Sleepless Nights, Hermione/Viktor, PG-13
Title: Sleepless Nights
Pairing: Hermione/Viktor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1450
Summary: Viktor contemplates the many things he's lost sleep over through the years.
Warnings: Mention of child abuse
A/N: My apologies for rarely writing anything anymore. My muse appears to be completely gone! If anyone finds her, please send her home.
The instant Viktor heard the baby’s mewling cry, his eyes popped open. He tossed the covers over onto Hermione’s empty spot and padded barefoot into the nursery. With the baby cradled in the crook of his arm, he fixed her a bottle, and then settled into the rocking chair. Viktor fluffed her dark, soft hair with a kiss.
As a young mediwitch, particularly one specializing in such a scorned subject as Muggle remedies, Hermione seldom got to choose her hours. Often she admitted to feeling guilty that she wasn’t home more, but Viktor reminded her that she’d worked hard to get where she was. Besides, he was always home these days. At twenty-eight, a Bludger had shattered all of the bones in his hand. He didn’t have the pin-point precision needed to catch a Snitch anymore-but his hands worked perfectly for Viktor’s new job: handy househusband and devoted daddy.
He trailed the pad of his fingertip along his daughter’s velvety cheekbone. This plump, greedy little girl had him waking up every two hours; he suspected she would be a demanding woman when she grew up. But Viktor didn’t mind these sleepless nights. He had been privy to a lot of them in his life, and not all of them had been passed as pleasantly as rocking an angel and humming lullabies.
When he was six, monsters had lived in Viktor’s room, lurking in every shadow, waiting on him to make the tiniest move so they could jump out and grab him. The first time he realized they were there, Viktor lay, alert and frozen, for what felt like hours. Finally, finally, he worked up enough nerve to rush down the corridor to Mama and Papa’s room. Clambering onto the bed, he explained the problem in a voice wavering with frightened tears.
Papa’s mean black eyes flashed, and Viktor realized that the monsters he didn’t know were not nearly as scary as the one he did.
The next two nights Viktor was wide awake, afraid of the monsters, but more afraid of Papa. Real men, Krum men, were not afraid of anything, ever, Papa had commanded. But the third night, Viktor ran back to his parents’ bedroom again.
The next day, while Papa was working, Viktor’s mama held him on her lap like she did when he was really small and asked him not to come again at night. “Do not show fear or cry before him, Viktor,” she begged. “I hate to see him use the Crucio on you, but you know I cannot stop him.”
“Why can he not just use a whip like Hristo’s papa?”
“Papa believes that you will be a better man this way, and that you will learn to respect the power of magic.”
Perhaps those painful nights had made Viktor a better man, because he had vowed to never be the kind of man his father had been. And eventually the monsters had gone away.
He had spent his first night at Durmstrang wide awake, too, worried that the older boys would come to the dorm and play tricks on the new students. He had heard terrible things from second-years on the ship. Viktor had been right to worry: right before dawn, not long after he’d finally fallen asleep, he found himself drenched with a rushing spout of icy water from a fifth-year’s wand.
The night before his first professional Quidditch game had been agonizing, too. Viktor smiled to himself at the memory. He had been fifteen, sharing a hotel room with the next-youngest player on the team: a twenty-year-old man who teetered on the line between respect and resentment for his younger teammate. To the sound of his brain-jarring snoring, Viktor had imagined precisely four thousand, two hundred and seventy-seven ways the next day’s game could go wrong, most of them his fault. Instead, he had ridden well and caught the Snitch, and they’d won by a landslide.
The baby hiccupped, and Viktor realized her bottle was empty. He tossed a spit-rag on his shoulder, lifted her, and began to pat her gently as he delved back into his thoughts.
Viktor had lost plenty of sleep at Hogwarts, too, although those nights-stressful at the time-were now a pleasant memory. What teenage boy hasn’t tossed and turned in his berth, wondering the best way to ask a girl to a ball, the best ways to make her care for him, the perfect way to say “I love you” for the first time? He had stared at the ceiling for hours after their first kiss, reliving it in his mind, time after time, in intimate detail: the ways her eyes had looked just before, the petal-pink of her cheeks as she looked away afterwards, the feel and taste of her lips. Viktor got less sleep the months he spent at Hogwarts than he had any other time in his life…but those were the very best months he had lived through.
The night before the third challenge had been terrible. He was worried about the challenge itself, yes, but Viktor had been more worried about his parents’ arrival. Should he introduce them to Hermione? His father would probably Crucio both of them, Hermione for being Muggleborn and Viktor for even looking twice at her-much less falling in love with her! Viktor had decided to introduce Hermione to Mama, but not to his father. He was too worried Papa would say something to hurt her.
Hermione had never met Viktor’s father, nor seen his mother again. Viktor had made the decision to fight against Death Eaters during the war, which had leaked over as far as Bulgaria in small patches-another decision that had kept him awake at night. His parents fought on the other side, although he suspected Mama would rather have fought alongside him instead of Papa. They’d both been killed.
