you," he said, cupping her cheek with one hand. "In front of you. It just about killed me, losing Magda... Sometimes the only thing that kept me going was the thought that you still needed me. That somebody still needed me to keep it together. Otherwise... You can't honestly believe I didn't love your mother... can you?"

Anna shook her head slowly and swallowed hard. "But you were with her first. Loved her. Mama said-"

"I married your mother."

"But why? If you loved her first-"

"She has a name. Hermione. It's not that simple, baby. Loving someone isn't the be all and end all. And you do understand you're not restricted to loving just one person your entire life, don't you? You can love two people equally and differently and separately-" He stopped abruptly and sucked in his breath. "Who do I love more? Who do you love more, Vlad or Stan?"

"Neither. That's different," Anna said without hesitation.

"No, it's not. They're two different people, and we love them for themselves. Not better, not worse, just different. Yes, baby, I guess if things had been different, maybe I would have married Hermione instead, and I suppose we would have been happy enough, and I never would have even met your mother... But they weren't. And I have never for one second regretted that they weren't. Not then. Not now. Yes, I loved Hermione. Cared about what happened to her even after I met Magda. Still did even after we married and lost touch. But Magda's the one I loved when the time was right, when I was ready for it. She knew that. She's the one that suggested we invite Hermione to the wedding. That's what she showed you, isn't it? The wedding pictures?"

"And some from... before. When you were... over there..." Anna said vaguely. By the time she had gotten big enough to wonder, it had been made abundantly clear that you didn't bring up the war directly around Tate.

"You know your mother. She never would have stood being second best to anyone. Do you really think she would have kept those if she felt like I just picked her because she was there and would rather have been with someone else? For your information, Hermione was still single when I married your mother. If I had really been pining away for someone else, instead, I still had the choice at the time. But there was only one choice. Hell, falling in love with your mother was the last thing I wanted to do at the time. Believe me. I was a mess. I didn't deserve her. Not that I really deserved either of them, but I suppose that's what makes it love in the first place. The fact that you don't really deserve it. Can't deserve it. I still don't know why Magda bothered. She could have had anybody she wanted. A lot better than me. Magda didn't have to pick me, either. I know this might shock you, but we both had lives before we had you. Before we met each other, even. She dated other people, too. Look, baby," he said, putting his hands on either side of her face, "I married your mother with the full intention of spending every day of the rest of my life with her. I should have died first," he said bluntly. Anna felt slightly taken aback. "I was a man, I was a little bit older, I had a dangerous job where you have a really good chance of getting your head bashed in... I should have died first. I was supposed to die first." His lip trembled slightly, the tears flowed again, wet lashes looking even darker.

"Tate..." Anna breathed.

"Damn it, I buried enough people before I was even twenty. I shouldn't have had to bury her, too. And you know what makes me so angry about it? I have replayed that year before she died over and over again in my head, a thousand times, and I don't see that first thing we could have or should have done differently. No big red flags, no warnings, no nothing. I wish there had been. I would give anything if there had been. I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat if I could have. You needed her," he said, smoothing her hair back. "I needed her. It broke my heart, losing her. There were days I wouldn't even have bothered getting out of bed if it hadn't been for you being here. Days I could have just curled up and died, it hurt so bad. There's not a day that goes by that I don't still miss her. That doesn't mean life stops, or that I'm not human. I'm lonely sometimes, baby. You've all got lives of your own, now. I do, too. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I get two chances with someone I don't deserve. If I haven't screwed it up beyond all repair."

Anna pitched herself forward, half throwing herself, half collapsing into him, her arms clasped desperately around his ribs, the way she had done when she was small and had to stretch much too far to get her arms up around his neck without a boost. "Don't say that, Tate, please, it wouldn't have been any better, losing you... I'm sorry... it just surprised me... I missed her hard today... and I needed you... and seeing it made me think... Fucking dead leaves," she swore softly into his collarbone, weeping.

One hand came up behind her head, cradling it, the other massaged between her shoulders, the same way it had countless times when some childhood hurt had driven her to seek this same sort of solace. "I know, Anna. I know, baby," he whispered. He kissed the top of her head and they just cried together for a while. When she stopped, Anna stayed as she was, reluctant to pull away, to give up this safe place. Being held. Protected. "Anna... I made a mistake. I see that, now. I thought keeping it hidden was being strong for you. I should have shown you it was okay. It's okay to miss her. It's okay to mourn. Your mother tried telling me that keeping things in wasn't a good idea. I should have told you. I should have told all three of you about the war, too. I just wasn't ready for you to know that much about me, when you were growing up. I guess I was afraid of disappointing you. Exposing you to ... that. And I certainly shouldn't have kept the three of you in the dark this long about running back into Hermione. Seeing her. That wasn't fair to the three of you, and it certainly wasn't fair to her. And I need to talk to Stan and Vlad, too. I think you need to understand some things. About the war. About me. About your mama."

"Like what?" Anna asked, sniffling and sitting upright again.

He took a deep breath. "Best to begin at the beginning, I suppose. When I was seventeen, I went to Hogwarts, for the revival of the Triwizard Tournament. First time I ever set foot on the grounds. You've been there, too. You were just too young to remember. McGonagall still remembers you. And Hagrid still talks about what a 'cute little shaver' you were," he said, smiling faintly. "He kept saying you were such a pretty little mite, and you would just stare a hole through him like you didn't know what to think unless he let you pull his beard and pretended it hurt to make you laugh. Grant you, I did the same thing. Not the beard, stared, I mean. It was pretty hard not to. I took you and Mama with me when I went there for a meeting. I wanted her to see it... Anyway... seventeen... I should have known from the instant I got off the ship that life was never going to be the same after that. Never as simple and straightforward. Not that that was entirely a bad thing..."

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

Viktor padded into the kitchen and put on a dim light. He couldn't sleep in any case, so he might as well make some coffee. It was near enough morning that he thought a couple hours of sleep would likely make him feel worse rather then better. Anna was currently sleeping down the hall, in his bed, worn out by the time they had finished. Or truth be told, after he had finished. Strangely, he felt more unburdened than he would have expected. Normally, even thinking about what those last few months had been like made him feel like a twenty pound weight had been lodged in his chest. But he had always gone over it by himself. Maybe he had needed someone else to confirm that there really hadn't been anything they could have done differently. All the symptoms had seemed so benign, even in retrospect.

What was odd about putting on a few pounds? She had always tended a little more toward the curvy side after the children. What would have been an extra five pounds on anyone else actually looked good on her. Why would a little thing like a few aches in her legs and back be strange? He had always told her hunching over her work and sometimes perching on rickety stools couldn't be good for that. She had shrugged it off as nothing more than standing, sitting or bending too long, more intent on her work than her posture. Her monthly cycles had never been something you could set your watch by. When they got more erratic and sparse, it was nothing more than starting to go through the change a little earlier than expected. And everyone got heartburn or indigestion every once in a while, didn't they? Even the mild nausea and fatigue hadn't raised any alarm. At first. Surely just a bug, she had protested. Magda had even joked that the last bug of that sort had turned out to be over ten pounds and was currently costing them a small fortune in medical training tuition.

For a couple of days, there was a little bit of nervousness that it might be so. It certainly wasn't unheard of at their age, even among Muggles. It wouldn't even have been as big a surprise as finding out about Vladimir's pending arrival had been, really. Harder to explain and adapt to, perhaps, but certainly no bigger a surprise. They seriously discussed the possibility briefly the night before the bleeding had started. They had been, frankly, a little relieved, then. Only... it hadn't stopped completely. And she outright yelped when he had given her a squeeze around the waist one night in bed. That had been when he had insisted she was going to the mediwizard tomorrow even if he had to drag her and sit in the waiting room all day. Viktor realized just how bad she must feel when she not only failed to protest, but agreed right off.

The same silver-haired mediwizard that had diagnosed all three pending births, monitored their progress as they had grown, then come to the house at all hours to pull them into the world, yowling, and tended to a host of the usual childhood ailments and injuries in the years that followed, had gladly made a place in his schedule. Viktor knew it was bad the instant the man looked rattled. Viktor had never seen him look shaken like that, not even when Vlad had managed to split his head wide open on the banister, or when Stan had taken a worryingly long time to breathe and cry properly, or when Anna had been down with pneumonia and a fever so bad that he had insisted on a night in the hospital. He apologized profusely for the uncomfortable examination, part of which had literally brought tears to Magda's eyes, and stepped out for several minutes. Viktor dreaded him coming back.

When he had come back and opened his mouth, it was even worse than Viktor could have imagined. "Viktor... Magda... I'm sorry... I wish I could tell you something different, but I did the tests three times..."

Magda had taken it better than he had. "We're getting a second opinion. Somewhere else," Viktor had said. He couldn't accept it. Refused to accept it without protest.

"Viktor..." Magda had said in a warning tone. She couldn't have given him a dirtier look if he had literally spit in the mediwizard's face.

"No, I would encourage that, actually. I'm far from an expert in these things. I rarely see it... I can recommend someone. At the hospital. She deals with this sort of case more than I do. She's considered top of her field. I'm sure I can call in a favor, get her to see you in the next day or two..."

They had gone off the next day, clutching a slip of parchment with a name on it, searching out the office and spending most of the day there. They hadn't worried much about the possibility of running into Vladimir on his swing shift. He was still training exclusively on the other wing, wrapped up in the alternating assignments to the maternity ward and the emergency ward. They still broke in new trainees by subjecting them to life's bookends on crazy, demanding, ever shifting schedules. One assignment where you mostly ushered patients into life, and another where you sometimes ushered them out, or snatched them back from the edge.

The appointment meant hours of prodding and scans, tests and questions. The mediwitch had obviously earned her reputation. She was nothing if not thorough and knowledgeable, even gentle. Didn't matter. It was the same diagnosis. Same prognosis. They could treat it, but there wasn't much point, unless you were a glutton for punishment. It was cancer, it was aggressive, and it had spread. Treating it would maybe delay the inevitable, but not by much. The best she could offer was the advice to make Magda as comfortable as possible while she was waiting to die.

Magda's joke about being pregnant had been an apt irony, it turned out. Viktor had the thought more than once that the whole thing played out like some sort of gruesome parody of Vladimir's birth, starting with many of the same vague, non-specific symptoms, ending with a swollen belly, pain, sweat, and tears, only this time, all for nothing. Both times there had been the startling revelation that something had long since taken root and been growing in secret, inside her body. Magda had already been creeping up on eight weeks of pregnancy before she had really suspected. Before they had found out there was life growing inside her. This time, it was death growing inside her, instead.

