Transition Stages (How to Be an Accidental Stalker)
Title: Transition Stages (How to Be an Accidental Stalker)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Viktor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,400
Summary: So it’s not a betrayal of privacy, she reasons as she gingerly breaks the seal of the envelope; it’s a necessity, and any bit of her own curiosity that will be satisfied by this act is merely an added bonus. Viktor Krum, meet Ginny Weasley.
Author’s Notes: For chimbomba. Thanks captainpookey for the beta. ♥ Ginny's handwriting font is Justy1, Viktor's is LeviBrush.
Transition Stages
(How to Be an Accidental Stalker)
It’s hot. Possibly hot. Probably hot. It looks hot, at the very least.
Ginny sighs, staring out the window in the picture of wistfulness; the sky is perfectly blue, in that stupidly poetic sort of way, and all that’s separating her from it is a pane of glass. Rather, a pane of glass and Hermione Granger-wherein lies the largest part of the problem. Because even though it’s summer, and therefore hot, Hermione’s managed through some twisted miracle or another to catch cold. And because Hermione’s visiting the Burrow, and Ginny is a good friend (and hostess), Ginny won’t allow her to sit and snivel pathetically on the sofa by herself.
Even so, Ginny continuously glances out at the lack of clouds and generally ideal-for-a-game-of-Quidditch weather every thirty seconds.
“Stob dad,” Hermione groans. “You’re going do ged whiblash. Or I’b going do ged id from wadching you.”
“Sorry.” Ginny doesn’t take her eyes from the window.
“I really won’d mind ib you wan’ do go-radder, ib you do go, I dow you wan’ do. I’ll be quide all righd. I subbose I’ll jus’ sleeb. Oughd do.” She tries to straighten herself up, but her efforts are interrupted by a sneeze that sends her pulling a blanket up to her chin with another groan.
Ginny pats Hermione’s foot consolingly-as it’s the closest consolable appendage-and forces on an all-too-cheery, somewhat manic smile. “I told you already, I’m fine staying here. I’ll, y’know, play Quidditch tomorrow. Or whatever.”
“Id’s subbosed do raid doborrow.”
“Yeah, well.”
She picks at the fraying end of the blanket absently, waiting for Hermione’s reply, which is bound to be entertaining, since Ginny can only understand half of what she’s saying less than half the time. After a minute of silence and vague anticipation, though, Ginny looks up.
Hermione’s head is lolled to one side; she’s out like somebody’s just smacked her in the face with a frying pan.
“Lovely.”
»¤«
Ginny fidgets. A twiddling of the thumbs here, a toying of the hair there, and a finger tap to occupy the time in between. Hermione’s sounding more and more like Charlie by the minute-what with all the snoring-and Ginny knows for a fact that now is the opportune time to sneak off unnoticed. But there’s just something about waking up and discovering that the person who was there before you fell asleep is now gone, something unsettling that just doesn’t rest well with her.
So she sits. And she fidgets.
And it’s a lucky thing, too, because at the moment she’s about to give in and make a run for it, a very large, very angry-looking owl taps impatiently on the window. Its feathers are colored in such a way that its glare seems perpetually accentuated by a pair of severe eyebrows. She’s tempted to shoo it away, but it’s got a fat envelope clutched in its talons, and she swears the bird keeps making eye contact-so she figures it’s probably best to comply with its wishes.
Ginny flings open the window, and the Owl pushes its way past her into the room; upon finding a worthy perch, it sets-daintily sets, not drops-the envelope at Ginny’s feet. An envelope that’s actually addressed to Hermione Granger in vaguely familiar handwriting.
She eyes the envelope (the Owl eyeing her hungrily all the while) and considers. Hermione is more or less incapacitated-perhaps mildly comatose-and certainly in no state to read and comprehend a lengthy letter. And such a thorough letter must be rather urgent, and should merit a prompt response out of courtesy. It ought to be Ginny’s duty, then, as a friend, to scan the letter, owl a note to the sender forewarning a delay in an actual, sufficient reply, and report the main points to Hermione upon awakening. Following that, there might be some sort of dictation, etcetera, etcetera, and the possibility of headaches on the part of the invalid might generally be avoided, much to the relief of all parties involved.
So it’s not a betrayal of privacy, she reasons as she gingerly breaks the seal of the envelope; it’s a necessity, and any bit of her own curiosity that will be satisfied by this act is merely an added bonus.
The letter she dumps into her hands is not as long as it seemed at a cursory glance, due to the abnormal thickness of the parchment on which it’s written, but there’s still too much to it for her to bother reading past the first few sentences. And aside from that, the handwriting is distinctly male, and therefore illegible by default-each letter and word bleed into the next, as if the writer had been pressing down with particular force as he penned them.
In those first few sentences, there’s nothing much of interest, simply the usual pleasantries that a substantial correspondence requires, and Ginny finds her eyes beginning to drift out of focus. To avoid once more losing her nerve and almost neglecting her duty, she skims directly to the bottom, where a hasty signature has been scrawled.
And then-oh!-it clicks. The long letter, the crude penmanship, the intimidating owl…
This letter is from Viktor Krum. Ginny hadn’t known that Hermione was still writing to him.
She’s past the hero-worshipping days of her childhood, and Ron had always been the more enthusiastic Krum fan, even during the whole Hermione Episode of Fourth Year and Beyond, but still. In her hands, she’s currently holding the innermost thoughts of the world’s shiniest Quidditch star. It’s enough to make her blink idiotically at the thing for a minute, and almost enough for her to contemplate rubbing the parchment against her skin to see if there’s a chance that some of his talent might’ve clung to it.
But she’s mature, and she’s got her duty as Hermione’s Friend to attend to, as well as no desire whatsoever to relapse into her old habits. So she picks up a nearby quill, tears off a clean corner of an old shopping list, and composes a very mature, very dutiful note:
She doesn’t sign it, just folds it up hastily and writes
in some visible place before handing it to the Owl with a measure of caution. The Owl snatches it away, fixes upon her a single, twitching eye, and then leaves. The gust of air its beating wings produce sends her staggering a few steps backward into an unfortunate lamp.
The Owl barrels back in through the opened window no more than an hour later. Ginny screams as it zooms straight toward her in a blurry cannonball of death, but at the last possible second, it pulls up, giving her not massive cranial trauma but the very same note she’d had delivered an hour before. Her first thought, after Bloody hell, that’s a freakishly fast owl is of confusion. But then she realizes that at the bottom of her own note is a small paragraph that wasn’t there before, in Krum’s handwriting. It reads:
Ginny makes several indignant-sounding noises that don’t quite form words, and glowers at the offending note. Somewhere behind her, the Owl hoots in a rhythm that’s maddeningly akin to laughter.
