Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Characters:
Hermione Granger Viktor Krum
Genres:
General Romance
Era:
Multiple Eras
Stats:
Published: 06/09/2003
Updated: 11/20/2003
Words: 224,686
Chapters: 100
Hits: 71,003

Past Present

Miss Yetigoosecreature

Story Summary:
Hermione, Harry, and Ron visit Viktor Krum in Bulgaria and discover there's a lot more to Viktor's past than they could have imagined.

Chapter 34

Chapter Summary:
Hermione and Viktor get ready for the Opening Ball at Durmstrang, and have the accompanying large attack of nerves and self doubt. Equal opportunity self criticism and fashion. Lots of internal dialogue. Heavily influenced by Avril Lavigne's Things I'll Never Say.
Posted:
07/09/2003
Hits:
689
Author's Note:
Warning: I wrote this chapter under the severe influence of Avril Lavigne's Things I'll Never Say. I played it over and over about twenty times while I wrote it, and in fact, I suggest you fire up the song while you're reading the chapter. It sets the mood. Lots of internal dialogue, so much, in fact, that I felt compelled to put it in italics. Fun chapter to do, if for no other reason than you get to see a guy go through some angst while getting ready. You finally get to see (well, read) what Viktor's wearing to the ball, find out what he's self-conscious about, and it gets us one step closer to the actual ball. A ball scene with a cast of thousands, so big, so epic in scope, that I have just finished writing it. And you get Viktor in a towel. Dripping wet. Wait, get hold of yourselves, girls, don't faint before you read the chapter!

"I bet Viktor isn't doing this," she said to herself. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Hermione twisted her hair up into a bulky French twist and put the silver clasp in firmly. That's got most of it, at least, she thought, looking into the mirror and tucking a few stray tendrils back into and under the twist with bobby pins. It was a losing battle to get all of her hair tucked in without at least a gallon of hair potion, because curls wanted to spray from the twist in every direction, so she simply fluffed the longer curls, ignored the smaller, loose ones brushing the nape of her neck, and hoped she looked stylishly mussed, rather than just messy. She surveyed herself in the mirror and nervously smoothed the skirt of her dress robe again, though there wasn't a crease or wrinkle in sight.

She had chosen a sleek, satin robe in silver with a matching pair of sensible but dressy platform sandals and a light cloak. She fastened the clasp onto the cloak at her throat, and took one last look. Madame Malkin had assured her that the silver looked fantastic on her. The slit over her left leg made it easy to wear, to dance in, the shoes were perfect with it. It was a bit more than she was used to spending, but they had seem worth it. Used to spending. Who am I kidding? Like I bought tons of dress robes in years past. The Yule Ball robe was the first time she had so much as considered the existence of dress robes, much less shopped for them. I don't know why I'm so nervous, she thought to herself. He asked me here. He wants me here. He's already seen me dance, so I can't possibly embarrass myself any more than I already have by being a klutz on the dance floor. He has the hard job. He has to lead. He leads well. He made me look more than decent at it. I didn't kill anyone with my waltzing. Or even my flying. He liked me with my big teeth and bushy hair, just as much as he liked me with dress robes and my hair all slicked down. Surely he'll meet me halfway and like me in a dress robe and my hair up, if not tamed.

She mentally shook herself and began a stern lecture in her head. Hermione Granger, he doesn't care if your hair is perfect or if you have on the most expensive robe in the room. Get a grip on yourself. Stop obsessing. She stayed her hand from reaching up to a stray curl at her temple. Leave it. If he's so bothered by your escaping hair, he can fix it, she thought to herself with a touch of hysteria. I like it. Isn't that what he said? He wouldn't have said that, if he didn't mean it. Not even to take the mickey out of Katrina. On impulse, she smoothed a little lipstick onto her mouth. There. That's it. I'm done. No more fussing. I've already wasted thirty minutes on my hair alone. Unbidden, her hands smoothed over the folds of her robe again. I've gone completely obsessive compulsive, she laughed to herself. Is this what being in love is like? You develop a rousing case of mental illness? Freak out over every detail? Go completely barmy, spare in the head? I bet Viktor isn't doing this.