They kept it between the two of them for two long weeks. Magda was adamant about making all the discreet arrangements they could before telling the children. She briefly considered, then firmly and completely rejected the idea of treating it, despite the few, half-hearted attempts he had made to convince her it might be worth a try. Viktor suspected she had "considered" it simply to humor him. They had purchased a joint cemetery plot and headstone, and both of them updated their wills. And they simply nodded and made polite noises when they were complimented on their 'rare foresight' during these transactions. It all seemed to have a queer air of unreality to it, this business of being heartily congratulated on not putting these things off like most people did, when the thing he wanted most desperately was to be able to put these things off another hundred years, at least.

He had felt incredibly numb and resigned by the time they told the children. Magda started being more open about the concessions she was making, and Viktor started ticking them off in his head. Three nights in a week where she had to take something to settle her stomach. That was one more than the week before. Sitting instead of standing in front of the easel in the studio, because of the twinges in her legs and back. She hadn't done that at all the week before. Changing into something looser, because of the pain and the swelling. Gritting her teeth and curling up on her side in bed, some nights. Not refusing when he offered to rub the small of her back, to help ease it down. Admitting she needed the dose to be stronger next time, when he suggested it. Allowing it was too painful and tiring to walk any more than she had to, and that the fatigue and shortness of breath crept up on her even when she just walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.

Then there were concessions on top of the concessions. Magda's decline had been shockingly rapid once she had conceded the big things. Not just accepting offers of help, not just admitting her body was shutting down bit by bit, but actually asking for help. Asking to stay in bed for meals, if it wasn't too much trouble. Asking for help to get from there to the bath. Asking for something more to take the edge off the pain. When she had stopped asking for them to fetch pads, pencils, brushes and other paraphernalia from the studio down the hall. Once she had hung up the finished portrait of Anna and laid her art down for good. It might as well have been hoisting the white flag and surrendering to it, when Magda stopped creating things. He hadn't realized until then that so much of her day to day chatter had been about what she was making all the time, ideas for this job for a client, trying a slightly different technique on the next painting, little progress reports here and there. Half the time, it made very little sense to him on the whole, and he made no secret of it, but that never deterred Magda. He didn't realize how much he would miss it until it was gone completely. It was replaced, instead, by pitiable requests and demands. Pleas, even. It had hurt almost as much as watching the life and the fight go out of her, seeing her become more and more dependent on them all, knowing how much pride she took in being self-reliant. Even as sick as she was, she tried to hide just how bad things were from the children, at least.

He had nearly stopped sleeping, too, by the time Vlad started adjusting the doses every day or two. Magda would get a few hours of peace at the most, before she woke from the pain, or restlessness, or sheer boredom, even, of spending so much time in bed. Who knew just being tired could be so tiring? Slowly she ate less, spoke less, slept more, at least in fits and starts. He slept lightly most of the time, until he became so exhausted he just couldn't stay awake any more, on edge, always listening in case she needed something. They finally discussed it and decided Anna should really stay elsewhere for the duration. Magda hadn't wanted Anna's last memories of her to be like that. Viktor hadn't either. She said her final goodbyes to the children well before she died. Vlad had only stuck his head in to deliver more potion, and to deliver reports back to Anna and Stan, after that.

By then, her breathing had been raspy and heavy, as though she were perpetually winded. The sheets were almost always soaked in sweat, her skin was clammy with it, and the slightly stale smell of it clung to her damp hair. The last few days had reminded him so forcefully of when Vladimir had been born. The swollen belly, the sweat, the days of mounting pain and panting for breath. Her first labor had been slow to start and had moved at an uncomfortably leisurely pace, beginning with barely there contractions that weren't quite labor, that had finally built over a long while to a sharp peak. He had spent a great deal of it lying on the bed with her, spooned behind her, massaging her sore, cramping back, or just rubbing her pregnant belly, feeling her body working to get their child out into the world, and the wriggling and nudging from within. He had felt rather useless and helpless while at it, not able to do much about it but hold her hand and try not to let on that he was just as nervous and scared about the entire thing as she was. That, he would have given anything to speed up. This, the selfish side of him, at least, he wanted to slow down. Or better yet, halt in its tracks. Part of him wished she could just die and get it over with. So she wouldn't have to hurt any more.

That last night had been hard. Magda had almost begged for something more for the pain early in the evening. He had begged her to eat something, even if it were just a piece of toast. She hadn't eaten much else for days, no appetite for it at all, even when she did eat. "I don't want it," she said, clamping her lips together in a thin line and shaking her head.

"Please. Just a bite or two-"

"I don't want it," she insisted, turning even whiter, beads of sweat dotting her forehead and upper lip again, even though he had just wiped her face with a damp cloth not a minute before.

"But you haven't eaten anything at all to-"

"It will just make me sick, and I don't want it in the first place. Don't make one of the last things I did on this earth having an argument with you about a piece of toast, of all things," Magda had warned. "Just hold me. Please. Just do that."

He had crawled onto the other side of the bed, then, propping himself over her as gingerly as possible, one hand tucked beneath her back, the other stroking her damp face. There wasn't any real pain right then, the potion doing its job better than usual at a higher than recommended dose and on an empty stomach. "Magda... I..." He choked on the words, his throat constricting when he looked into her eyes. They were remarkably clear and lucid, given the effect of the potion. And unafraid. That was what stunned him throughout the entire ordeal. Sad, hurt, frustrated, angry even, she had been all of those. But she never seemed afraid. Her attitude hadn't quite been on a par with Dumbledore's 'death is just the next great adventure' philosophy, but she had certainly been unafraid of it. Viktor had been plenty afraid for the both of them, he supposed.

"Shoush," she murmured, falling back on the familiar term of endearment, "I have to say this." Magda pulled his head down to rest on her chest, twining her fingers in his hair. Her breath rattled by his ear, just the other side of her breastbone. "I've had a marvelous life. With you. And the children. Thank you. I love you."

"I love you, too." His voice hadn't been much stronger than hers. His throat seemed to be threatening to close up completely, though his eyes were dry.

"Good. Now... just be here. That's all I want. Just be here until it's over," she had said, so much an echo of that earlier time, when he couldn't help or do it for her or take the pain away. He had shamelessly tucked himself around her, his head resting against and in the hollow of her shoulder, occasionally kissing her or stroking her hair. He left his right hand resting near the bottom of her ribcage. All the better to monitor the rise and fall of her chest, the passage of another breath, in and out. The rise and fall of his hand slowly became less and less, her breathing becoming more shallow, more labored, the breaths coming farther and farther apart as she drifted off, her eyes closed. It might have been minutes or hours, he didn't know. All he knew was waiting for the next breath, the next movement of his hand. Finally, the pause between breaths went on a beat too long.

"Magda?" There was no answer. He raised up and checked on her. No breath, no pulse. "Magda." His voice sounded like it was broken and ground down to dust, just like the rest of him. He kissed her slightly slack mouth, brushed the sodden tendrils of hair away from her forehead. He noticed his fingers were trembling. Then, suddenly, the rest of him trembled, as well. Now that it had sunk in, that he was alone, the dam shifted and broke. Tears mixed with the sweat on her skin. He clung to her and rested his head against her chest once more. "You don't have to hurt any more, baby. Now I do." He hadn't any idea how many hours he had been there, sobbing, until there was just nothing left and it was nearly dawn. He had managed to clean up in time for Vladimir to come by after his shift, pass along the news, and make the arrangements. He hadn't cried again for a few days. There just hadn't been anything to cry with. He had kept most of his mourning to himself, as much as he could. Hadn't even considered it needed to be anything other than completely private. At least until last night, with Anna.

Viktor drained the cup of coffee and looked out the kitchen window. There was a little light peeking out from behind the clouds, thin, dawn light. The loud rap on the back door was wholly expected after the message he had left with the receptionist at the hospital. "Don't go giving me a lecture on my door answering attire. I'm not in the mood," Viktor said wearily, swinging the door open enough to let Vladimir in.

"Is something wrong? The receptionist just said-"

"Hush. Quiet down. Anna's asleep down the hall. Nothing's wrong," Viktor said, walking back to the kitchen. "Exactly."

"So... why are you calling and asking me to stop by before I go home, and already through half a pot of coffee, looking like you haven't slept. And why's Anna down the hall?" Vladimir asked, looking doubtful.

"Long story. Are you doing anything tonight? I need to talk to you and Stan," Viktor asked, sinking back into the chair.

"I'm free. I'm not Stan's social director, but I think he and Mila were going somewhere this afternoon. Should be back early enough. Why?" Vladimir asked.

"Because I want the two of you to come by. I need to talk to you. Should have a long time ago. It's going to take a while. Bring dinner. Go pick something up and I'll pay for it. I'm not about to commit to making it. And do you have any Wakefulness Potion?" Viktor said.

"A little. Not much. Probably not enough for a good dose. Look, whatever it is, it's not worth it. Cancel it and get some sleep, instead," Vladimir insisted.

"I wish I could. But if I do, I'm going to have a very irate and insulted Italian on my back, and Evtimov, to boot. I've already put off this meeting with the Italian Commissioner a half dozen times, and I committed to Ilian and I going to a pre-season match so we can have it. It will be bloody boring, and short, but I committed. Ilian rearranged family plans to go. I can't ask him to do it again. And he has to go. The Commissioner doesn't speak a word of English, and he's the only one who understands Italian. I sure as hell don't. I don't think knowing a grand total of three Italian dishes is going to make for a productive meeting. If the dose is big enough to keep me from passing out two thirds of the way through the match, that's fine. Bring it over. And while I'm at it, Sunday afternoon... get Anna to keep the baby," Viktor added. "It's only a couple of hours. I'm sure she can do it."

"Why? Where are you going to be?" Vladimir asked in surprise.

"With any luck, making an acceptable grovel of an apology. Or maybe I can even do that today if the match is short enough. I'll explain everything later. In the meantime, bring the potion back, get you and Stan over here sometime this evening, bring dinner if you want it, and find yourself another babysitter for Sunday afternoon. And leave your sister be. She had a hard night. Let her sleep as long as she wants. And don't worry. It's nothing bad," Viktor insisted. "It's just something I put off saying for too long."

"If you say so..." Vladimir said uncertainly. "I'm glad Evtimov's going, then. I wouldn't trust you to get to Italy and back in one piece in the state you're in right now. Liable to end up in Afghanistan if you haven't slept."

"He's never misplaced me, yet. Now, shoo. Go on. I have to leave, soon. I'll see you tonight, I'm sure."

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

"Okay, I'll bite. What's eating at you? Other than the fact that you probably feel like death warmed over because you haven't slept and the fact that this is the most boring match in history and we have to act like we're enjoying it?" Evtimov said quietly in Bulgarian.