“Shut up!” she growls. The Owl ignores her, and continues its mocking.
Only then does she notice that it’s still carrying a second envelope, again addressed to Hermione, but much thinner than the last.
“Give it here, you stupid bird,” Ginny commands, holding out her hand. The Owl ceases its laughter long enough to deliver a bite that could make a starving vampire envious. Reflexes alone keep her from losing all her fingers.
Apparently, the Owl is not the sort one gives orders to.
»¤«
»¤«
It doesn’t take long for the knock to come. Ginny, still being the only moderately cognizant inhabitant of the Burrow, picks herself up from the floor and haphazardly makes her way to the front door. She pulls it open, only to find Kingsley Shacklebolt and a rather grim-faced Auror, both garbed in long black robes, standing on the front porch.
“Hi Kingsley,” Ginny greets cheerily. “If you’re looking for Dad, I reckon he’s still at the Ministry.”
Kingsley shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’m here for another matter. We’ve had a report of an incident...”
“An incident? Sounds dodgy.”
Kingsley pulls a somewhat worn slip of parchment out from within his robes. “Seems someone’s been harassing Viktor Krum and Hermione Granger from this location. Does this handwriting look familiar to you?” He shows her the parchment.
“Hey, that’s-!” Of course, she recognizes the note immediately. “That’s mine!”
Kingsley arches his brows. “You wrote this?”
“Yeah, but I’m not stalking anyone!”
The other Auror, silent up till this point, turns to Kingsley. “We gonna take her in, boss?”
“Like hell you will,” Ginny murmurs beneath her breath.
Kingsley continues to look at her with interest, though he stops his fellow Auror from rooting about in his robes for some rope.
“Hermione’s in the den,” she scowls, gesturing vaguely into the room behind her. “How am I supposed to be stalking her if she’s right there?”
Kingsley nods slowly as Ginny stumbles through an explanation-stumbles, because she’s mildly embarrassed, and more than mildly furious, and the combination is making funny, nonsensical things come out of her mouth. Kingsley seems to understand, though, even if the other Auror keeps reaching for his pockets.
»¤«
»¤«
Here’s the thing that doesn’t make sense: Viktor Krum is supposed to be nice, and polite, and quiet in a surprisingly-intelligent-and-not-thick-as-a-troll sort of way-as mostly everyone assumed he was after seeing him in person. Hermione used to talk about him at Hogwarts, how, despite being the world’s shiniest Quidditch star, he was more than tolerable to be around.
She hadn’t mentioned the paranoia. (Though perhaps she hadn’t known about it.)
It’s almost a bit disappointing, truthfully. Ginny hadn’t formed any expectations-at least, she hadn’t meant to; she really, really can’t care less about Viktor Krum, really-but if she had done, she can’t help but feel that she’d be disappointed. Krum’s theoretically insane, after all-borderline unstable, minimum.
Stalking. Seriously?
As if she still does that kind of thing.
»¤«
»¤«
It’s cold. Possibly cold. No-definitely cold; there’s chill air spewing out of the window and from under the door, and other cracks in the wall that nobody can ever seem to find.
The change in weather is depressing. There’s no sunshine, despite the afternoon hour, and all traces of the previous day’s blue sky are gone from memory like a History of Magic lecture: it might as well have never existed. It’s winter in the middle of summer, just as promised by whoever it is that announces the forecast, and it’s hardly any consolation that the rain still has yet to come. Ginny adamantly refuses to peek at the window.
Hermione is asleep again, having hardly bothered to wake up for more than fifteen consecutive minutes. The other usual occupants of the Burrow are off being social or earning a living, or other such important takers of time. Ginny is curled up askance to the fireplace in the den, several blankets wrapped around her shoulders. She’s tempted to keep the fire to herself, but it directly faces Hermione who, Ginny admits, likely needs it more.
Selfishness is tempting, though, when Ginny can’t quite feel her toes.
She can leave. She can find another fire to haunt all day by herself, can find Luna or someone else to help her think of something to do; but she doesn’t, mainly because Luna’s on holiday, and because the Burrow is in a rather isolated location. Also, she may freeze if she tries to get up. Ginny doesn’t fancy becoming an ice sculpture.
Still, there’s nothing to do. There’s always been someone around her, both at home or at Hogwarts, always someone to talk to and keep her entertained. But now that everyone has grown up and more or less gone away, it’s quiet. Unsettling.
Unsettling quiet is difficult to grow accustomed to.
»¤«
The smell of wet dog reaches her nose and every other place that might conceivably sense such a foul stench. Ginny makes a face at no one in particular and moves to cover her nose, carelessly looking out the window as she does so. She hears a small fluttering noise, but ignores it.
When she turns around again, however, the Owl is looming before her.
“YEEEARRGGHH!” she shrieks, scrambling up against the back of the chair.
The Owl’s feathers glisten with rainwater. Ginny sniffs. They also seem to be the source of the smell.
When she makes another face, the Owl appears offended, but decides to spare her life.
The Owl flaps there, suspended eerily in midair, before it holds out its leg. Around it is wrapped and tied a little scroll.
“It’s not for me, you daft thing,” Ginny sighs.
The Owl waves its leg insistently.
Ginny scowls, all patience suddenly gone. “I’m not Hermione bloody Granger! She’s bloody over there, where she’s been this whole bloody time!”
The Owl growls. Ginny takes the rolled up note; and funnily enough, it’s addressed to her.
It’s a good deal friendlier than what’s been written to her previously, but Ginny isn’t a forgive-and-forget sort of girl.
Not that she’s a bitter, grudge-holding Slytherin, or anything-that job’s best left to Pansy Parkinson.
»¤«
»¤«
The same owl delivers the notes, never seeming to tire from the constant back-and-forth journeys. Every time Ginny sees it, it maintains the same expression-if owls do, in fact, express expressions-and doesn’t bother to rest.
Perhaps Bulgarian owls have learned to Apparate.
Ginny shakes her head, waiting for the Owl to return with the latest note. She’s eager to reply, to send off another quip-something remotely clever. She likes churning them out.
And she’s not being rude, she tells herself. Even if she were, it isn’t undeserved. Furthermore, she’s decidedly not enjoying this semi-conversational conversation. It’s a bit of a chore, having to pick up a quill every few minutes.
She stops. Every few minutes? The Owl’s been fast, but she hasn’t realized that it’s been that fast; she’s been too caught up in-what was it?-churning out something remotely clever.
Krum’s either been trying out an experimental brand of owl treats, or he’s not in Bulgaria. In fact, now that she thinks of it, the time lapsing between her replies and his has been steadily shortening, which means, possibly, that he’s been getting closer.