The baby wiggled and flailed her tiny fits, smacking Viktor in the nose. He shifted her from his shoulder to cradle her in both hands. She grinned at him, her little gummy smile, and gurgled happily. Of course she would want to play at three in the morning! He smiled back at her and started making silly faces. She had Hermione’s caramel-colored eyes.
Now, Hermione-she had caused a lot of sleepless nights when they’d reunited after the war! Those were nights of heat and passion, lace and sweat and the wet, sticky sound of skin against skin. Those were nights when, spent, Hermione curled against his side with her head on his chest, the scent of sex mingling with the perfume of her hair, tickling his nose. Countless dreams they’d dreamed together, without sleeping a wink. And most of those dreams, Viktor thought, cradling his daughter’s silky head, had come true.
They’d been married a year when Hermione became pregnant the first time. She was still in university at the time, and that night, too, had been sleepless. She had cried against his chest, not ready, still wanting to chase all of her butterfly-winged dreams. Viktor had promised to do everything he could to make sure she achieved every single color in her prism of hope. Many, many nights he had paced with his colicky son, while Hermione, flopped in the rocking chair, recited lists of maladies, remedies and potions ingredients aloud-both to memorize them and to soothe the baby the with steady rhythm of her voice.
“Daddy?”
Viktor looked at the doorway, where his small son stood, curls tousled and pajamas twisted. “Yes?”
The boy sighed. “It’s that boggart again. The one under the bed.”
Viktor fought a smile; the boggart came from the same place Viktor’s childhood monsters had come from: an overactive imagination. “Do you vant me to get rid of it?”
“No,” he answered, brow wrinkled in thought, “that’s ok. He should go away in a little while. Could I just sit with you?”
“Of course,” Viktor answered, cradling the baby to his chest with one arm and wrapping his other around his son.
The boy snuggled into his chest. “Will you sing the hush-little-baby song that Mommy sings?”
Viktor stifled a sigh; he didn’t know all of Hermione’s songs yet, so but he would make it up as he went. In a low, soft voice, he sang until both children’s eyelashes lay still against their round, pink cheeks, “Hush little baby, don’t you…squeal. And Daddy vill buy you a sugar quill. If that sugar quill’s not sveet, Daddy vill get you some Quidditch cleats…”
Eventually his voice trailed off, and that’s how Hermione found all three of them when she got home at dawn: conquering a sleepless night.
Pairing: Hermione/Viktor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1450
Summary: Viktor contemplates the many things he's lost sleep over through the years.
Warnings: Mention of child abuse
A/N: My apologies for rarely writing anything anymore. My muse appears to be completely gone! If anyone finds her, please send her home.
The instant Viktor heard the baby’s mewling cry, his eyes popped open. He tossed the covers over onto Hermione’s empty spot and padded barefoot into the nursery. With the baby cradled in the crook of his arm, he fixed her a bottle, and then settled into the rocking chair. Viktor fluffed her dark, soft hair with a kiss.
As a young mediwitch, particularly one specializing in such a scorned subject as Muggle remedies, Hermione seldom got to choose her hours. Often she admitted to feeling guilty that she wasn’t home more, but Viktor reminded her that she’d worked hard to get where she was. Besides, he was always home these days. At twenty-eight, a Bludger had shattered all of the bones in his hand. He didn’t have the pin-point precision needed to catch a Snitch anymore-but his hands worked perfectly for Viktor’s new job: handy househusband and devoted daddy.
He trailed the pad of his fingertip along his daughter’s velvety cheekbone. This plump, greedy little girl had him waking up every two hours; he suspected she would be a demanding woman when she grew up. But Viktor didn’t mind these sleepless nights. He had been privy to a lot of them in his life, and not all of them had been passed as pleasantly as rocking an angel and humming lullabies.
When he was six, monsters had lived in Viktor’s room, lurking in every shadow, waiting on him to make the tiniest move so they could jump out and grab him. The first time he realized they were there, Viktor lay, alert and frozen, for what felt like hours. Finally, finally, he worked up enough nerve to rush down the corridor to Mama and Papa’s room. Clambering onto the bed, he explained the problem in a voice wavering with frightened tears.
Papa’s mean black eyes flashed, and Viktor realized that the monsters he didn’t know were not nearly as scary as the one he did.
The next two nights Viktor was wide awake, afraid of the monsters, but more afraid of Papa. Real men, Krum men, were not afraid of anything, ever, Papa had commanded. But the third night, Viktor ran back to his parents’ bedroom again.
The next day, while Papa was working, Viktor’s mama held him on her lap like she did when he was really small and asked him not to come again at night. “Do not show fear or cry before him, Viktor,” she begged. “I hate to see him use the Crucio on you, but you know I cannot stop him.”
“Why can he not just use a whip like Hristo’s papa?”