"The fact that I really should be somewhere else, and that I'm an idiot. Or maybe rather that I should be somewhere else because I'm an idiot. What else is new?" Viktor said ruefully, with a short laugh. "And I don't imagine all the coffee I've had is helping. I think I'm vibrating."

"I'll concede you the coffee part, but I reserve the right to fight you on the idiot portion. What are you talking about?" Ilian prodded, giving the Italian Commissioner a sidelong glance. He seemed more engrossed in the match, such as it was, at the moment.

"Okay, then. Not an idiot. A coward," Viktor said with conviction.

"I very seriously doubt that," Evtimov argued, looking surprised.

"No. I won't let you win on that one. I have been. I was afraid to say a lot of things I should have said a long time ago, about why things turned out the way they did, and I didn't tell the children I was seeing someone, and it blew up in my face when my 'before' and 'after' unexpectedly collided. Now, if I'm lucky, maybe I can apologize enough to Hermione to make up for it. Took a hell of a lot of apologizing and explaining to make things up with Anna. I haven't even begun to make it up with Stan and Vlad. All because I was too afraid to show them how much I really missed Magda when she died. And to admit maybe I love someone else and might be willing to risk that all over again. Not even to myself. Now I've paid for it. Maybe she's not willing to risk it, now. I should be over there right now, apologizing for carrying on like I was ashamed for anyone else to know what I thought of her. No, I think I have that argument won, Ilian," Viktor said, not taking his eyes off the field.

"Err... I won't pretend I caught the half of that. Maybe we can cover it again, sometime. Well, you've certainly put a lot of thought into your argument, but I still disagree. I think it's normal enough. I... can't begin to imagine what that would be like. Losing her. I know it hurt. I miss her, and I only knew her a few years. I think she would be happy for you," Evtimov said carefully. "So... what now?"

"Stop lecturing me. I already got that from Lara. I suppose I finish getting things squared away with my children, tonight. Take a trip tomorrow and see if I can still do a fair enough grovel and hope she's in a forgiving mood. I was hoping this sorry excuse for a match would be over in time so that I could do it today. No such luck," Viktor said, shaking his head and looking over at the Italian Commissioner, who was, by now, giving them both openly curious looks. "You're sure he doesn't speak any Bulgarian, right?" He gave the Commissioner a friendly nod, that was returned, if with a slightly confused look.

"Positive. He barely speaks passable Italian," Ilian blurted out without thinking. Within a few moments, the two of them had graduated from sniggering under their breath to full blown, near hysterical laughter.

"Great," Viktor said, wiping at the corner of his eye, "now he thinks we're both loony, to boot."

"Well, he thinks we're enjoying this stinker of a match, and he would have to think we're loony to think that, wouldn't he? So what difference does it make?" Ilian choked out between wheezes. "We'll come up with an excuse that doesn't offend him."

"I plead temporary insanity because of the sleep deprivation. What's your excuse?"

"Tremendously funny Bulgarian joke that just doesn't translate. Or that I can't translate. My Italian suddenly got really rusty," Ilian said, struggling to regain his composure. "That does it. I'm seeing you home when this is over. I say we rent a carriage so you can sleep on the way. I don't think I even trust you to work a Floo connection right now."

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

Hermione hacked at the green peppers on the cutting board viciously. She had spent the last few hours wavering between being weepy and then being horrendously angry at herself for being weepy in the first place, to being angry at him. Then being angry at herself for being angry at him. By now she was just angry for the sake of being angry, her ill mood seeping into everything. "Um... Mum? Why are you doing that by hand?" Simon asked tentatively. He could tell she was in a mood and a half as soon as he had set foot inside. He was still afraid to ask why.

"Because I feel like it!" Hermione snapped. The doorbell chimed and the cheerful noise irritated her even further. "Make yourself useful and go answer the front door."

'Yes, madam," Simon said, almost eager to get out of the kitchen. He pulled the front door open, and found himself looking almost directly into a pair of slightly hooded eyes so dark they were almost black. Simon gaped at the visitor for a moment, not sure what to say. It certainly hadn't been anyone he would have expected. He was rescued when they said something, instead.

"Is Hermione here?"

"You might not want to see her, but yeah, she is. Hang on a minute, I'll get her," Simon said, recovering.

"Thank you."

"You might want to save that thank you or take it back. Mood she's in, you might not be too thankful when I do send her out here," Simon murmured. He made his way back to the kitchen. "Er, Mum... there's someone at the door."

"Thank you, Simon, I hadn't figured that out from the doorbell ringing," Hermione said tartly. "Would you mind telling me who it is and what they want?"

"Look, I think you had better just go to the door. And stop taking your mood out on me and those poor, defenseless peppers. Somebody seems to have come a very long way just to talk to you, so I imagine it's important," Simon lectured. "If you want to be rude and leave them standing out front, fine and dandy. But don't go taking my head off about it."

"Oh, good grief. I'm sorry. I'll go to the door," Hermione said in a slightly kinder tone. Simon noticed she stomped off with the knife still clutched in her hand.

"What?" Hermione said sharply, swinging the door open. The first thing she noticed was a large, booted foot not so discreetly slipping into the doorway, inserting itself between the door and the frame, so she couldn't slam the door completely. The second thing she noticed was that, big as it was, the boot obviously didn't belong to the person whom she was really expecting to be at the door. Hermione let her gaze trail up the long, denim-clad leg, the white peasant top, up into a rather surprised face.

"I think," Anna said uncertainly, "that will not be necessary. Unless you are more upset than I realize. Please, I want to talk to you. Don't close the door." She looked softer and younger, now, with her dark hair spilling loose around her shoulders, her eyes pleading, without the anger in her voice. But still uncannily like her father. "You do not have to ask me in, but please, don't close the door." Hermione guiltily dropped both hands, the one holding the knife and the one clutching the doorknob. "I would have been here earlier this morning, but I had to go all the way to London and ask someone at the Ministry how to even find the house."

"Don't be ridiculous. Come in," Hermione said, stepping out of the way. "I couldn't let you come all that way and not even let you in."

"That's what I said, but it didn't seem to be too popular a sentiment when I said it," Simon pointed out. "You're Anna, aren't you?" he asked, curiosity gnawing at him. What the hell is going on? Why is Mum in such a mood, and why the hell is Viktor's daughter going all the way to London just to get directions to the front door?

"Yes. You're Simon, aren't you?" she echoed. Simon nodded. "I am sorry, but... could we speak... alone?" Anna looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Sure. I was just about to leave, anyway. I'll... err, take that," Simon said, taking the knife handle. "I'll leave it at the scene of the pepper massacre. Nice to have met you. I... I've heard a lot about you. And... read. Err...I'll just pop out the back door." The two women watched him go, and heard the back door close.

Anna squeezed her own arms, almost as though she were hugging herself, and shyly studied her own feet for a moment. "I should say I am sorry. I... There is no excuse for the way I acted. It was rude and-"

"Perfectly understandable, given that your father apparently didn't tell you," Hermione said ruefully.

Anna raised her eyes, peering at Hermione. "It was a shock, but-"

"But nothing. Your father didn't think I was important enough to warn you about, so, of course it was a shock. End of story. I don't blame you for being upset," Hermione bit off.

Anna drew in a deep breath, dropped her arms to her sides and straightened slightly. "I still should not have reacted that away. Please," Anna said, unconsciously working her fingers into fists, then relaxing them, exactly the same way Hermione knew Viktor used to when he had a bad case of nerves, "accept my apology." She probably doesn't even realize she does it. Viktor never did. Anna is obviously as uncomfortable under close scrutiny as Viktor ever was. Odd, given that she must have grown up seeing so many people watching her father like that.

"Fine. Apology accepted," Hermione said a little more gently. That she was still angry was abundantly plain, however.

"You're angry at him," Anna said. It was more marveling statement than a question. "Please, forgive him, too," Anna added. "He's sorry." Hermione looked her over more closely, made more bold by the bad temper. Anna wasn't exactly the sort that qualified as daintily or gracefully pretty, but there was a definite, quietly dignified sense of beauty about her. She had certainly inherited Magda's ability to carry off strong features well, and to command attention when she wasn't trying to disappear. She might even have a bit of Magda's jaw line and chin. Everything else about her, though, from the long fingers to the lanky limbs, from the stance to the facial expressions and most of her mannerisms, that was purely Viktor.

"If he's so sorry, why isn't he doing his own apologizing?" Hermione asked, crossing her own arms defensively. She was caught halfway between feeling sorry for this seemingly ill at ease girl who had swallowed her pride and let her guard down, and being angry at her for reminding her so forcefully of Viktor. Irrational, she knew, but feelings aren't always rational.

"Because he had to go to Italy today. After spending most of the night talking to me," Anna said, looking guilty. "We had a lot of things to talk about. He thought it was important to talk to Vlad and Stan, too. They're coming tonight to talk. He's going to come here tomorrow. I wanted to apologize, first."

"What? He didn't want to spring it on them the same way?" Hermione shot back. "That worked so well. I'm glad to see I finally rank somewhere on the list of things worth mentioning, right after work and the weather and whatever else comes down the pike! Must have been a slow news day."

Unexpectedly, Anna drew herself up ramrod straight, scowling, dark eyes narrowed. "I understand you are upset. But you must understand, too. How hard it was for him to admit it. He is used to keeping things to himself."

"I can't believe it was that hard to admit he was even seeing me," Hermione replied.

Anna lowered her eyebrows and scowled that much harder. "Not that. That he loves you. The last person he felt that way about died. If you don't know how much that hurt him, or how scared he is that might happen again, you don't know him as well as you think you do. And if you would rather be angry and bitter over him not telling us until now, or not being perfect, fine! Maybe you don't deserve him if you feel that way! Mama loved him just fine the way he is. And you can be angry at us all you like, but that doesn't change the fact that he loves you!" Anna swallowed hard. "Tate doesn't go around giving his heart to just anybody. He doesn't love lightly. But he loves you," Anna whispered.

"And how do you know that?" Hermione asked.

"Because he said so. Last night," Anna said quietly, her face relaxing slightly, fingers working again.

"And what difference would it make to you, either way? Why would you care how he feels about me?" Hermione said mulishly. "Why would he ask you to do this?"

"He did not ask me! He asked me to do nothing. He does his own talking. He does not even know I am here." Anna considered her boots again for a moment, then raised her head. "And I care because he's my tate, and I love him, and I want him to be happy. And I think... you would make him happy. If I didn't think that, I would not be here. Because... if you hurt him, you have not seen angry." Anna thrust her chin out defiantly, then planted her hands on her hips.