But just how close is he? He’d almost have to be-
Her thoughts cut off when she hears somebody shuffling about on the front porch.
“Hello?”
Viktor Krum is much shorter than Ginny remembers, though perhaps it’s got something to do with the fact that she hasn’t seen him up close since she was thirteen. She’s spotted him in various places since then, mostly at Quidditch matches, but he’s always been too far away to contradict her memory. Even at Bill’s wedding, he’d kept at a peculiar distance, which had left her feeling slightly miffed, as she’d seen him eyeing her once or twice.
His shoulders are just as hunched as she remembers, though, as if he’s a fish literally out of its watery home. His eyes are dark, his hair of a not-quite-effectively-tousled quality. He peers at her curiously from beneath a furrowed brow, but it’s that piercing sort of peering that makes her a bit uncomfortable, like she’s on display as the most interesting thing in existence.
“Geeny Veasley?”
The world’s shiniest Quidditch star is standing in front of her door, and all she can concentrate on is the deepness of his voice and the shifting of her own two feet.
“Yeah?”
Any disappointment which she previously hadn’t felt (but probably actually had, anyway) begins to trickle away before she can catch it and lock it up within her where it belongs.
Oh, bloody hell.
Krum scratches his head. “I vos...” He shrugs. “I vos here-”
Her attention snaps back. “You’ve been out here the entire time?”
“Not here, at house. I vos farther avay, on-you say-holiday. Holiday in England. I vos hoping to visit Herm-own-ninny.”
“Her-my-oh-nee,” Ginny snaps automatically.
“Vot?” He looks at her in that curious, piercing way again.
“Er... nevermind.” Anything to make the staring stop.
“You tell me Herm-own-ninny is not vell, but not vot is wrong. I vant to know vot is wrong.”
“Y’know, you called me a stalker-”
“I am sorry-”
“-but you’re the one popping up at my house.”
He shrugs again. “I haff been here before. Is familiar place.”
“And that’s not-?”
“I remember you, I think.” He nods to himself, as if these words and this fact can explain away all the conundrums in the world and beyond. Then he continues staring at her in an unrequitedly-comfortable silence. She supposes, though, that it’s a miracle enough that he spoke as much as he did-Hermione may have once mentioned grunting.
“Er... I reckon you can come in,” she says hesitantly. “It’s... cold.”
He seems to regard the air itself, or the breath that’s clouding in it, considering and comparing this weather and the frigid climate to which he’s used, but he doesn’t comment. Nor does he make a large show of the fact that he’s not even wearing a coat.
“See? Not dead, just sleeping.”
As if in confirmation of this, Hermione gives a contented little snore and twitches somewhere beneath the intimidating hippogriff’s nest that has become her hair. An innocent line of drool trails its way down her chin.
“You vere right,” he says, looking at Hermione. “She is not vell.”
Ginny snorts. “’Course she’s not. Not right now, at least. It’s just a cold, though.”
Krum bends slightly over Hermione, though he’s reluctant to touch her. (Then again, so is Ginny, so she can’t be much of a judge here.)
“I vos hoping to talk vith her. I haff not since-” He pauses to think. “It has been long time.”
This probably means he’s going to talk to Ginny. About Hermione. As fond of Hermione as Ginny is, she certainly doesn’t want to spend the next three hours discussing the minutest details about, say, what Hermione eats for breakfast on the third Tuesday of every month. Because first of all, it’s porridge, and not even porridge wants to talk about porridge, and second of all, it’s a creepy sort of question to begin with.
Krum clears his throat; it sounds like a feral growl. “Do you play-?”
“Porridge,” Ginny interrupts morosely.
“Vot?”
“Wait... what?”
He looks confused. “You play vith... porridge? I must haff wrong vord...”
Ginny’s cheeks color-along with every other part of her that reacts to embarrassment. “I reckoned-I mean-asking about Hermione’s breakfasting habits...”
He makes a loud, rather alarming sound that causes her to start until she realizes that it’s laughter. “That vould be very strange question,” he informs her. “Vould be question of-ah-stalker?”
“Well, yeah...”
He starts staring at her in that way again, and Ginny crosses her arms, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes and appearing very put out.
“Herm-own-ninny has very strange friends.”
They sit around Hermione like she’s a campfire, silent, contemplating, almost waiting for sparks to blaze up at the stars. Turns out that Krum doesn’t want to talk about the minutest details of Hermione’s life; he doesn’t want-or need-to talk much at all, really. It’s cold, yet he seems content to sit perfectly still. Ginny had assumed that he’d be one of those people that has to keep moving all the time, but then again, Seekers sometimes must sit and wait, hovering in the air and looking for a signal-that flash of gold-to break the spell of statues.
Ginny’s never been good at that part. In fact, she may possibly be going mad at this very moment, and nobody-except her mother, perhaps-would’ve seen it coming. Everything itches, every noise causes her to want to whirl her head around the room. Every few minutes she opens and then promptly shuts her mouth because it somehow feels inappropriate to speak.
“Do you play Quidditch?” Krum asks suddenly.
“Is that what you were asking me before?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I do, sometimes.”
“You are Seeker?”
“How’d you know?”
He prepares to speak.
“And don’t,” she warns, “say you’re stalking me. We’ve been over this, and it’s starting to get old.”
“I vos not meaning to say that.” He shrugs; it’s like a mountain moving up and down. “You look like Seeker.”
Has he been inspecting her further when she wasn’t looking?
“You don’t,” she blurts before she can stop herself.
He shrugs again. “I could haff been wrong. First opinion not always right, like book cover.”
“So it was just a lucky guess, then.”
He nods, then pauses. “Herm-own-ninny does not play Quidditch.”
Ginny laughs; she can’t help herself. If Hermione ever consented to play Quidditch regularly, and enjoyed it, the world would turn about upon its own head. “She hates flying.”
“She does not understand flying. I haff tried to explain.” Krum seems sad for a moment, but it passes quickly. “I do not haff to explain to you.”
He certainly doesn’t. Ginny has always understood the thrill of soaring through the air; she’s been on a broomstick since she was old enough to steal one from her brothers, and young enough to be forgiven when she was caught. She’s always understood the reason why it sometimes feels better to be in the sky than on the ground, why it sometimes seems unnatural to be moving without the speed and fluidity of air all above and below her.
“Yeah.”
