Kiss The Flame

Never again would Hermione Granger fly on European Airlines.

Of course, the airline hadn't deliberately seated her next to an incredibly large man. A man who had been snoring continuously for the last four hours. A man who certainly appeared to be drooling, although Hermione wasn't willing to investigate that too closely.

Knowing that her anger was irrational and telling herself to remain calm for the remaining hour of the flight, Hermione pulled the book that her father had give to her from her carry-on. She smiled to herself as she remember Paul Granger's admonition to hide the gift from her mother--"She'll have my head if she thinks that I've been encouraging you to leave home without constant supervision. Specifically, her supervision," he had said. Helen Granger did indeed have a tendency to be overprotective. Or oppressively neurotic, one of the two.

For that reason, it was probably a good thing that the Grangers knew nothing about Voldemort's return, or the murder of one of Hermione's classmates, or the existence of Death Eaters. Hermione didn't enjoy keeping secrets like these from her parents--especially her father--but she was well aware that she would be pulled right out of Hogwarts if her parents didn't believe that it was an absolute fortress against violence and evil. Her parents never would have consented to this trip to Bulgaria if they knew the truth, either. Most likely, she would have been kept under lock and key until September, when she would be enrolled in an all-girls' school somewhere in the Swiss wilderness.

As it was, the Grangers only consented to the trip when Hermione promised to use Muggle transportation. Glaring once more at the snoring man, Hermione wished she had been able to use Floo powder as the Krums had suggested.

Hermione opened her copy of La Morte d'Arthur only to find a hand-written note from her father:

Hermione--

I hope you're enjoying your flight.

(Hermione scoffed under her breath.)

At the risk of sounding like your mother (who is a wonderful person, of course), I just wanted to tell you once more to be careful on this trip. I know that you're capable of taking care of yourself, but bear in mind that Bulgaria isn't the most stable area in the world. And about that boy...

Hermione squinted at the next sentence or so, which had been thoroughly scribbled out with her father's black pen. She smirked to herself, wondering exactly what her father had to say about Viktor.

Have a great time with the Krums,

Dad

Apparently the Grangers didn't believe Hermione's claim that she and Viktor Krum were just friends--come to think of it, Hermione wasn't sure that she did, either. Well, she wouldn't have to deal with that until she got off this accursed flight. The man to her right let out a loud snort, and Hermione scowled slightly him. With a quick prayer that her plane experience wasn't a bad omen for her vacation, Hermione snuggled back into her seat and began the adventures of King Arthur.

* * * * *

"We are now preparing to land at the Sofia International Airport," a rather tinny voice announced. "Please fasten your seatbelts and return your trays to their upright and locked position." The voice then repeated the message in French and in another language which Hermione assumed to be Bulgarian.

Thank the gods, Hermione thought. If I don't get off this plane soon...

The multilingual announcement had woken the large man seated next to Hermione. She scrunched up closer to the window as he stretched his arms and yawned loudly. When he began to sing "Back in the U.S.S.R." softly while attempting to buckle his seatbelt, Hermione just rolled her eyes.

The jet landed without mishap, and Hermione scrambled to leave the plane. Being a Muggle-born, she was accustomed to the chaos of airports--the luggage being dragged to and fro, the angry airline employees dealing with the angrier passengers, the screaming infants and wandering toddlers.

Hermione had read every Bulgarian guide book she could find, studied the history of the U.S.S.R, and even memorized the Cyrillic alphabet to prepare herself for this trip. Nothing had prepared her, however, for the welcome she received from the Krums.

"Herm-own-ninny!" she heard a voice call out above the din of bustling families, business executives, and security guards.

She spun around quickly, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. "Viktor?"

Thin, sallow, hook-nosed Viktor Krum emerged from the masses, grinning from ear to ear. Of course, he was no longer sallow--the heat and sunshine of the Bulgarian summer seemed to be agreeing with him--and it appeared that his Quidditch training was building some muscle mass. He looked much more comfortable in his homeland than he had at Hogwarts--even if he was still pronouncing Hermione's name wrong.

"Viktor," Hermione repeated, with a smile and a relieved sigh. She had no desire to be lost in a foreign country where she only knew how to say "Hello," "Goodbye," and "umbrella."

"I am very glad that you haff come, Herm-own-ninny," Viktor said. The two reached out as if to hug, but they awkwardly stopped short within inches of each other, blushing slightly. Hermione looked down with a sheepish grin, tucking her hair behind her ear. Viktor covered his discomfort by grabbing Hermione's carry-on from its location on the floor.