Hermione sighed. "You are your father's daughter, that's for sure," she said, shaking her head. "You're both like a couple of blinkered Erumpents when you set your minds to something."

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

Viktor knocked on the door a little louder. The air was a bit cool this early, but he had left his cloak behind. He was just about to give it up and come back in an hour when he saw the doorknob turn. "Look, I know you're probably angry at me, and you have every right to be, but I've come a damned long way just to say this in person, so,you might as well let me in. Or I'll say it from out here. Very loudly. Where all the neighbors can hear," Viktor insisted.

"Fine. Suit yourself," Hermione said, shrugging and stepping out of the way. "But it's not necessary. You don't-"

Viktor walked past her, already talking before she had gotten the door shut. "Yes, it is. It's necessary. Just... be quiet and let me say this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such a big ninny and a coward. If I could go back and fix it, I would, but I can't. The best I can do is say I'm sorry and explain why. Look-"

"Really. You don't-" Hermione started to protest.

"No, let me finish. When Magda died, I didn't think I was ever going to feel that way about anybody ever again. Because it hurts too much to lose someone you feel that way about. So... when I started to feel that way about you, again, it scared me. I wasn't sure I was ready for something like that all over again, and I didn't know if my children were ready for me to start feeling that way about someone, and I didn't know if you might feel the same way, so it was easier to just keep my mouth shut about it. And then, the longer you go, the easier it is to keep it to yourself. I should have known it was a bad idea, but I kept it to myself, anyway. I made a mistake, okay? A very big mistake. But it wasn't because I was ashamed of you, or the way I felt about you. I love you. If anything, it was because I liked keeping you to myself. It felt nice, having some part of my life that had nothing to do with the kids, something separate that wasn't really any of their business. Something they weren't in the middle of. Again. I used to have that with Magda. Funny, considering they were ours, but some little piece of our marriage was just for us. Nobody else got into that space between us, not even the children. I liked having you all to myself. It felt a little decadent and-"

"Indulgent," Hermione supplied. "Selfish. I know. And you can stop apologizing. Not that it wasn't nice to hear, but Anna already apologized enough for the two of you. I imagine you've heard this a million times, but that girl is so much like you. She's every bit as stubborn as you ever were. She had the nerve to put her foot in my door, and to lecture me in my own house." Hermione sank onto the sofa.

"Anna? She was here? When?"

"Yesterday. And she gave me a right going over for even thinking of doing anything that might hurt you. She's got the she-bear impression down pretty well, too," Hermione said placidly. "I think she got a double dose of that."

"I'm sorry about that, I-" Viktor stammered.

"No need to apologize. I needed it. She was right. I wasn't very understanding. And she made me admit... I would have done the same thing if I could have gotten away with it. Kept it completely to myself, if I could have. I just didn't have a chance. But you don't have the entire extended Weasley clan nosing into everything. Why is it so ruddy embarrassing to catch yourself acting like a teenager when you're in your fifties? Or have someone else do it?" Hermione said morosely.

"Sixties, now, in my case. Few weeks ago, remember? And I think it's because you think by this point, you ought to know better, but you don't. So," Viktor said, seating himself beside her, "what do we do, now? Start over?"

"Not quite over. Let's just back it up a little and resolve to take it a little slower and easier. It's not like we have to be in a big hurry to get married and start a family, or anything. And to be a little more up front about things. I love you, too, you know. Even if you are maddening, every once in a while," Hermione said softly.

Viktor laughed quietly and put his mouth close to her ear. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you're no bed of roses all the time, yourself. You can be inflexible. Judgmental. Demanding," he said in a low voice, pausing when she cracked a smile.

"You can be headstrong. Stubborn. Too wrapped up in your job, Or should I say jobs?" Hermione replied, turning to face him.

"Coldly rational."

"Overextended."

"Too worried about what everyone else thinks about you, not enough about what you think," Viktor said.

"Too private. Repressed, even."

"And yet, I still love you, anyway. Still love me?" Viktor asked.

"Only if you finish that kiss we were in the middle of when we were interrupted. I don't think I have any relatives hidden in the house that are going to pop up unexpectedly," Hermione said.

"I don't know... Do you want to completely discuss the repercussions of that action, first? I mean-"

"Oh, shut up," Hermione reproved gently. She reached up and removed his glasses, putting them on the nearby table.

"What was that for?" Viktor asked.

"I shouldn't like to see them get damaged. They seem to take enough abuse without me joining in," Hermione explained.

"What are you planning to do, exactly?" Viktor said.

"I'm going to skip the getting you drunk part and go straight to the taking advantage of you part," Hermione replied, smiling.

"I like the way you think," Viktor said, lowering his mouth to hers. "By the way," he said, pulling back momentarily, "in the spirit of all this new openness and whatnot, I have to attend this likely to be boring public reception next week, and I could use some company. And Stan's birthday is in about five weeks. We'll probably have dinner or something..."

"I'll think about it. Right now, no thinking..." Hermione insisted, putting her hands on either side of his face and kissing him. "Thinking just seems to get us into trouble."

"No danger, if you keep that up..."

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

"Hey. We're coming in. Moppet here wants to show you how she looks before she has her photo taken by herself," Anna said, leading Evangelina into the master bedroom by the hand.

"Well, don't you look nice? Getting your photo taken, hmm?" Viktor said, hefting the little girl up.

"In my dress robes and with the flower basket," Evangelina said. "Mama got a petticoat for me, see?" She pulled up the skirt of her robe to show the ruffled petticoat underneath.

"So I see. Might want to keep that out of sight during the photo, though. What have you got in the basket?" Viktor prompted.

"Daisies and roses, Diado," the little girl answered. "This one won't be as good as the last one."

"Why not?' Viktor asked.

"Because it's just me. Anna already took one with me. That one's better because it's got two of us," Evangelina explained solemnly in her high voice.

"No argument from me, there. I still want one of both. Hadn't you better be getting back to the living room and taking it, though? Mama have your flower basket?" Viktor said.

"Mama's got it," Evangelina said, nodding.

"Good enough, then. Give me a kiss. See you in a little bit," he added, pursing his mouth as she complied, then setting her back down.

"Go straight back to Mama," Anna said, holding the door for her. Anna grinned at Viktor after shutting the door, shaking her head.

"The collective wisdom of the three-year-old," he said with a laugh. Viktor then gave a low whistle.

"What?" Anna asked.

"You just look really beautiful. Heels and everything. What brought that on?" Viktor asked, cocking his head at her.

"Vlad seemed to think that a wedding called for heels, and I got tired of arguing," Anna said wearily.

"You don't have to wear them if you don't want. It's in the back garden, for Merlin's sake. Tell Vlad if he really wants heels, he can wear them," Viktor said dismissively.

"Don't tempt me," Anna said, shaking her head. "And it took too long to find these. I'm going to wear them if they kill me. And as long as they don't actually make me taller than you," she added, measuring herself against him. "I don't want to go down the aisle taller than you."

"What difference would it make? Besides, I think you're safe. Those are what? A half-inch, maybe? Thick soles," Viktor pointed out, holding out one dress boot-clad foot. "When did I become your personal acceptable upper limit of tallness anyway?"

"Since always. I really would hate to walk down the aisle and be taller than you. This is going to be one crazy wedding," Anna observed.

"Why shouldn't it match the participants? If Simon walks Hermione down the aisle, I figure it's just as fitting you walk me down it, seeing as there's no other way to get to where we have the altar standing. Think of it as practice for me getting to return the favor someday. Speaking of which, have you mentioned to Filip or whatever his name is that your tate knows a lot of people who either made or currently make their livings wielding clubs?" Viktor asked, one corner of his mouth curling up slightly.

"Tate," Anna warned, "I hardly think that's necessary. He hasn't been living under a rock his entire life, he's not brain damaged, and it's been all of three dates. Besides, he knows perfectly well I know several people who currently make their livings wielding clubs. And that, worse comes to worse, I could probably take his head off. He caught the bit about the two older brothers, as well. And the fact that I plastered one of them with a Beater's club, once. And that was by accident. Imagine if I were trying."

"Just so he's had fair warning," Viktor replied.

"Tate, you're not allowed to go scaring him," Anna said. "Behave yourself."

"I thought it was my duty to scare him."

"No. You didn't act like that about Mila. Or Nikolina. Fix your sash," Anna said, stepping up to him, tugging at it and straightening it.

"Might have if I thought it would do any good. Might have saved me plenty on weddings. Nice change of subject, by the way," Viktor said, looking amused.

"Maybe I shouldn't have gone to Ottery St. Catchpole that time. Might have saved you the cost of one wedding right there. Should have asked for the repeat customer discount. And I still say, behave. Be nice," Anna warned, shaking a finger at him.

"On one condition," Viktor replied. "You have to promise me you'll dance with me at least once."

"I'm awful at it," Anna protested.

"You wouldn't be if you would stop worrying about what you look like and whether or not you were about to step on anything and just dance. Nonetheless, I want one dance with my daughter at my wedding. It's not like that's an opportunity most men get. Do it for me," Viktor cajoled, resting his hands on her shoulders.

"If you promise to behave. And if Hermione doesn't mind. And if no one watches," Anna muttered.

"Most of them will be dead drunk by then, anyway. It's not like anyone will notice your dancing," Viktor argued, shaking her slightly.

"Oh, I'll do it," Anna agreed reluctantly.

Vladimir came through the door and shut it behind. "All the photos before are done, I think... woo..." he trailed off momentarily, "you look positively girly. Almost."

"Oh, stuff it," Anna said good-naturedly.

"I'm teasing. You look... well, let's just say I'll keep something handy to beat them off with. Stan hasn't been in?" Vladimir asked.

"Not since this morning. Why? Have you misplaced him or something?" Viktor said.

"Oh. He said he was going to come talk to you. That's all. He said not to go far," Vladimir said. "I need to go fetch some people... By the way, we're not doing that silly superstition about not seeing the bride are we?" he added, pausing at the door.

"Considering I talked to her face to face an hour ago, I think we can safely assume the answer is no. Why? What are you two up to?" Viktor asked, suspicious.

"Up to? Nothing. I'm just following orders. I was told if we had a few minutes to spare after the pictures and before the ceremony, to pin you down, fetch a specified group of people, and come back here. I gather Stan's got something to show us. No good asking what. I don't know, either," Vladimir admitted. "Do you have the time to spare or not?"

"Plenty, I think," Viktor said, taking his watch out of his pocket and checking it.

"Good, then. I'll see if I can get back here with my whole list," Vladimir said, stepping out.