»¤«
It’s still cold. Ginny’s forgotten to notice the current temperature, so wrapped up as she’s been in discussing Quidditch tactics and history like an overachieving Ravenclaw. Shivers shake her body now, though, since she and Krum have relapsed into quietude. Krum lounges comfortably upon the floor and leans his head back against Hermione’s legs, his dark hair flopping in his eyes. It makes her briefly wonder how he can see like that during a match. The fire hasn’t gone out; it’s still as warm as it ever was, but to the tips of Ginny’s fingers and toes, she feels mildly frozen. The Burrow is also still empty, except for the obvious three of them in the den. The rain still falls in a steady pattern that’s become boring.
In fact, this whole standing-guard-over-the-invalid thing has become boring, too. It’s like they’re waiting for something to happen, for someone to come by, but nothing and nobody do.
“Vhy do ve vatch Herm-own-ninny?” Krum asks eventually. She can tell it’s a question that’s been weighing upon him for some time.
“So she won’t be alone.”
He rights his head to peer at her. “She vould not know. If I shout, she vill not vake, even.”
Ginny waits warily to see if he’s going to test this theory, but he’s not really the randomly-shouting-to-prove-a-point type. Instead, he changes the subject.
“You are cold?”
“Was it the shivering or the fact that my lips’re blue that gave it away?”
(She honestly can’t help herself sometimes.)
He grunts. “I vill make spell.”
“Vot? I mean-what?” Even though he doesn’t speak all that much, the accent is starting to catch. “I can, y’know, ‘make a spell’ on my own. A charm, or something.”
“Then vhy haff you not?”
“You’re a lot smarter than you look.”
“That is not good reason.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“Spell is very simple-”
They rise at the same time, Krum to find his wand and approach her, and Ginny to prevent him from doing whatever it is that he’s about to do to her. She thought of some kind of Warming Charm ages ago-she just couldn’t remember what the incantation was and wasn’t planning on asking anyone. She’s supposed to be self-sufficient, and all that.
“I’ll just get another blanket,” she insists.
“It vill be quick. Promise.”
“No,” she says. “No, no, I’ll get a blanket. See?”
She tries to walk past him to the cupboard, wherein, she knows, many blankets are stowed, but haste has a way of foiling carelessly-formed intentions. Krum moves another step toward her, perhaps to accompany her to the cupboard, perhaps to stop her from going anywhere, or perhaps to hex the warmth back into her once her back is turned-she doesn’t know. What she does know is that he has large feet, both of which are particularly eager to get in her way.
Ginny’s sadly frozen toes bash against Krum’s boots, and send her sprawling to the floor.
“Oof!” she says.
She gazes upward in a daze, and for the first time ever, she sees Krum smirking at her. “You are very clumsy, Geeny.”
“Thanks.”
And she promptly passes out.
»¤«
»¤«
Something pecks sharply at Ginny’s fingers until she wakes up with a yelp and reads the note that’s being shoved in her face. She blinks. The Owl tilts its head uncomfortably far to one side and blinks back at her, still glaring in its owlish sort of way. Only after she sets the note aside, however, does she realize that she’s in her own bed, blankets pulled up over her and a tingling warmth in her fingers and toes. Aching dully, her head keeps her from focusing in full for a minute or two, though when her eyes and mind do decide to finally sharpen themselves, she sees merry sunlight streaming in through her opened bedroom window, no sign of clouds behind it.
Bloody, indecisive weather.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound of something hitting the aforementioned window sends a jolt of pain directly between her eyes, and she groans. Not just for the pain-which is considerable, when provoked-but for the remembrance of tripping and falling and going unconscious like one of those pathetic heroines Lavender Brown probably reads about.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
“Arrrgh,” she growls. She glances at the Owl, but it gazes back at her steadily and innocently, for once. With a sigh, Ginny pulls herself onto her feet, swaying lightly as she does so, and pads over to the window.
Viktor Krum hovers just outside upon a broomstick with a few pebbles in his hand. It’s becoming more and more like one of Lavender’s stupid books with each minute that passes by. Next, she’ll be learning that he’s the one that carried her up to her room, or something...
“I had to move you out of room,” he nods. “Herm-own-ninny vos using only good place.”
Oh?
“Oh.”
“I did not vant to leave you on floor.”
“Er... thanks Krum-Viktor.” She’s blushing again-and blaming genetics.
Ginny clears her throat. “My mum’d probably let you back in, if you wanted to see Hermione again.”
Viktor waves his hand as if clearing away a fly. “Vot if I vanted to see you? I do not think she vould let me in. Might be stalker.”
She lets the tired joke slide by in favor of gaping at him like a confused fish.
(Very attractive, Ginny Weasley.)
“But you want to see Hermione.” She informs him of this as if he’s not the one making up his own mind.
The same thought seems to occur to Viktor, because he laughs a little. Ginny crosses her arms defensively, though all the same, she moves closer to the window. He draws her in, somehow, like a reckless insect.
“I do not know vot to say to Herm-own-ninny now. There is never enough to talk about. She does not vant to talk, I am thinking.” Viktor’s face pulls into a serious expression, shadowed with the sun behind him.
Ginny shrugs. “She’s just been busy, I expect.”
“I am busy. But I am here.”
It’s a fair point. “But you’re still here for Hermione.”
He comes close to rolling his eyes. “And you are stubborn. But I like that. I like to talk vith you, Geeny. Herm-own-ninny is not bad person, but now I am here to see you.”
The only movement now is from the thoughts crossing her brain like a crowded street. Then:
“So-so, what?” Ginny struggles to regain her usual dignity. (Where has it run off to?) “D’you expect me to climb out the window and get on that broom now, or something?”
Viktor considers. “If you vant...”
He’s looking at her in that way again, but this time, strangely, she finds she doesn’t mind. Ginny bites her lip, and smiles.
Hermione starts awake with a half-snore, a stiff neck, and a loud yawn to follow. It’s much darker out than she remembers it being when she fell asleep, and for a moment, she’s overcome by panic. For once in her life, Hermione Granger has managed to sleep the day away.
She sits up, stretching until her hand accidentally brushes against a piece of parchment on the arm of the sofa.
She nods to herself, satisfied. So Ginny’s finally left her, after all. Perhaps she’s visiting Luna, or had convinced one of her brothers to let her help in the joke shop. Whatever it is, at least it’s something.
With a bleary blink, she happens to gaze in the direction of the window. The first few stars are just beginning to peep around a wispy, rose-tinted cloud, and the moon rises slowly. It’s the perfect time of a summer day, from what she can tell.
Suddenly, something dark streaks across the sky, followed closely by another smaller, lighter-colored streak; as they pass over the distant hills, there’s a brief glint of copper from the second streak that seems slightly familiar. But her head’s still a bit foggy, so the connection doesn’t quite click into place.
Odd, she thinks, and rubs her nose puzzledly.