I bet Hermione is not doing this, Viktor thought to himself as he opened up the cupboard for the third time, intending to fetch the same pair of boots he had already come after twice already. How do you manage to forget something twice when you only have to travel a few feet across the room? First, boots... oh, no wait, I need the sash. What was I going after in the first place? Oh, yes, boots. But I would need the clothes first. Boots last. Great, and I still forgot the stupid boots. Is this what happens to you when you fall in love? Your mind goes on permanent vacation and you lose the ability to do something so basic as dress yourself? Fantastic. As though I did not have enough trouble out of that task in the first place. Never gave much thought before to what I looked like, anyway. School robes have their advantages. No thinking about what to wear. Today, the scarlet I think. Or maybe scarlet. No, I will be really adventurous and wear the scarlet instead. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Boots. Boots. Boots? Oh, look, a right and a left, and both from the same pair as well! I have managed to count up to two, hurray for me! Most intelligence I have shown in the last half hour. It is a wonder I did not drown in the bath!

Good grief, I am going to look a right idiot in these things. Why on earth do I ever let Alexei talk me into anything? To shut him up, probably. Me and my big mouth. Telling him she liked the new Quidditch uniforms. What was I thinking? Then you should get something dressier made the same way, indeed. Pants and short robe. Everyone else is going to be wearing long robes, and there I am going to be in these things. Katrina or whatever her name was had one thing straight. I am royalty alright. A royal twit. Well, they have to be better than what I am wearing now, right? I could just show up in this towel, and while I am at it, with my hair dripping wet, that would make for a pretty short date. Then Rita Skeeter can print 'Viktor Krum struck dead by Durmstrang Opening Ball date for daring to show up in a towel' tomorrow. I will just go to her door and suggest we stay in, forget the ball. He snickered as the completely absurd picture crept into his mind. Sure, Viktor, do that in the towel and put your foot in your mouth again. Have not done that enough this weekend.

He considered the pile of clothes nestled in the unwrapped parcel from the tailor shop and tried to talk himself into putting them on. Viktor, you bought them, you are stuck with them, you cannot get something different in the next twenty minutes, and you have outgrown everything else in your closet that would be half decent to wear to this thing. Put them on already. She liked the Quidditch uniform. She said so. Hermione does not engage in petty flattery. If she had hated it, she would have said so. Well, maybe not, but she would not have told you that you looked nice in it if she had not meant it. It is not like you have a choice at this point. Put the things on, do something, just stop standing here like a big lump!

The pants first. And the bloody boots I have had such a time getting all of ten feet with. Heaven help me, I have huge feet. Three sizes bigger than Papa's, and he is not exactly what I would call dainty. But then, they go with the nose and the outsized hands, do they not? At least you stand up straight occasionally, now, instead of ducking your ears into your shoulders all the time. Now the robe, then the sash. This is a first. Standing in front of a mirror before I leave for a Durmstrang ball. For anywhere, for that matter. Do I look like something of a prat? No. I probably look like a complete prat. White pants. Oh, that is asking for it. I give myself ten minutes before I get something on them. Maybe I should not have gotten my hair cut. Maybe I should have cut all of it, not just the back, since it is nearly in my eyes. Maybe I should just get out from in front of this mirror and walk down the hall already. I will turn into another Alexei at this rate, always fussing over himself and preening.

The nose is not going to get any better in the next ten minutes, either, no matter how much you stare at it. Get over yourself. You had the same damn nose last year at the Yule Ball. It was every bit as big and hooked and crooked then. It is not like De La Croix's bony elbow did any more damage to it. She seems fine with it. Teach you to stop catching bludgers with your face. Now get you and your nose and your big feet and hands down the hall, or you're going to be late, and that's not being very gentlemanly. Alexei and Elena were going to take Harry and Ron down, they're probably already gone, all you have to do is walk a few feet down the hall, knock on one door, walk one girl down the stairs and manage not to make a complete fool of yourself before you get down there. Or after. But it is not just a girl. It is her. It is Hermione. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, so tight he saw stars behind his eyelids. "I bet Hermione is not doing this", he scolded himself.

He forced himself out his own door and into the hall, staring at her door. You would think doing things like being in the World Cup would make you immune to the jitters. But somehow being with this one person all night was a thousand times more intimidating than being in front of those crowds. That was just a stupid Quidditch match. I did that a hundred times before. Did the words 'stupid Quidditch match' actually go through my head? Where did that come from? Knock, you fool. You cannot just stand out here all night, staring at the door like a starving stray crup, willing her to come out. He raised his hand and rapped lightly with his knuckles. That was a weak, weak knock, Viktor. Miracle if she heard that. He gathered his courage, raised his hand to rap again, harder.

Hermione leapt up from her perch on the bed at the first rap, grabbed the doorknob and twisted, pulling it open to catch Viktor there, with his hand raised, a look of mild surprise on his face. "Oh. Sorry. I thought maybe you hadn't heard, I did not knock very hard," he said.

