Let The Dark In

13

Hermione stares at Harry in confusion, choosing to ignore the ridiculous degree of astonishment currently on his face. “Viktor Krum?” She repeats the name, feeling as if she should recognise it but the memory is escaping her.

She looks towards Viktor, who’s holding two glasses of punch and seems to be sidetracked by a conversation with Karkaroff.

“You don’t know who Krum is?” Ron says, looking ready to faint. “He’s just the greatest Seeker of all time! He was already on the Bulgarian National Team before he even left Durmstrang. That’s how good he is. You even saw him! He was the Bulgarian seeker at the Quidditch World Cup when we went.”

A vague memory of it begins to dawn on Hermione and she turns to stare in astonishment at Viktor as he tries to hedge away from Karkaroff, who looks determined to keep him.

“I didn’t recognise him,” Hermione says. “He asked to have the first dance, and he was nice, so I said yes.”

At that Ron makes a sound like a punctured balloon and collapses into a chair.

“Where did you meet him?” Harry asks, still staring at Hermione as if he’s not sure he knows her.

Before Hermione can reply, McGonagall comes over and herds her to the Head Table for dinner, muttering things about how she can talk to her friends at any time, and Hermione goes willingly because she isn’t ready to admit that she only met Viktor fifteen minutes earlier when he found her crying among the rose bushes.

The long tables that usually fill the Great Hall are gone, replaced by lots of smaller ones to make room for the dance floor, but the Head Table remains up on the dais, with seats for the judges and champions and their dates. There’s an empty seat to her right, but before she can even put the napkin on her lap, Viktor materialises, looking uncertain as he rests a hand on the back of the chair.

“I vas told to sit here, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Her voice jumps just a little because even though she doesn’t care for Quidditch, it’s not every day that an international Quidditch champion sweeps into her life to solve problems for her.

Ron and Harry are at one of the lower tables. Ron’s eyes are glued to the Head Table; he watches bug-eyed as Viktor seats himself beside Hermione. Her chest fills with obscenely smug satisfaction.

She looks away from Ron to study Viktor. “I didn’t recognise you before, I’m sorry.”

He smiles crookedly. “It’s alright. I liked it. When Karkaroff asked me to come tonight, I could not easily say no, but ve do not agree on many things. He brought me here to use as a prop in his feud vith Dumbledore, to show off like a trophy. I do not much care for it.”

“I guess we’ll have to keep dancing, so he can’t keep you,” Hermione says and then blushes because she doesn’t want to presume, but Viktor’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Excellent. He cannot get me if I am dancing.”

And just like that, it’s settled.

Hermione glances around and finds a lot of people are still staring. Now that she knows that Viktor is famous she can understand why. Even Malfoy seems to be watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Vat is it like to be a champion?” Viktor asks once they’ve ordered their meals.

“Oh, well, I don’t know what it’s like for others, but for me it’s —” she fidgets with the napkin before unfurling it and placing it on her lap, “— it’s rather intimidating, being one of the first champions in so long. But — I think that makes it special.”