Nearby, somewhere outside, an owl gives a particularly gruff-sounding hoot.
THE END
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Viktor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,400
Summary: So it’s not a betrayal of privacy, she reasons as she gingerly breaks the seal of the envelope; it’s a necessity, and any bit of her own curiosity that will be satisfied by this act is merely an added bonus. Viktor Krum, meet Ginny Weasley.
Author’s Notes: For chimbomba. Thanks captainpookey for the beta. ♥ Ginny's handwriting font is Justy1, Viktor's is LeviBrush.
Transition Stages
(How to Be an Accidental Stalker)
It’s hot. Possibly hot. Probably hot. It looks hot, at the very least.
Ginny sighs, staring out the window in the picture of wistfulness; the sky is perfectly blue, in that stupidly poetic sort of way, and all that’s separating her from it is a pane of glass. Rather, a pane of glass and Hermione Granger-wherein lies the largest part of the problem. Because even though it’s summer, and therefore hot, Hermione’s managed through some twisted miracle or another to catch cold. And because Hermione’s visiting the Burrow, and Ginny is a good friend (and hostess), Ginny won’t allow her to sit and snivel pathetically on the sofa by herself.
Even so, Ginny continuously glances out at the lack of clouds and generally ideal-for-a-game-of-Quidditch weather every thirty seconds.
“Stob dad,” Hermione groans. “You’re going do ged whiblash. Or I’b going do ged id from wadching you.”
“Sorry.” Ginny doesn’t take her eyes from the window.
“I really won’d mind ib you wan’ do go-radder, ib you do go, I dow you wan’ do. I’ll be quide all righd. I subbose I’ll jus’ sleeb. Oughd do.” She tries to straighten herself up, but her efforts are interrupted by a sneeze that sends her pulling a blanket up to her chin with another groan.
Ginny pats Hermione’s foot consolingly-as it’s the closest consolable appendage-and forces on an all-too-cheery, somewhat manic smile. “I told you already, I’m fine staying here. I’ll, y’know, play Quidditch tomorrow. Or whatever.”
“Id’s subbosed do raid doborrow.”
“Yeah, well.”
She picks at the fraying end of the blanket absently, waiting for Hermione’s reply, which is bound to be entertaining, since Ginny can only understand half of what she’s saying less than half the time. After a minute of silence and vague anticipation, though, Ginny looks up.
Hermione’s head is lolled to one side; she’s out like somebody’s just smacked her in the face with a frying pan.
“Lovely.”
»¤«
Ginny fidgets. A twiddling of the thumbs here, a toying of the hair there, and a finger tap to occupy the time in between. Hermione’s sounding more and more like Charlie by the minute-what with all the snoring-and Ginny knows for a fact that now is the opportune time to sneak off unnoticed. But there’s just something about waking up and discovering that the person who was there before you fell asleep is now gone, something unsettling that just doesn’t rest well with her.
So she sits. And she fidgets.
And it’s a lucky thing, too, because at the moment she’s about to give in and make a run for it, a very large, very angry-looking owl taps impatiently on the window. Its feathers are colored in such a way that its glare seems perpetually accentuated by a pair of severe eyebrows. She’s tempted to shoo it away, but it’s got a fat envelope clutched in its talons, and she swears the bird keeps making eye contact-so she figures it’s probably best to comply with its wishes.
Ginny flings open the window, and the Owl pushes its way past her into the room; upon finding a worthy perch, it sets-daintily sets, not drops-the envelope at Ginny’s feet. An envelope that’s actually addressed to Hermione Granger in vaguely familiar handwriting.
She eyes the envelope (the Owl eyeing her hungrily all the while) and considers. Hermione is more or less incapacitated-perhaps mildly comatose-and certainly in no state to read and comprehend a lengthy letter. And such a thorough letter must be rather urgent, and should merit a prompt response out of courtesy. It ought to be Ginny’s duty, then, as a friend, to scan the letter, owl a note to the sender forewarning a delay in an actual, sufficient reply, and report the main points to Hermione upon awakening. Following that, there might be some sort of dictation, etcetera, etcetera, and the possibility of headaches on the part of the invalid might generally be avoided, much to the relief of all parties involved.
So it’s not a betrayal of privacy, she reasons as she gingerly breaks the seal of the envelope; it’s a necessity, and any bit of her own curiosity that will be satisfied by this act is merely an added bonus.
The letter she dumps into her hands is not as long as it seemed at a cursory glance, due to the abnormal thickness of the parchment on which it’s written, but there’s still too much to it for her to bother reading past the first few sentences. And aside from that, the handwriting is distinctly male, and therefore illegible by default-each letter and word bleed into the next, as if the writer had been pressing down with particular force as he penned them.
In those first few sentences, there’s nothing much of interest, simply the usual pleasantries that a substantial correspondence requires, and Ginny finds her eyes beginning to drift out of focus. To avoid once more losing her nerve and almost neglecting her duty, she skims directly to the bottom, where a hasty signature has been scrawled.
And then-oh!-it clicks. The long letter, the crude penmanship, the intimidating owl…
This letter is from Viktor Krum. Ginny hadn’t known that Hermione was still writing to him.
She’s past the hero-worshipping days of her childhood, and Ron had always been the more enthusiastic Krum fan, even during the whole Hermione Episode of Fourth Year and Beyond, but still. In her hands, she’s currently holding the innermost thoughts of the world’s shiniest Quidditch star. It’s enough to make her blink idiotically at the thing for a minute, and almost enough for her to contemplate rubbing the parchment against her skin to see if there’s a chance that some of his talent might’ve clung to it.
But she’s mature, and she’s got her duty as Hermione’s Friend to attend to, as well as no desire whatsoever to relapse into her old habits. So she picks up a nearby quill, tears off a clean corner of an old shopping list, and composes a very mature, very dutiful note:
She doesn’t sign it, just folds it up hastily and writes
in some visible place before handing it to the Owl with a measure of caution. The Owl snatches it away, fixes upon her a single, twitching eye, and then leaves. The gust of air its beating wings produce sends her staggering a few steps backward into an unfortunate lamp.
The Owl barrels back in through the opened window no more than an hour later. Ginny screams as it zooms straight toward her in a blurry cannonball of death, but at the last possible second, it pulls up, giving her not massive cranial trauma but the very same note she’d had delivered an hour before. Her first thought, after Bloody hell, that’s a freakishly fast owl is of confusion. But then she realizes that at the bottom of her own note is a small paragraph that wasn’t there before, in Krum’s handwriting. It reads:
Ginny makes several indignant-sounding noises that don’t quite form words, and glowers at the offending note. Somewhere behind her, the Owl hoots in a rhythm that’s maddeningly akin to laughter.