“Papa believes that you will be a better man this way, and that you will learn to respect the power of magic.”
Perhaps those painful nights had made Viktor a better man, because he had vowed to never be the kind of man his father had been. And eventually the monsters had gone away.
He had spent his first night at Durmstrang wide awake, too, worried that the older boys would come to the dorm and play tricks on the new students. He had heard terrible things from second-years on the ship. Viktor had been right to worry: right before dawn, not long after he’d finally fallen asleep, he found himself drenched with a rushing spout of icy water from a fifth-year’s wand.
The night before his first professional Quidditch game had been agonizing, too. Viktor smiled to himself at the memory. He had been fifteen, sharing a hotel room with the next-youngest player on the team: a twenty-year-old man who teetered on the line between respect and resentment for his younger teammate. To the sound of his brain-jarring snoring, Viktor had imagined precisely four thousand, two hundred and seventy-seven ways the next day’s game could go wrong, most of them his fault. Instead, he had ridden well and caught the Snitch, and they’d won by a landslide.
The baby hiccupped, and Viktor realized her bottle was empty. He tossed a spit-rag on his shoulder, lifted her, and began to pat her gently as he delved back into his thoughts.
Viktor had lost plenty of sleep at Hogwarts, too, although those nights-stressful at the time-were now a pleasant memory. What teenage boy hasn’t tossed and turned in his berth, wondering the best way to ask a girl to a ball, the best ways to make her care for him, the perfect way to say “I love you” for the first time? He had stared at the ceiling for hours after their first kiss, reliving it in his mind, time after time, in intimate detail: the ways her eyes had looked just before, the petal-pink of her cheeks as she looked away afterwards, the feel and taste of her lips. Viktor got less sleep the months he spent at Hogwarts than he had any other time in his life…but those were the very best months he had lived through.
The night before the third challenge had been terrible. He was worried about the challenge itself, yes, but Viktor had been more worried about his parents’ arrival. Should he introduce them to Hermione? His father would probably Crucio both of them, Hermione for being Muggleborn and Viktor for even looking twice at her-much less falling in love with her! Viktor had decided to introduce Hermione to Mama, but not to his father. He was too worried Papa would say something to hurt her.
Hermione had never met Viktor’s father, nor seen his mother again. Viktor had made the decision to fight against Death Eaters during the war, which had leaked over as far as Bulgaria in small patches-another decision that had kept him awake at night. His parents fought on the other side, although he suspected Mama would rather have fought alongside him instead of Papa. They’d both been killed.
The baby wiggled and flailed her tiny fits, smacking Viktor in the nose. He shifted her from his shoulder to cradle her in both hands. She grinned at him, her little gummy smile, and gurgled happily. Of course she would want to play at three in the morning! He smiled back at her and started making silly faces. She had Hermione’s caramel-colored eyes.
Now, Hermione-she had caused a lot of sleepless nights when they’d reunited after the war! Those were nights of heat and passion, lace and sweat and the wet, sticky sound of skin against skin. Those were nights when, spent, Hermione curled against his side with her head on his chest, the scent of sex mingling with the perfume of her hair, tickling his nose. Countless dreams they’d dreamed together, without sleeping a wink. And most of those dreams, Viktor thought, cradling his daughter’s silky head, had come true.
They’d been married a year when Hermione became pregnant the first time. She was still in university at the time, and that night, too, had been sleepless. She had cried against his chest, not ready, still wanting to chase all of her butterfly-winged dreams. Viktor had promised to do everything he could to make sure she achieved every single color in her prism of hope. Many, many nights he had paced with his colicky son, while Hermione, flopped in the rocking chair, recited lists of maladies, remedies and potions ingredients aloud-both to memorize them and to soothe the baby the with steady rhythm of her voice.
“Daddy?”
Viktor looked at the doorway, where his small son stood, curls tousled and pajamas twisted. “Yes?”
The boy sighed. “It’s that boggart again. The one under the bed.”
Viktor fought a smile; the boggart came from the same place Viktor’s childhood monsters had come from: an overactive imagination. “Do you vant me to get rid of it?”
“No,” he answered, brow wrinkled in thought, “that’s ok. He should go away in a little while. Could I just sit with you?”
“Of course,” Viktor answered, cradling the baby to his chest with one arm and wrapping his other around his son.
The boy snuggled into his chest. “Will you sing the hush-little-baby song that Mommy sings?”
Viktor stifled a sigh; he didn’t know all of Hermione’s songs yet, so but he would make it up as he went. In a low, soft voice, he sang until both children’s eyelashes lay still against their round, pink cheeks, “Hush little baby, don’t you…squeal. And Daddy vill buy you a sugar quill. If that sugar quill’s not sveet, Daddy vill get you some Quidditch cleats…”
Eventually his voice trailed off, and that’s how Hermione found all three of them when she got home at dawn: conquering a sleepless night.