"Don't look at me like that. I don't have a clue, either," Anna insisted.

After a few minutes, the door opened again. Vladimir, Nikolina, Evangelina, Simon and Mila all shuffled in. A moment later, Stan stuck his head in the doorway. "Everyone in? Good. I will be right back," he promised, ducking back out. After another short pause, Hermione walked through the open door, looking puzzled and stopping.

"Has there been some sort of emergency meeting called? Did the wedding cake explode or something?" she asked, scanning their faces.

"Explode? The wedding cake? Why would you ask that, Mum?" Simon asked, chuckling.

"Well... your Uncle Fred and your Uncle George are here. You just never know with them... nothing has exploded, has it?" Hermione said a little more anxiously.

"Not that I'm aware, Mum. By the way, you look really nice," Simon said, gesturing at the silky dark blue robes, draping softly around her, caught up with a white sash in the middle.

"Oh. My hair's still not cooperating. I can't get the bloody flowers pinned in it. They keep falling out," Hermione said, flustered, worrying at the hair around her shoulders.

"Language... What she really meant was 'Thank you. Of course I look beautiful on my wedding day.', " Viktor said. "Even if you forget the flowers."

"I vill take care of that, later," Nikolina said dismissively. "Vare vos he going? Stan?" she asked in her thickly accented English.

"I wish I knew," Viktor said with a shrug. "But from what I gather, it's not crisis-related, so relax already," he added, putting his hand on Hermione's shoulder.

Viktor had barely finished the sentence when they heard footsteps. Shortly, Stan stepped in, carrying a large, flat square object wrapped in brown paper and twine, which he leaned against the wall. "Okay. So... I wanted everyone here to see this, the whole family. Mila and I had no idea what to get the two of you. Not as though the two of you need more housewares. You have two houses full. It is not much, probably not up to Mama's standards... but for what it is worth... this is your wedding gift from the two of us," Stan said, untying the twine and peeling back the paper. He stepped away and it became clear that the paper had concealed a large canvas, a painting.

The main part of the canvas was taken up with a scene set in the back garden, a little alcove of trees not too far from the lake behind the house. Fanned out across the scene in a loose grouping, all the occupants of the room stood, smiling, Simon on the right side, Hermione, with Viktor standing slightly behind, Vladimir with Evangelina in the crook of his arm and Nikolina, Stan and Mila, and Anna. Hermione recognized it almost immediately as an adaptation of one of the photos that had been taken at Stan and Mila's wedding just a few months prior. But her eyes were drawn down to the bottom corners of the painting. In smaller insets, there were two other paintings that made her suck in her breath and put her hand over her mouth. The rest of them murmured appreciatively.

In the right lower corner, there was a recreation of the very familiar photo of herself and Ron at their tenth anniversary. In the opposite corner, the equally familiar photo of Magda and Viktor at their twenty-fifth. "So that's what you wanted the photo for!" Simon exclaimed. "I wondered why you asked me for a copy of it."

"Actually, you gave me the idea for this. When you said we did not have any photos of the entire family except at the wedding... It occurred to me that we could not really have a photo of the entire family any more... but we could have a painting. I thought... maybe we could put it on the fireplace wall. It is about time those things got rearranged again, don't you think?" he asked tentatively.

"It's beautiful," Hermione said, finding her voice again. "Absolutely... I don't know what to say." Her voice was slightly strangled, and she blinked hard, her eyes misting up. "It's... oh! It's so sweet!" she said, rising to her toes to kiss Stan's cheek.

"Here, Mum, don't go getting all soggy. There aren't enough hankies in the country if you and Gran both get all weepy. And you know Gran's going to get weepy," Simon cautioned, handing over his handkerchief.

"I think it would fit right in up there. That would do your Mama proud," Viktor said. "It's perfect. You can put it up there on one condition."

"What?" Stan asked.

"You have to figure out where it goes and how to rearrange all the rest of it. I have no idea where any of it should go," Viktor said. "Your mother had that system..."

"Come on. Ve fix your hair," Nikolina told Hermione, in a take charge manner. "Anna, come on. Help. You too, baby. Come help Nan." Evangelina followed them out.

"Anna, you come back soon as you're done. I need you to do something for me," Viktor called after them.

"I.. it's... Wow. Just... wow. That's incredible. I mean, I knew you painted, but not like that," Simon marveled. "It was nice of you to make sure Dad was included... Er... I should probably get on outside. See that we're about ready before I come back and collect Mum."

"I will give your photo back after the wedding. Remind me," Stan warned.

"I had better, too. You did good, little brother. It's wonderful," Vladimir said, pausing on his way to the door.

"I think we had better go, too, Stan," Mila said, following.

"Go on. He'll be there in a minute. I want to talk to him, first," Viktor said. When they had gone and closed the door, he stepped closer to the canvas and studied it for a long while.

"You really want it over the fireplace? It doesn't have to go up-"

"It's going up there, and that's final. Thank you," Viktor said simply, squeezing Stan's shoulder. "I can't think of a better gift. Only thing is, I hope you understand your mother's system for what went over that fireplace and where better than I do. Which, if you understand it at all, that's more than I do."

"She explained it all to me once. Actually, how she figured out what went up there is pretty simple. She told me, 'That's where I hang the pictures of the people I love the most, and usually the ones that remind me most of the reasons why I love them.'. The way she arranged them is a touch more complicated. That's where the composition and complementary colors and sizes and things come in," Stan explained. "I figured Hermione and Simon are as much family as anyone by now. Mama never put herself up there much, but I felt like she should be. And Ron deserved a place up there, too. He is Simon's father... Now, if you don't want it up there, you would say-"

"I want it up there. That's every bit as beautiful as anything your mother ever painted. You do her proud. She would want it up there. You do me proud. Stop being so modest. Thank you," Viktor said, embracing him. "It couldn't be more perfect, you hear me?"

"I owed you, Tate. Both of you. Well, all three of you, really. For everything. Mila got it framed, by the way. Picked it out and all," Stan said, hugging back. "We love you. You and Mama and Hermione. And Simon, too, for that matter. I'm glad for the two of you."

"You should probably get going. We don't have a whole lot longer, before we make it official," Viktor said, releasing him. "I have one more thing I need to do before I go out. Or one more thing I want Anna to do."

"Okay, Tate. I'll be outside with Oblansk," Stan called over his shoulder. He nearly collided with the door when Anna threw it open. "Hello. You're wanted inside."

"We got the flowers in. Well, several times. We finally succeeded in getting Evangelina to leave them in. She kept wanting to pull them loose. That was her idea of helping. What's this thing you want me to do?" Anna asked.

"Hold out your hand," Viktor ordered. He grasped the wedding band still on his left finger and, with some difficulty, removed it and placed it in Anna's palm. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a sturdy gold chain, threading the end through the ring. "Would you put it on me? Please." He held up the ends of the chain, letting the ring dangle on it over her hand.

Anna stared at it mutely for a moment, then took the ends. "You're going to keep wearing it?"

"I figured if Hermione could keep up with one for that long, surely I can, too. This doesn't change the fact that I was married to her and that's my wedding ring, and I want to keep it close. This doesn't change a lot of things. We're still going to keep their pictures out, and we're going to be buried with them, and-"

"Don't say that. That's a long way off," Anna said. "A long, long way."

"Exactly. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried. It's all laid out in boring old wills, anyway. Should make for simply fascinating reading when we finally croak. Now fasten it for me, so I don't have to fiddle with those tiny catches." Viktor said, turning his back to her.

"There, all done," Anna said. "Now," she said, hooking his arm, "let's go. I looked down the hall, and Simon and Hermione are all ready to go."

"Yes, boss. Let's go."

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

"I'm going to explode," Simon moaned, leaning back in the chair. "It was all fantastic, but I'm going to explode. You would think I would have learned after the last time. I couldn't eat for a whole day after the last wedding."

"Nonsense. Dance it off. Half the reason you have dancing. So you can go back and eat more," Vladimir said dismissively.

"I couldn't wiggle for a bet, much less dance," Simon protested.

"Then drink a while and you will forget you are too full," Vladimir replied, taking a drink of his own rakia.

"Oh no! I am not drinking more than a shot of that stuff this time. It put me under the table last time. I had half a bottle down me before you two bothered to mention it was moonshine. I'll stick to this teensy little glass of ouzo, I think. I'd like to not wake up dead tomorrow," Simon insisted.

"I see Tate finally collected on Anna. She's not half bad if you get her just the slightest bit tipsy first so she's not so self conscious," Stan observed.

"You're welcome," Vlad said. "Twisted her arm early and often." He took another drink and watched the people dancing for a few moments. "Remind me again. How many cousins did you say you had?"

"Too bloody many to count," Simon said, "that's how many. By now, you just number Weasleys and their kin in the rough dozens. Mum and me were kind of odd birds, being only children and all. I guess, technically, they're sort of yours, too, now. What was it like, growing up with no cousins? I can't imagine that... Or having brothers or sisters, either."

"Pretty much the same as having a gaggle of cousins, I imagine. Except, everyone who you were crazy about and everyone who drove you mad lived in the same house, instead. And you can't even pretend to disown them. Not that you want to. Much," Vladimir said.

"Speak for yourself," Stan said placidly. Mila walked through the crowd and approached the three of them.

"Dance with me," she pleaded.

"I have only sat out two of the last dozen. My feet are killing me. Get Simon to dance with you," Stan replied.

"I couldn't... really..." Simon protested weakly. But soon Mila had him hauled up out of his chair and was dragging him toward the rest of the dancers.

"Nonsense! You're family, now. I trust you," Stan called after them, laughing.

"That was either all a fiendishly clever ruse to get out of dancing with your wife, or a fiendishly clever ruse to get him over there so Mila could introduce him to her penfriend. Either way, bravo. Let me guess. Her penfriend got the appointment in Scotland?" Vladimir asked.

"Da. Got it in one," Stan admitted. They sat in silence for a few minutes, just watching. "So, do you have the foggiest idea what half their names are?"

"The mob of redheaded ones? I might be able to hazard a fair guess on twenty of them and get fifteen. I think if you stick with 'Weasley', you're almost sure to be at least half right, aren't you? I suggest nametags if we ever have a family reunion. A lot of nametags. Get Molly to give you the rundown. She can reel off all their names, relations and birthdates in order without skipping a beat. All... however many dozen of them there must be," Vladimir said, gesturing with his glass in the general direction of the biggest cluster of redheaded Weasleys. "I haven't bothered to count. I suspect by the time you get them counted, there are more of them than you started out with. Kind of makes the lot of us look paltry."

"Incredible," Stan commented, as though to himself.