“Shut up!” she growls. The Owl ignores her, and continues its mocking.
Only then does she notice that it’s still carrying a second envelope, again addressed to Hermione, but much thinner than the last.
“Give it here, you stupid bird,” Ginny commands, holding out her hand. The Owl ceases its laughter long enough to deliver a bite that could make a starving vampire envious. Reflexes alone keep her from losing all her fingers.
Apparently, the Owl is not the sort one gives orders to.
»¤«
»¤«
It doesn’t take long for the knock to come. Ginny, still being the only moderately cognizant inhabitant of the Burrow, picks herself up from the floor and haphazardly makes her way to the front door. She pulls it open, only to find Kingsley Shacklebolt and a rather grim-faced Auror, both garbed in long black robes, standing on the front porch.
“Hi Kingsley,” Ginny greets cheerily. “If you’re looking for Dad, I reckon he’s still at the Ministry.”
Kingsley shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’m here for another matter. We’ve had a report of an incident...”
“An incident? Sounds dodgy.”
Kingsley pulls a somewhat worn slip of parchment out from within his robes. “Seems someone’s been harassing Viktor Krum and Hermione Granger from this location. Does this handwriting look familiar to you?” He shows her the parchment.
“Hey, that’s-!” Of course, she recognizes the note immediately. “That’s mine!”
Kingsley arches his brows. “You wrote this?”
“Yeah, but I’m not stalking anyone!”
The other Auror, silent up till this point, turns to Kingsley. “We gonna take her in, boss?”
“Like hell you will,” Ginny murmurs beneath her breath.
Kingsley continues to look at her with interest, though he stops his fellow Auror from rooting about in his robes for some rope.
“Hermione’s in the den,” she scowls, gesturing vaguely into the room behind her. “How am I supposed to be stalking her if she’s right there?”
Kingsley nods slowly as Ginny stumbles through an explanation-stumbles, because she’s mildly embarrassed, and more than mildly furious, and the combination is making funny, nonsensical things come out of her mouth. Kingsley seems to understand, though, even if the other Auror keeps reaching for his pockets.
»¤«
»¤«
Here’s the thing that doesn’t make sense: Viktor Krum is supposed to be nice, and polite, and quiet in a surprisingly-intelligent-and-not-thick-as-a-troll sort of way-as mostly everyone assumed he was after seeing him in person. Hermione used to talk about him at Hogwarts, how, despite being the world’s shiniest Quidditch star, he was more than tolerable to be around.
She hadn’t mentioned the paranoia. (Though perhaps she hadn’t known about it.)
It’s almost a bit disappointing, truthfully. Ginny hadn’t formed any expectations-at least, she hadn’t meant to; she really, really can’t care less about Viktor Krum, really-but if she had done, she can’t help but feel that she’d be disappointed. Krum’s theoretically insane, after all-borderline unstable, minimum.
Stalking. Seriously?
As if she still does that kind of thing.
»¤«
»¤«
It’s cold. Possibly cold. No-definitely cold; there’s chill air spewing out of the window and from under the door, and other cracks in the wall that nobody can ever seem to find.
The change in weather is depressing. There’s no sunshine, despite the afternoon hour, and all traces of the previous day’s blue sky are gone from memory like a History of Magic lecture: it might as well have never existed. It’s winter in the middle of summer, just as promised by whoever it is that announces the forecast, and it’s hardly any consolation that the rain still has yet to come. Ginny adamantly refuses to peek at the window.
Hermione is asleep again, having hardly bothered to wake up for more than fifteen consecutive minutes. The other usual occupants of the Burrow are off being social or earning a living, or other such important takers of time. Ginny is curled up askance to the fireplace in the den, several blankets wrapped around her shoulders. She’s tempted to keep the fire to herself, but it directly faces Hermione who, Ginny admits, likely needs it more.
Selfishness is tempting, though, when Ginny can’t quite feel her toes.
She can leave. She can find another fire to haunt all day by herself, can find Luna or someone else to help her think of something to do; but she doesn’t, mainly because Luna’s on holiday, and because the Burrow is in a rather isolated location. Also, she may freeze if she tries to get up. Ginny doesn’t fancy becoming an ice sculpture.
Still, there’s nothing to do. There’s always been someone around her, both at home or at Hogwarts, always someone to talk to and keep her entertained. But now that everyone has grown up and more or less gone away, it’s quiet. Unsettling.
Unsettling quiet is difficult to grow accustomed to.
»¤«
The smell of wet dog reaches her nose and every other place that might conceivably sense such a foul stench. Ginny makes a face at no one in particular and moves to cover her nose, carelessly looking out the window as she does so. She hears a small fluttering noise, but ignores it.
When she turns around again, however, the Owl is looming before her.
“YEEEARRGGHH!” she shrieks, scrambling up against the back of the chair.
The Owl’s feathers glisten with rainwater. Ginny sniffs. They also seem to be the source of the smell.
When she makes another face, the Owl appears offended, but decides to spare her life.
The Owl flaps there, suspended eerily in midair, before it holds out its leg. Around it is wrapped and tied a little scroll.
“It’s not for me, you daft thing,” Ginny sighs.
The Owl waves its leg insistently.
Ginny scowls, all patience suddenly gone. “I’m not Hermione bloody Granger! She’s bloody over there, where she’s been this whole bloody time!”
The Owl growls. Ginny takes the rolled up note; and funnily enough, it’s addressed to her.
It’s a good deal friendlier than what’s been written to her previously, but Ginny isn’t a forgive-and-forget sort of girl.
Not that she’s a bitter, grudge-holding Slytherin, or anything-that job’s best left to Pansy Parkinson.
»¤«
»¤«
The same owl delivers the notes, never seeming to tire from the constant back-and-forth journeys. Every time Ginny sees it, it maintains the same expression-if owls do, in fact, express expressions-and doesn’t bother to rest.
Perhaps Bulgarian owls have learned to Apparate.
Ginny shakes her head, waiting for the Owl to return with the latest note. She’s eager to reply, to send off another quip-something remotely clever. She likes churning them out.
And she’s not being rude, she tells herself. Even if she were, it isn’t undeserved. Furthermore, she’s decidedly not enjoying this semi-conversational conversation. It’s a bit of a chore, having to pick up a quill every few minutes.
She stops. Every few minutes? The Owl’s been fast, but she hasn’t realized that it’s been that fast; she’s been too caught up in-what was it?-churning out something remotely clever.
Krum’s either been trying out an experimental brand of owl treats, or he’s not in Bulgaria. In fact, now that she thinks of it, the time lapsing between her replies and his has been steadily shortening, which means, possibly, that he’s been getting closer.