At that moment, the remaining members of the Krum family pushed their way through the crowd. Mrs. Krum, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, was puffing slightly and pulling on the hand of a taller girl who whose taste in clothing could be best described as "earthy." Mr. Krum, with less and greyer hair than his son, held himself rather stiffly, as if he was uncomfortable--Hermione couldn't be sure if he didn't like crowds, or he just didn't like Muggles.

So that's what Viktor will look like when he's older, Hermione thought, squinting at Viktor's father. I could live with...Hermione cut herself off, cursing Parvati and Lavender for filling her head with boy-crazy notions.

Mrs. Krum knocked Hermione out of her brief reverie with a crushing hug. Once Hermione had recovered her breath, she returned the embrace and caught sight of the enormous sign under the woman's arm. Not just a sign, but a blinking sign. A sign across which the words "Welcome, Hermione" scrolled in various colors and languages.

Hermione glanced around to make sure that no Muggles had caught sight of the sign--it was more like a billboard, really--but all at the airport seemed to be completely engrossed with their own luggage and travelling problems.

"Ve are happy that you haff come to visit us," Mrs. Krum told Hermione in heavily accented English. "Viktor has told us much about you, Herm-own...Her-my-own-ee." The woman appeared rather proud of the correct, if rather slow, pronunciation of the name. "My name is Reneta Krum. This is my husband, Dr. Gavril Krum"--the man managed a curt nod as he shook Hermione's hand--"and you haff not met our daughter, Svetlana." The tall girl, whom Hermione guessed to be about sixteen, smiled at her guest. Hermione hid a grin as she noticed that Svetlana's eyes kept darting towards the extremely loud sign carried by Mrs. Krum.

"Vell, now that ve are acquainted," Mrs. Krum continued, clapping her hands, "ve vould like to take you to our home in style." Hermione cringed inwardly--she certainly hoped that this "in style" mode of transportation would be nothing like the Krums' well-intended but inept attempt at a welcome sign.

"Don't worry," Svetlana whispered as she steered Hermione towards the luggage carousel. "It's a Rolls Royce, not a polka-dotted bus."

Hermione tried to silence her obvious sigh of relief, but Svetlana heard it and grinned. "Mama can be a little...overeager, sometimes, I know. But she liked you before she even met you...mostly because you don't play Quidditch." She slung Hermione's duffel bag over her shoulder and joined her parents, who were waiting by the turnstile.

Hermione, left alone with Viktor to wait for her second suitcase to appear, racked her brain for a topic of conversation. "Er, you...your sister speaks English really well," she remarked after an awkward pause.

"Yes. She vos taking the classes at school--languages are good vith her. My mother and me, ve are also learning." He glanced at Hermione for approval or perhaps a correction. Hermione, however, had her eyes fixed on the moving suitcases, so Viktor continued, "My father, though, he is...stubborn, I am thinking."

Hermione looked over at Dr. Krum, who was now scowling at several young children chasing each other nearby. She shivered slightly--the swarthy man was rather intimidating.

"Any reason why?" she ventured.

Viktor shrugged indifferently, and the arrival of Hermione's suitcase saved him from having to explain the inner workings of his father's mind. He and Hermione returned to the rest of the Krums, who had somehow procured a luggage cart. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that they had conjured it, but she wasn't about to ask.

"Vell, now," Mrs. Krum began, "ve must start home. The drive vill be of several hours, Her-my-own-ee--if you do not sleepy, you vill see the landscape of our country." She readjusted the strap of her overly large purse on one shoulder, then beckoned to her family. "Viktor, take Her-my-own-ee's hand," she ordered. "Do not let her to be lost in the crowd."

Hermione was torn between irritation at being treated like a child and gratitude for having an excuse to hold Viktor's hand.

Stop it, she told herself sternly. Soon you'll start giggling, and Hermione Granger does not giggle.

With a shy smile, Viktor squeezed her hand and led her out to the parking lot.

The car, which Viktor told her had been borrowed from the Quidditch team, seemed quite normal--despite the blinking headlights and the device (of unknown purpose) on the hood which spun around and made buzzing noises.

Hermione grinned to herself. She loved her parents and their safe, Muggle lives, but nothing could compare to the novelty of the wizarding world.

* * * * *

Hidden by a patch of shrubbery, the gaunt figure finally spotted his prey. His unkempt hair and torn, filthy clothing made him appear out of place in the bright sunshine. Of course, no passers-by actually noticed his presence; his wand was still good for something, after all.

He bared his teeth viciously--there was no way that the girl would get away this time. The figure needed only a few days to observe his victim; then, he would be able to strike with surety. After sneering once more at her naivete, he retreated to the thick, shady forest that he was temporarily calling home.

The Dark Lord wanted the girl dead, and what the Dark Lord wanted, he received--fast.