"That she can do all their birthdays and names? Not so incredible, I reckon. She's their mother. And grandmother. And... well, you get the idea."

"Not that. I was thinking she must have to knit Christmas jumpers all year. I can't believe she did us one, too, this past year. She's a cottage industry all by herself," Stan insisted. "This is going to be one odd extended family. How are you ever going to explain all this to Evangelina? I'm grown and I can barely keep all of it straight."

"Oh, that's the beauty part. Evangelina won't need it explained. As far as children are concerned, families don't really need explaining. They just are, like grass and trees and the sky. I'm sure she'll ask one day, because she's curious about Mama, or why some of us have different last names. But she won't really need it explained. Families happen in the oddest ways and in the oddest places. Why should ours be any exception?" Vladimir said, shrugging.

"Either that was really poetic, or I'm really drunk," Stan replied.

"Why can't it be both? They certainly didn't water it down," Vlad said, contemplating the glass. "Finish this, I'll be ready to dance again."

"Your feet won't hurt?" Stan asked.

"I won't be able to feel them. Evening, Madam Putin," Vladimir said, looking over Stan's shoulder.

"I'm not fa- Evening!" Stan corrected himself, turning to look.

"Eeeevening. Lovely affair, if somewhat more informal than I expected," Madam Putin sniffed, adjusting the rather long fox stole around her neck, then the miniscule, shivering dog in the crook of her arm that had the unfortunate appearance of being a malnourished and mangy rat with an oversized head. "I mean, that's all well and good when it's two young people, just starting out, you understand. But one expects a certain formality..." she trailed off, waving her hand around in the air.

"Oh, absolutely. I can't imagine what they were thinking, not renting out Westminster Abbey or The Hermitage. But I think they were already booked. Both times," Vlad said mischievously. "So we have to settle for the back garden for Stan's and theirs. Just like we had to with mine. I expect Anna, poor thing, will have to do the same. Can't be playing favorites."

"I suppose that new wife of his doesn't care. I hear she didn't exactly come from money," Madame Putin said conspiratorially.

"Now-," Stan began, but Vladimir stood and stretched.

"I don't have the foggiest idea. She seemed nice enough, so we didn't bother opening her handbag and counting what she had in there, did we, Stan? It's not like we charge admission," Vladimir said. "Besides, I think people of real quality... it has more to do with their personality and their character than their bank account. Or that's what I was always taught."

Stan stood as well. "Absolutely. And they don't come any finer quality in the character department. Not by a long shot. You can dress up trash in fancy furs and fine robes, but it doesn't make much of a difference. You can't disguise real quality, though. Don't you agree?"

"Of course," Madam Putin agreed, looking uncomfortable. "One can't disguise one's breeding, though."

"Oh, breeding hasn't got a thing to do with whether a person is a purebred or a mongrel. That only works with dogs," Anna said, stepping around Madam Putin and slipping in between Stan and Vlad. "And even then, a purebred can still be turned into a cur," she added, putting out a hand toward the dog, which barked sharply and snapped at her. "Or a mongrel can be a real hero. Whatever got us started on the subject of breeding, boys? Madam Putin starting another kennel?"

"Muffin must be getting overtired," Madam Putin crooned. "I wanted to wish your father well. And extend my sympathies again. Your mother was a fine woman."

"She was. So is Hermione. I'm afraid he probably won't be free for some time. He's promised to dance with Lara, and by then, they just might be ready to call it a night and go on honeymoon. I doubt you'll catch either of them unless you wait a long while," Anna said.

"And we wouldn't want Muffin getting more overtired, now would we?" Vladimir said, putting his hand out and provoking the same reaction Anna had. "Poor lamb could get all distraught and bite someone, and that could be nasty. We'll be sure to pass your sentiments on, though."

"Of course. I must get Muffin home," Madam Putin allowed, adjusting her elaborate stole again and sweeping off. "Good evening."

"Did she lose the lawsuit about Muffin biting whoever that was?" Stan muttered.

"Don't think it's gone to trial yet," Vladimir said.

"Good riddance to her and Muffin both," Anna said.

"I'll drink to that," Vladimir said, taking another swig.

"You would drink to anything right now. You're soused already," Anna scolded.

"I'll drink to that," Vlad repeated.

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

"So... where are you going on your honeymoon, then?" Lara asked, nudging Viktor's elbow. The crowd had already dwindled slightly in the early evening.

"Inside," Viktor said blandly. "We're going in, locking the door, going to bed and ignoring you people."

"You're not going anywhere? Not much of a honeymoon..." Lara replied. "Going to bed..."

"That's what you think," Viktor said, resituating Danail on his leg. "Depends on what you mean by 'going to bed', doesn't it?"

"What prompted the decision not to travel?" Evtimov asked curiously.

"Do you really have to ask that? Let's see, two jobs at one Ministry, Hermione heading up that joint research project for the next few months at two Ministries, four children spread out between two entirely different countries, two houses, and two extended sets of relatives in two countries, that's plenty of potential travel right there. It will be a treat to stay home for a whole week. And that's to say nothing of the fact that right after the joint research project ends, we're going to be stuck going back and forth to Durmstrang on and off throughout the next year," Viktor added in a low voice.

"For the...? I assume that's not exactly supposed to be common knowledge just yet?" Evtimov said, mouth agape.

"Passed the Board six days ago. A whole Board session before I would have ever dared hope. Thanks rather a lot to Minerva and Olympe being so willing to try it again and lead a delegation, despite being involved in the last one. Laying it on thick about expecting Durmstrang to really host it right didn't hurt, either. And a bit of convincing from a rather nice planning and impact report that someone put together. With that schedule and proposal you laid out, they thought a year and then some was plenty of time to plan the entire thing and get ready for hosting it," Viktor said, prompting Evtimov to blush. "Speaking of which, I would like for you to consider being on the judging panel for one task, Lara."

"Gladly. Assuming it doesn't violate any ethical agreements," Lara said.

"But... but... What about the office? I mean... you'll be gone maybe a couple of weeks at a time, at least four times... and that's in addition to everything else," Evtimov protested. "And that will probably be some of our busiest times of the year. We barely get everything done sometimes as it is. What if I can't get hold of you? And something needs signing?"

"Actually, Oblansk and I had a little talk about just that. We think we have a solution. Some of the same authority will be granted to a second position. We're going to hire someone for a full-fledged Assistant Commissioner position. That should allow for some of the decisions being made and a few things getting done on those rare occasions when I'm not necessarily right there, breathing in everyone's ear," Viktor explained. "Besides, the Floos do work. And owls still manage to find the place. I'm a little more expendable than you seem to think."

"Oh. Well, I hope they're easy to work with. I would hate to think they didn't agree with all the things we-"

"I imagine they'll be supremely easy to work with, Ilian. Unless you're in the habit of disagreeing with yourself," Viktor said.

"M-myself?" Evtimov stammered.

"We agreed that you deserve a promotion. There's not a bad pay bump involved, either. And let's be honest, you've been the Assistant Commissioner in everything but title, anyway, the last few years. The hours and the work you put in, you deserve to be listed as something more than my personal assistant. Don't think that means you've lost that job, though. You still have to mind my business for me," Viktor replied. "Or I'm sure to say something that gets us all into trouble. I might let it slip to the wrong person that I detest oysters and muck up the years-long process this United Nations thing is probably going to be. By the way, Africa's finally got a date for their vote on the initial proposal. Ten months from now."

"So, maybe before Danail gets out of school, they could actually have a full meeting... Wow. And as for the promotion... I don't know what to say-"

"Thank you would be fine. You earned it. Oblansk and I figure that whenever I finally get fed up with it and quit, you would be a pretty strong candidate for our first Commissioner who doesn't happen to be an ex-player. We're trying to get that first foot in the door. That might not be an entirely bad thing, having a Commissioner who can't be accused of having any lingering loyalties. And who actually has good sense," Viktor said.

"Well, we've searched the entire buffet table, and come back with a few bits of chocolate and dessert, mostly," Hermione said, showing the small saucer in her hand, guiding Evangelina with the other.

The little girl pulled away and stopped in front of Viktor. "I want to sit with Diado," she insisted stubbornly, giving Danail a long, hard look.

"Okay, come on, I've got two legs," Viktor offered, helping her climb up. "By the way, jealousy does not become you."

"Here, I think there's quite enough of that for them to share," Hermione said, handing over the saucer to Viktor once Evangelina was settled.

"I've just been hearing about the honeymoon trip. Exciting," Lara teased.

"Going nowhere sounded thoroughly inviting to me. Years of trekking back and forth every other week just to see each other was plenty of travel for me. I think we could both pilot the ferry, by now. And in a pinch, Apparate most of it. And it's not as though that's going to ease up just because we've married," Hermione admitted. "If anything, it's sure to get worse."

"As long as it suits you," Lara said. "However are you talking part of your company out of not staying overnight?" she added, tipping her chin at Evangelina.

"She's going home with Anna to stay overnight," Viktor answered.

"That's what you think," Lara said, laughing.

"No. She's going home with Anna. There was bribery involved, even," Viktor said in a low voice.

"For Anna or by Anna?" Lara asked.

"By Anna. I think there were promises of pancake making in the morning. Or whenever they manage to crawl out of bed. And cookie baking. And other things that probably aren't going to be mentioned to Mama and Tate," Viktor admitted.

"What aren't we mentioning to Mama and Tate?" Vladimir said, coming up behind. "By the way, Tate, you owe us. Big time."

"We're not mentioning what Evangelina and I are doing on our girl time together, that's what," Anna said, picking her up. "We may stay in our pajamas all day."

"And what do I supposedly owe you for?" Viktor asked.

"Madam Putin wanted to come over and talk to you, and we talked her out of it. Put it on our tab," Vlad said.

"How about we consider it a small repayment for me feeding, clothing, and housing you, and paying for your educations, instead?" Viktor replied.

"That works, too," Vlad admitted.

"Speaking of pajamas, I think we had better be getting home and getting someone into his, before he starts being cranky," Ilian said, gathering up Danail. "I would say safe journey, but I think the walk from here to the house is probably not all that treacherous. So, I'll stick with congratulations," he said, extending a hand to Viktor, then Hermione.

"Depends on how much you've had to drink. I think we can still make it to the house, though," Viktor said.

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

"Wait," Viktor said, laying his hand over hers on the doorknob. "Are we going to just walk in?"

"What? Or make complete idiots of ourselves by having you carry me?" Hermione asked.

"Nobody is watching. And if they are, so what?" Viktor offered. "They're practically miles away."

"I feel ridiculous," Hermione said. Nonetheless, she shoved the door open and threw her arm around Viktor's neck when he stooped.