But just how close is he? He’d almost have to be-
Her thoughts cut off when she hears somebody shuffling about on the front porch.
“Hello?”
Viktor Krum is much shorter than Ginny remembers, though perhaps it’s got something to do with the fact that she hasn’t seen him up close since she was thirteen. She’s spotted him in various places since then, mostly at Quidditch matches, but he’s always been too far away to contradict her memory. Even at Bill’s wedding, he’d kept at a peculiar distance, which had left her feeling slightly miffed, as she’d seen him eyeing her once or twice.
His shoulders are just as hunched as she remembers, though, as if he’s a fish literally out of its watery home. His eyes are dark, his hair of a not-quite-effectively-tousled quality. He peers at her curiously from beneath a furrowed brow, but it’s that piercing sort of peering that makes her a bit uncomfortable, like she’s on display as the most interesting thing in existence.
“Geeny Veasley?”
The world’s shiniest Quidditch star is standing in front of her door, and all she can concentrate on is the deepness of his voice and the shifting of her own two feet.
“Yeah?”
Any disappointment which she previously hadn’t felt (but probably actually had, anyway) begins to trickle away before she can catch it and lock it up within her where it belongs.
Oh, bloody hell.
Krum scratches his head. “I vos...” He shrugs. “I vos here-”
Her attention snaps back. “You’ve been out here the entire time?”
“Not here, at house. I vos farther avay, on-you say-holiday. Holiday in England. I vos hoping to visit Herm-own-ninny.”
“Her-my-oh-nee,” Ginny snaps automatically.
“Vot?” He looks at her in that curious, piercing way again.
“Er... nevermind.” Anything to make the staring stop.
“You tell me Herm-own-ninny is not vell, but not vot is wrong. I vant to know vot is wrong.”
“Y’know, you called me a stalker-”
“I am sorry-”
“-but you’re the one popping up at my house.”
He shrugs again. “I haff been here before. Is familiar place.”
“And that’s not-?”
“I remember you, I think.” He nods to himself, as if these words and this fact can explain away all the conundrums in the world and beyond. Then he continues staring at her in an unrequitedly-comfortable silence. She supposes, though, that it’s a miracle enough that he spoke as much as he did-Hermione may have once mentioned grunting.
“Er... I reckon you can come in,” she says hesitantly. “It’s... cold.”
He seems to regard the air itself, or the breath that’s clouding in it, considering and comparing this weather and the frigid climate to which he’s used, but he doesn’t comment. Nor does he make a large show of the fact that he’s not even wearing a coat.
“See? Not dead, just sleeping.”
As if in confirmation of this, Hermione gives a contented little snore and twitches somewhere beneath the intimidating hippogriff’s nest that has become her hair. An innocent line of drool trails its way down her chin.
“You vere right,” he says, looking at Hermione. “She is not vell.”
Ginny snorts. “’Course she’s not. Not right now, at least. It’s just a cold, though.”
Krum bends slightly over Hermione, though he’s reluctant to touch her. (Then again, so is Ginny, so she can’t be much of a judge here.)
“I vos hoping to talk vith her. I haff not since-” He pauses to think. “It has been long time.”
This probably means he’s going to talk to Ginny. About Hermione. As fond of Hermione as Ginny is, she certainly doesn’t want to spend the next three hours discussing the minutest details about, say, what Hermione eats for breakfast on the third Tuesday of every month. Because first of all, it’s porridge, and not even porridge wants to talk about porridge, and second of all, it’s a creepy sort of question to begin with.
Krum clears his throat; it sounds like a feral growl. “Do you play-?”
“Porridge,” Ginny interrupts morosely.
“Vot?”
“Wait... what?”
He looks confused. “You play vith... porridge? I must haff wrong vord...”
Ginny’s cheeks color-along with every other part of her that reacts to embarrassment. “I reckoned-I mean-asking about Hermione’s breakfasting habits...”
He makes a loud, rather alarming sound that causes her to start until she realizes that it’s laughter. “That vould be very strange question,” he informs her. “Vould be question of-ah-stalker?”
“Well, yeah...”
He starts staring at her in that way again, and Ginny crosses her arms, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes and appearing very put out.
“Herm-own-ninny has very strange friends.”
They sit around Hermione like she’s a campfire, silent, contemplating, almost waiting for sparks to blaze up at the stars. Turns out that Krum doesn’t want to talk about the minutest details of Hermione’s life; he doesn’t want-or need-to talk much at all, really. It’s cold, yet he seems content to sit perfectly still. Ginny had assumed that he’d be one of those people that has to keep moving all the time, but then again, Seekers sometimes must sit and wait, hovering in the air and looking for a signal-that flash of gold-to break the spell of statues.
Ginny’s never been good at that part. In fact, she may possibly be going mad at this very moment, and nobody-except her mother, perhaps-would’ve seen it coming. Everything itches, every noise causes her to want to whirl her head around the room. Every few minutes she opens and then promptly shuts her mouth because it somehow feels inappropriate to speak.
“Do you play Quidditch?” Krum asks suddenly.
“Is that what you were asking me before?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I do, sometimes.”
“You are Seeker?”
“How’d you know?”
He prepares to speak.
“And don’t,” she warns, “say you’re stalking me. We’ve been over this, and it’s starting to get old.”
“I vos not meaning to say that.” He shrugs; it’s like a mountain moving up and down. “You look like Seeker.”
Has he been inspecting her further when she wasn’t looking?
“You don’t,” she blurts before she can stop herself.
He shrugs again. “I could haff been wrong. First opinion not always right, like book cover.”
“So it was just a lucky guess, then.”
He nods, then pauses. “Herm-own-ninny does not play Quidditch.”
Ginny laughs; she can’t help herself. If Hermione ever consented to play Quidditch regularly, and enjoyed it, the world would turn about upon its own head. “She hates flying.”
“She does not understand flying. I haff tried to explain.” Krum seems sad for a moment, but it passes quickly. “I do not haff to explain to you.”
He certainly doesn’t. Ginny has always understood the thrill of soaring through the air; she’s been on a broomstick since she was old enough to steal one from her brothers, and young enough to be forgiven when she was caught. She’s always understood the reason why it sometimes feels better to be in the sky than on the ground, why it sometimes seems unnatural to be moving without the speed and fluidity of air all above and below her.
“Yeah.”