"I thought it was about time, I was listening for you! Let me get my cloak, just in case, and I'll be ready to go! Oh, and I forgot to give this back to you in Bulgaria. It's the snitch you handed me," she said, pulling the golden ball from her bag. Gah! Quit being so eager beaver, Hermione! You nearly ran him over getting the door open! Oh my. Oh...oh...my. Shut your mouth Hermione, you're gawking. But I can't help it. She ran her gaze from the bottom of his boots to his face. It was something like his dress uniform, but even more formal, somehow. Softer and less structured at the same time. It was the first time she had seen him in a robe of any color other than red. Blood red Durmstrang robes. Bulgarian scarlet for the Quidditch uniforms. Now...this.

This is different. She still would have called the boots "riding boots", since they were smooth, round toed, and had a low, blocky heel, but these were so smooth and highly polished she was sure she could have seen herself in them. They gleamed, and they were so black, they looked like polished onyx, hugging his calf to just below the knee. Close-fitting white pants, wool from the look of them. A soft cream color, really, not white. Not harsh white, but subtle and warm. On top, a black satin robe with long sleeves, tied with a matching sash of the same fabric and color, softly draped over him, the neck laced loosely with silvery gray laces and mostly open, his collarbones and the chain of the locket he had been given peeking out over the neckline, the bottom hem striking his leg midway down the thigh. His hair fell in thick dark waves over his forehead, brushing his brows. Even his eyes looked almost black in the dimmer light. Black, black, black, from head to toe, broken only by the tan of his skin, the silver of the laces, and the light pants. A heavy school cloak was folded neatly and hung over one arm. Once again, she was struck by the change in his physical appearance over the last few months. Weeks, really. Alexei was right. He looked so much healthier and approachable. Not all bones and angles and hunched shoulders and invisible walls. Sleek. Shiny. Even his hair shines. And I bet he did not spend the entire hour tormenting himself about getting ready, either.

Oh my word...she looks even better than at the Yule Ball and the reception, and I did not think that was possible. Her arms were bare, the robes sleeveless. Held on her shoulders by simple spaghetti straps, they cascaded over her in silver, satiny falls and her left calf just peeked through the demure slit that started about level with her knee. The hem fell just above her ankle, and his eye was drawn down to the platforms sandals, with their silver flowers and leaves worked in metal. He looked back to her face. That smile. It might be nice if you answered her, instead of just gawking at her like a simpleton. "You keep it. I wanted you to haff it," he said.

"Are you sure?" she said, giving him another shy smile. He nodded. She turned and dropped it back into her bag.

"You..." they both began at the same time, verbally stepping on one another. "You first," she insisted.

What was I going to say? What do I want to say? He reached his right hand up halfway to his face, abruptly dropped it, then quickly braced it on his hip, bending his knee and shifting his weight. Get your hand away from your hair. Put it down. On your hip. How do you forget how to operate an arm? Off my damn hip. Stop slouching! This is not hanging out at Quidditch practice! Stand up straight and spit it out! "You ... absolutely incredible...it... does not...do it justice by a long shot." Grrrr! What the blue blazes was that? Is that the best you could come up with? Maybe I should take a page from Petyr's book and just say 'You haff pretty hair', although I suspect that works better when you are his age...

She smiled shyly at his boots, blushing from the compliment. Stop staring at his boots! You'll be stuttering next, like Marianne, and you do not have the next hour to stammer at him about how wonderful that outfit looks on him. Those Hogwarts girls would really want to rip me to pieces if they could see him now. See me now. With him looking at me like I'm some sort of dream girl. Standing ten inches away from him...staring at his feet like a big idiot! Like some sort of fascinated magpie...ooooooh....shiny! Look at the shiny boots! Say something! "Thank you. I was just about to say the same thing. You look fantastic. First time I've seen you in anything but a red robe," she murmured. Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant. Oh, well spotted, Hermione. It's not red. Duh. I bet he noticed. He knows his colors. He's not three!

"You look lovely. I could go on and on, but it would just be useless noise. We should head on down now. If we wait much longer, Alexei will be back up here with a posse," he told her, offering his arm. Oh glory be, I managed a few sentences. All by myself. I think they might have even had a subject and a verb in the proper order. Now carry her cloak, already. She laid her hand on his forearm, and he offered the other, with his cloak draped across it. "Your cloak? You might need it later, after dark," he told her. She draped her cloak across his, and they walked to the head of the stairs. Just make it down the stairs. Stairs now. Panic later.

Don't trip going down the stairs. I would absolutely die if I go tumbling down the central staircase in front of all those people milling around down there. Who am I kidding? In front of him. Stairs now. Panic later.