"I think that's the point, isn't it? To get being foolish together over with first thing?" he asked, stepping in. "It's the great leveler. Close the door. Then lock the blooming thing."

"Done. And done. So, now what? Collapse here or collapse into bed?" Hermione asked.

"Put a light on, and let's see if we can't make it at least as far as the bedroom," Viktor said. Hermione held up her wand to light the way. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I'll survive the embarrassment, I suppose," Hermione said, letting him set her on her feet. "I would say I'm going to freshen up, but I think cleaning up is the best I can manage," she added, heading for the bath.

"I wouldn't say that," Viktor called after her, sinking onto the edge of the bed before taking off his glasses and setting them on the bedside table. He pulled off his boots and socks as well, then lay back on the bed. After a moment's consideration, he removed his trousers and robes. "Do you like a particular side of the bed?"

"Both sides and in the middle, actually," Hermione answered, coming back in, wearing a silky gown. "Didn't I mention I'm a bed hog?" she said, crawling in on the opposite side and kneeling behind him, draping her arms over his bare shoulders.

"You're small, I bet I can take you," he replied, taking up her hand and kissing it. Viktor turned and leaned over her as she lay back on the bed, kissing her mouth, hand skimming over her waist and the curve of her hip. "By the way, before we do this, did I mention there's good news and bad news?"

"Don't tell me. You're a bed hog, too?" Hermione asked with a laugh.

"No. The good news is I was with one woman for twenty-seven years," Viktor said solemnly.

"And what's the bad news?" Hermione prompted.

"I was with one woman for twenty-seven years."

"How's that both?" Hermione asked.

"One woman can teach you a lot in twenty-seven years. But the problem is, you pretty much only know what that one woman likes," Viktor explained.

"I suppose we've got more than the one night to figure it out," Hermione said with a shrug. They kissed again, and his fingers roamed over the swell of her breast, the nipple hardening under his touch, peaking under the thin fabric. "Um... You know... I don't exactly look like I did when I was eighteen. I mean, I've had a child-"

"So? I don't look like I did when I was eighteen, either. I don't recall ever getting a real good look at you back then, anyway. I got a pretty good feel every once in a while. Even if I had, the memory's starting to go-"

"That's enough out of you," Hermione warned. "I'm serious."

"I am, too. What? You think Magda looked just like she did when we got married after three children? She gained weight and got stretch marks just like every other woman alive. Believe it or not, I loved her just as much when her stomach stuck out as when it didn't. Maybe more. You appreciate a woman more when she's had to haul your ungrateful spawn around for the better part of a year and has the scars to prove it. What are you worried over? One or two stretch marks? Five pounds?" Viktor asked, shifting down and resting his cheek against her stomach.

"Something like that. You make it sound like I ought to be showing them off or something," Hermione said, burying her fingers in his hair.

"Maybe you ought to. You produced one fine kid, didn't you? I didn't have a thing to do with him and I'm fairly proud of him, anyway. He rather makes me wish I did."

"I had a lot of help in that department. A lot," Hermione admitted.

"Didn't get any help carrying him, though. So stop worrying if your arse is any more well padded than it was so long ago that we ought not even remember. That's the nice thing about getting older. Take your glasses off, you don't see a lot of flaws," Viktor observed. "The world looks a lot nicer."

"You can see perfectly bloody well without those glasses unless it's positively miniscule print, and you know it," Hermione scolded. "Not that you would need them to see that my arse, among other things, is bigger than it used to be."

"So... are we just going to talk about it, or am I actually allowed to take a look at you?" Viktor mused, trailing a finger along her hipbone. "Or are we just going to grope through our clothes for old time's sake?"

"I'm waiting for you," Hermione replied. After a short hesitation, he propped himself over her again, then shucked the gown up her hips, bunching it around her waist, hooking her knickers and pulling them low, below the soft curve of her belly, kissing her there. Her hips were a bit wider, her waistline and the curve of her stomach perhaps a bit softer than they had been, a few fine, barely visible white lines between her hipbones. Her breasts were certainly fuller than they had been at eighteen, and when he pulled the gown over her head, the light from the lamp revealed a few small marks there that matched the faint ones on her belly. Viktor kissed her mouth again, felt her nipples brush against his chest, her hands on his shoulders and neck, her fingers in his hair. He pressed against her, and he felt himself stir and harden.

They kissed in silence for a long while, the only noise their breath, lips against skin, and shifting against fabric and the mattress. Hermione slipped a hand between them, stroked him through his boxers, then pushed them lower on his hips. "Wait..." he cautioned, pulling back, kneeling long enough to remove them, then pulling hers out of the way. He tucked his fingers between her legs, rubbing and fondling, kissing her neck and jaw at the same time.

When he finally entered her, their coupling was unhurried, almost languid, tempered more by patience than need. He propped over her and they looked one another in the eye, her hands roaming over his shoulders and chest, his hand occasionally brushing her hair or cheek, or sliding across her breast. They kissed each other, soft and slow, moving together until he spilled inside her. They lay in silence for some time, intertwined, his chin tucked in next to her shoulder. "I love you," she whispered.

"Obicham te. Better be improving your Bulgarian. By the way, since you let me in on the fact that you're a bed hog, I feel it only fair to warn you. I've been known to snore," Viktor said in her ear.

"I hate to tell you, but you were known to snore when I first met you," Hermione said. "Of course, I was a bed hog back then, too."

"But I've got you pinned, and I'm not moving," Viktor murmured.

"Fair enough. But I reserve the right to resort to any means necessary if you start snoring."

"Fair enough."

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

"Come on, love. We had better hurry if we're going to get there in plenty of time to meet the ship," Hermione said, beckoning to Evangelina across the massive entrance of the Durmstrang castle. Already, she showed evidence of having the long limbed, lanky frame that Viktor and Vladimir had passed on. She was tall for her age, seemingly all arms and legs until she looked at you with those enormous, nearly black eyes. "You want to see it come in, don't you?"

"Take our hat, Nana?" the little girl asked, pulling the knobbly knitted hat from her robe pocket.

"If you're going to show it, you had better. And you had better take your cloak, too. Here," she offered, holding it out and helping her into it.

"Ship's coming, right, Nana?" Evangelina piped up.

"Right, the ship is coming, isn't it, Nana?" a familiar voice rang out behind her.

"Harry! You did make it for the feast!" Hermione said, hugging him.

"Couldn't miss this, could I? This can't be Evangelina! I saw her only a few months ago... You've grown a foot at least," Harry teased.

"Look, I see Mama and Tate out there next to the lake, or there's Anna and Stan and Mila. Go straight out there to one or the other and I'll be there in a minute," Hermione told the fidgeting girl.

"Okay, Nana," Evangelina said, running out the door. Hermione kept an eye on her until she was satisfied she had joined Vladimir and Nikolina.

"If I didn't know better, I would swear she had been speaking nothing but English all her life," Harry said.

"Well, they've all pretty well spoken English to her in addition to the Bulgarian since she was big enough to sit up. Besides, my grandchildren are the smartest in the world, right? Isn't that the way it's supposed to go?" Hermione replied.

"I reckon. Nana? Is that what you've settled on and decided you're going to be called? Should I inform Simon, or does he already know?" Harry asked.

"He already knows. She decided for me, truth be told. When Viktor and I first got married, she couldn't say 'Hermione'. The closest she could get was 'Nan'. After a while, she just started calling me 'Nana' and it stuck. Of course, I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that they read her Peter Pan about that time, and she found out 'Nana' was what some people call their grandmothers. Please, no jokes about her naming me after the dog," Hermione warned. "Speaking of which, I'll have you know she informed me it was ridiculous they were making such a big deal out of a boy who could fly in it. Certainly sheds a new light on how we approached fairy tales when we were growing up, doesn't it? Funny how kids like her see flying as no big deal. After all, it's something her grandfather and aunt considered a part of their living."

"So, are you two going to make it back to Britain before grandchild number two makes an appearance?" Harry asked. "Simon's getting a bit nervous, I think."

"Well, if Caroline doesn't go exceedingly early, we should make it in plenty of time. With just enough time to recover after that and make it back to Bulgaria in plenty of time for grandchild number three," Hermione said with a sigh.

"No rest for the wicked. Or the parents of the fertile. How's Evangelina taking to the idea of a sibling?" Harry said.

"Just fine in the abstract. I'm sure it might be a different story when the baby gets here, but right now, she's fine with it. She's not as jealous of everyone as she used to be. I guess she's got enough adoring public to go around, between the lot of us," Hermione said. "And she's gotten a bit of practice when Danail comes over to play. They get along pretty well."

"Hadn't we better get out to the lake? Ship's due any minute," Harry observed. They wandered out across the lawn toward the dock. "So, he's been gone for over a week, fetching the Hogwarts contingent. Miss him? I don't think you two have been apart that long since you got hitched, have you?"

"If it hadn't been for Evangelina, it would have been awfully quiet these last few days. We've knitted to keep ourselves busy. It was a bit lonely before they got here," Hermione admitted. "I was knocking around in those simply enormous guest quarters without him. It was awfully hard telling him goodbye, knowing he would be gone at least ten days. I might have gone if it weren't for the already tight quarters they had. They had to swap out crews to accommodate all the students as it is." The two of them joined the shuffling crowd near the dock, waiting for the ship to come in, next to the rest of the Krums. The Beauxbatons group had come in their customary style earlier in the afternoon, and were already settled inside the castle. The students now stood in orderly groups, waiting to greet the Hogwarts students who had been selected, their headmistress, and the classmates who had been crewing the ship when it left the first time. The crowd was even bigger than the group that had gathered for the foreign student arrivals when Hogwarts had hosted.

Before long, the half-familiar low rumble sounded, followed by the noise that still reminded Hermione of nothing more than a huge, sucking sink drain. The battered, ghostly looking hulk rose from the middle of the lake, great cascades of water running off the mast and decks, over the hull. Before they had set off, she had gotten the chance to see the inside. The cozy quarters inside had been far more luxurious than she would have imagined, given the ramshackle looking exterior, if a bit compact. Like most of the things connected with the campus, the ship quarters had been renovated and improved a great deal. The Durmstrang ship looked impressive, even intimidating, silhouetted against the early evening sky. Evangelina stared at it, wide-eyed, shrinking back against her mother. Nikolina leaned over and whispered, "It's just Diado and the students."