»¤«
It’s still cold. Ginny’s forgotten to notice the current temperature, so wrapped up as she’s been in discussing Quidditch tactics and history like an overachieving Ravenclaw. Shivers shake her body now, though, since she and Krum have relapsed into quietude. Krum lounges comfortably upon the floor and leans his head back against Hermione’s legs, his dark hair flopping in his eyes. It makes her briefly wonder how he can see like that during a match. The fire hasn’t gone out; it’s still as warm as it ever was, but to the tips of Ginny’s fingers and toes, she feels mildly frozen. The Burrow is also still empty, except for the obvious three of them in the den. The rain still falls in a steady pattern that’s become boring.
In fact, this whole standing-guard-over-the-invalid thing has become boring, too. It’s like they’re waiting for something to happen, for someone to come by, but nothing and nobody do.
“Vhy do ve vatch Herm-own-ninny?” Krum asks eventually. She can tell it’s a question that’s been weighing upon him for some time.
“So she won’t be alone.”
He rights his head to peer at her. “She vould not know. If I shout, she vill not vake, even.”
Ginny waits warily to see if he’s going to test this theory, but he’s not really the randomly-shouting-to-prove-a-point type. Instead, he changes the subject.
“You are cold?”
“Was it the shivering or the fact that my lips’re blue that gave it away?”
(She honestly can’t help herself sometimes.)
He grunts. “I vill make spell.”
“Vot? I mean-what?” Even though he doesn’t speak all that much, the accent is starting to catch. “I can, y’know, ‘make a spell’ on my own. A charm, or something.”
“Then vhy haff you not?”
“You’re a lot smarter than you look.”
“That is not good reason.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“Spell is very simple-”
They rise at the same time, Krum to find his wand and approach her, and Ginny to prevent him from doing whatever it is that he’s about to do to her. She thought of some kind of Warming Charm ages ago-she just couldn’t remember what the incantation was and wasn’t planning on asking anyone. She’s supposed to be self-sufficient, and all that.
“I’ll just get another blanket,” she insists.
“It vill be quick. Promise.”
“No,” she says. “No, no, I’ll get a blanket. See?”
She tries to walk past him to the cupboard, wherein, she knows, many blankets are stowed, but haste has a way of foiling carelessly-formed intentions. Krum moves another step toward her, perhaps to accompany her to the cupboard, perhaps to stop her from going anywhere, or perhaps to hex the warmth back into her once her back is turned-she doesn’t know. What she does know is that he has large feet, both of which are particularly eager to get in her way.
Ginny’s sadly frozen toes bash against Krum’s boots, and send her sprawling to the floor.
“Oof!” she says.
She gazes upward in a daze, and for the first time ever, she sees Krum smirking at her. “You are very clumsy, Geeny.”
“Thanks.”
And she promptly passes out.
»¤«
»¤«
Something pecks sharply at Ginny’s fingers until she wakes up with a yelp and reads the note that’s being shoved in her face. She blinks. The Owl tilts its head uncomfortably far to one side and blinks back at her, still glaring in its owlish sort of way. Only after she sets the note aside, however, does she realize that she’s in her own bed, blankets pulled up over her and a tingling warmth in her fingers and toes. Aching dully, her head keeps her from focusing in full for a minute or two, though when her eyes and mind do decide to finally sharpen themselves, she sees merry sunlight streaming in through her opened bedroom window, no sign of clouds behind it.
Bloody, indecisive weather.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound of something hitting the aforementioned window sends a jolt of pain directly between her eyes, and she groans. Not just for the pain-which is considerable, when provoked-but for the remembrance of tripping and falling and going unconscious like one of those pathetic heroines Lavender Brown probably reads about.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
“Arrrgh,” she growls. She glances at the Owl, but it gazes back at her steadily and innocently, for once. With a sigh, Ginny pulls herself onto her feet, swaying lightly as she does so, and pads over to the window.
Viktor Krum hovers just outside upon a broomstick with a few pebbles in his hand. It’s becoming more and more like one of Lavender’s stupid books with each minute that passes by. Next, she’ll be learning that he’s the one that carried her up to her room, or something...
“I had to move you out of room,” he nods. “Herm-own-ninny vos using only good place.”
Oh?
“Oh.”
“I did not vant to leave you on floor.”
“Er... thanks Krum-Viktor.” She’s blushing again-and blaming genetics.
Ginny clears her throat. “My mum’d probably let you back in, if you wanted to see Hermione again.”
Viktor waves his hand as if clearing away a fly. “Vot if I vanted to see you? I do not think she vould let me in. Might be stalker.”
She lets the tired joke slide by in favor of gaping at him like a confused fish.
(Very attractive, Ginny Weasley.)
“But you want to see Hermione.” She informs him of this as if he’s not the one making up his own mind.
The same thought seems to occur to Viktor, because he laughs a little. Ginny crosses her arms defensively, though all the same, she moves closer to the window. He draws her in, somehow, like a reckless insect.
“I do not know vot to say to Herm-own-ninny now. There is never enough to talk about. She does not vant to talk, I am thinking.” Viktor’s face pulls into a serious expression, shadowed with the sun behind him.
Ginny shrugs. “She’s just been busy, I expect.”
“I am busy. But I am here.”
It’s a fair point. “But you’re still here for Hermione.”
He comes close to rolling his eyes. “And you are stubborn. But I like that. I like to talk vith you, Geeny. Herm-own-ninny is not bad person, but now I am here to see you.”
The only movement now is from the thoughts crossing her brain like a crowded street. Then:
“So-so, what?” Ginny struggles to regain her usual dignity. (Where has it run off to?) “D’you expect me to climb out the window and get on that broom now, or something?”
Viktor considers. “If you vant...”
He’s looking at her in that way again, but this time, strangely, she finds she doesn’t mind. Ginny bites her lip, and smiles.
Hermione starts awake with a half-snore, a stiff neck, and a loud yawn to follow. It’s much darker out than she remembers it being when she fell asleep, and for a moment, she’s overcome by panic. For once in her life, Hermione Granger has managed to sleep the day away.
She sits up, stretching until her hand accidentally brushes against a piece of parchment on the arm of the sofa.
She nods to herself, satisfied. So Ginny’s finally left her, after all. Perhaps she’s visiting Luna, or had convinced one of her brothers to let her help in the joke shop. Whatever it is, at least it’s something.
With a bleary blink, she happens to gaze in the direction of the window. The first few stars are just beginning to peep around a wispy, rose-tinted cloud, and the moon rises slowly. It’s the perfect time of a summer day, from what she can tell.
Suddenly, something dark streaks across the sky, followed closely by another smaller, lighter-colored streak; as they pass over the distant hills, there’s a brief glint of copper from the second streak that seems slightly familiar. But her head’s still a bit foggy, so the connection doesn’t quite click into place.
Odd, she thinks, and rubs her nose puzzledly.
Nearby, somewhere outside, an owl gives a particularly gruff-sounding hoot.
THE END