The ship glided up to the dock, noiseless except for the drips, and after a while, the gangplank dropped, and a few uncertain looking students poked their heads out on deck, followed by the familiar, erect figure of Minerva McGonagall. The older Durmstrang boys that had comprised the skeleton crew on the trip to Hogwarts scrambled out and secured the ship to the dock before waving the Hogwarts students down. Viktor followed the rest out, and after all the students had disembarked, he assisted Minerva off the ship. By the time he stood on the deck and had pushed the hood of his cloak back, Evangelina had dashed toward him, hurling herself into his arms, crying out "Diado!" A few of the bystanders laughed, and Nikolina looked as though she would just as soon disappear.

"I knew we should have brought a leash," Vladimir muttered.

"Oh, she's not hurting anything," Hermione protested.

Hermione could make out Viktor whispering, "Shh... Give me two minutes," in Evangelina's ear before he reintroduced Minerva and the Headmaster of Durmstrang, and made a few welcoming remarks. "Well, Minerva, I never thought I would be saying this, but welcome to Durmstrang. I hope you and the students have a pleasant stay for the Tournament, and if you need anything, just ask," Viktor concluded.

"Thank you. For right now, I'll be grateful enough for a bit of floor that doesn't move under my feet and a hot dinner," Minerva replied. "Come along, now. Inside. We mustn't hold up dinner for the rest any more than necessary," she added to the students. The crowd slowly followed after, breaking up, but Hermione and the rest hung back.

"I'll let you all be. I'll see you later. I could eat the table legs, myself," Harry said, nudging her elbow. Hermione huddled up inside her cloak and walked closer to the deck, where she caught snatches of Evangelina's voice between gusts of wind.

"... knitted... and Nana ... and I helped!" she said proudly, waving the small knitted cap.

"Wow, that Nana's pretty handy. That's awfully small, though. Is there a house-elf somewhere still in need of liberating?" Viktor asked, sticking his fist inside the cap.

"Ne! For Simon's baby!" Evangelina said in a reproving voice.

"Oh! Well, that explains it, then. That green will look good if it happens to have red hair. We'll have to remember to take it with us when we go. Look," he said, kissing her cheek, "why don't you go in with Stan and Mila and find us a table?"

"Come on, pilentse," Stan said, taking her and putting her on his hip.

"She helped knit, hmm? And you still finished?" Viktor said, kissing Hermione.

"She held the yarn and picked the colors. And knitted part of it with the simpler stitches, even. She's not bad at all. She's got a good eye for colors. Besides, teaching her to knit kept my mind off of knocking about in that huge suite all by myself," Hermione admitted.

"I told you they were huge. I've seen three-bedroom flats that were smaller. They did those things up right when they expanded," Viktor said.

"I am so sorry. She just go avay from me..." Nikolina said wearily.

"Oh, don't worry about it. The one you married once announced he was thirsty to everyone in the room right in the middle of a speech by the Minister," Viktor said with a grin.

"Never going to let me live that down, are you? I was three," Vladimir protested.

"No. It still tickles Oblansk every time he thinks about it. He says it's the best heckling he ever got. Look, since we have an extra bedroom, how about she stays with us tonight? We'll take the one off your hands. Nothing we can do about the second one, yet," Viktor offered, gesturing to Nikolina's growing middle.

"Vould you? You vouldn't mind?" Nikolina replied.

"I'm sure she'll ask, anyway. I mean, Nana's been letting her play with sharp, pointy things, for goodness sake. No way she's going to pass up further possible forbidden delights that might come with staying overnight... And speaking of sharp, pointy things, just how sharp was that elbow?" Viktor asked Anna.

"It was a knee, thank you," Anna said, running her fingers over the yellowed bruise above her eyebrow. "And it was well worth it. We won. It's not like we could lose our first game in defense of our European Cup, now, is it?"

"I've already given her the 'What are you trying to do, get yourself killed?' speech, so save your breath," Hermione pointed out.

"It was just an exhibition game," Viktor said.

"You should know full well, there is no such thing as just an exhibition game," Anna argued.

"Of course. I should know better," Viktor admitted. "Whatever was I thinking? Can we go in and eat before we're all frozen solid?"

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

"Diado!" Evangelina's keen voice rang out from the other bedroom.

"What?" Viktor called back from the bed, not moving the forearm draped over his eyes.

"You haven't tucked me in!" she answered in Bulgarian.

"Oh! I'll be there in a minute!" he said, not moving.

"You're taking cold, aren't you?" Hermione asked.

"No."

"Liar. You sound like you're breathing through a straw right now," Hermione replied.

"I'm not taking cold. I've already got it. Never fails. I spend more than three days straight on that ship, I get a head cold. Even if it's not damp," he complained, sitting up reluctantly, sniffling.

"Well, either quit bellyaching about it or suck it up and go down to the hospital wing, then," Hermione ordered, putting away more of their unpacked things into the wardrobe, the last stragglers.

"I am not getting the mediwitch to open up the hospital wing just for a cold. I'll be right back," Viktor said, getting his dressing gown on.

"No, you won't. You'll be lucky to get out of her little clutches in an hour or less," Hermione said pleasantly.

"Fine. I'll be back when I'm back, then," he said, heading for the other room. "Okay, what do you want me to read?"

"I want to look at these," Evangelina said, holding up a photo album.

"Where did you get those?" Viktor asked, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Mama made it. She said I could put photos of the new babies in it, later, and it would have everybody in it," Evangelina said. The photos were in no particular order or arrangement, and they spent some time flipping through them, Evangelina sitting in his lap and asking questions about when and where they were taken, and who some of the people in them were. Nikolina had even mixed in some of Anna, Stan, Vlad and Simon as children. "She's pretty," Evangelina said, pointing to a picture of Magda at her easel. "Who is she?"

"She sure is. That's your Baba," Viktor said, smoothing Evangelina's hair. "She looks a lot different in that picture than she does in most of the paintings. She liked to get good and dirty when she painted, too."

"How come Danail doesn't have a Nana, and I've got a Nana?" Evangelina asked.

"Well... a long time before you were born, Nana and I weren't married to each other. We both married other people. You know these rings we always wear on chains around our necks? Those are our wedding rings, from the first time. And we loved them, very much. That's why we keep wearing our rings, and keep their photos out, and paintings." He idly fiddled with the chain around his neck for a moment, holding the ring out where Evangelina could see. "Your Nana was married to a man named Ron Weasley. And they lived together, and they had Simon together. And I married your Baba. Her name was Magda. And she gave me your Tate, and Stan, and Anna," Viktor explained.

"What happened to them?" Evangelina asked curiously.

"Ron... he was an Auror. You remember we talked about what they do? Catch bad people? And how dangerous that is? Some bad people hurt him while he was doing his job. Badly enough that he died. And after that, Nana had to take care of Simon by herself. And your Baba... she got really sick. Sick with something really bad, that not a lot of people get. She got sick enough that she died, too, and I was by myself. And we were both awfully lonely by ourselves. We had these big gaps where these people we loved used to be. So, we're really lucky we found each other," Viktor said carefully.

"Lucky?" Evangelina repeated.

"I'm sure, if we could have fixed it, Nana never would have wanted Ron to get hurt, and for Simon to lose his Tate. And I never wanted your Baba to get sick, either. And I'm sure Ron never would have wanted to leave Nana or Simon. And I know your Baba never would have left us, if she had been given the choice. But there are some things you can't change, and that's one of them. Getting sick with something like that, or what bad people do, sometimes. Your Baba would have been just crazy about you. I'm sorry you never got to meet her. But you never completely lose someone you love. They're still in your heart and your memories. They leave little pieces of themselves behind. You're a lot like her, you know. You and your Tate smile and talk like her. And Stan draws and paints like her. You know all those paintings over the fireplace? She did most of those. I think you're going to be good at that, too. And Anna does the exact same thing with her mouth, when she's thinking, that your Baba used to do. Just like that," Viktor said, running a fingertip over the photo. "Baba would have loved taking care of you. I bet she would have taught you how to paint and draw, and all kinds of things. But, since we can't change that, we sure are lucky to have Nana to help take care of us all, instead. Aren't we?" he prompted. Evangelina nodded. "And maybe we can help take care of Nana and Simon a little, too. And Caroline and their baby. Help fill in the gap a little. Do some of the things Ron would have. Just like Nana does some of the things Baba would have done if she were still here."

"Like knitting caps?"

"Like knitting caps."

"You still love Baba?" Evangelina asked.

"I loved her with all my heart. Still do. But I love your Nana, too. Just as much. Look, it's like Mama and Tate and the new baby coming. Mama and Tate love you more than anything in the entire world. And they'll love the new baby just as much. But they'll still love you just as much, too. And Nana and I won't love you any less, either. We could never forget you, because we love you. It's the same with Ron and your Baba. We'll never forget them, because we loved them. Any of us. You understand?" Viktor asked.

"I think so."

"It's getting late. Why don't we put this up, and finish looking at it tomorrow? And you can get Nana to tell you some more about Ron, and I'll tell you more about Baba," Viktor said, putting the photo album back on the bedside table. Then he tucked Evangelina under the covers.

"What was Baba like?" she asked, her eyelids heavy.

"She was something else. Nana had some big shoes to fill. Luckily, Nana's something else, too. Now go to sleep. Time enough for that tomorrow," he scolded gently, kissing her forehead. The little girl was drowsing by the time he pulled the door together.

"See? I told you," Hermione said as he climbed back into bed.

"It got complicated," Viktor said, flopping back against the pillow. "It wasn't just 'read me a story'."

"So I heard. Every word, in fact."

"And?"

"And it was very sweet. All of it."

"And I meant every word of it. Except I'm not sure Magda ever would have taken up knitting. She never was much on knitting. A couple of pairs of booties were about her limit when she was expecting Vlad," Viktor said. "She bought baby afghans."

"That's okay. I doubt Ron would have knitted, either," Hermione said with a laugh. "Pregnant or no."

"You know what I meant," Viktor said tiredly, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth for an instant before disappearing, not opening his eyes. He sniffled again.

"I know what you meant. Even if my Bulgarian still leaves something to be desired. It was still very sweet. What you said. Obicham te. Leka nosht," Hermione said, kissing his lips, then resting her head on his shoulder. He tucked his arm behind and around her.

"Obicham te. Better back off. You'll be having my cold," Viktor warned.

"I'm sleeping with you. I think ending up with your cold from kissing you is the least of my worries," Hermione allowed. "I know you're worn out, but are you even going to be able to sleep with your head like..." She trailed off when he began snoring. "I guess the answer is yes," she whispered. Hermione reached up with a tentative finger and lightly ran the tip of it over his cheek. He turned his head toward her and rested his cheek against her forehead, and the snoring ceased. "Thank you, Anna. And Magda. That's quite the handy trick," Hermione said, smiling to herself, settling in and drifting off to sleep.