Rejoice

Chapter Three: Rejoice

~o0o~

Six Months Later

Viktor and Grigor Dimitrov's conversation wove about Hermione, the Bulgarian both soft and guttural, as she cut her panqueca com manga into bite-sized pieces. It was late for breakfast, after noon, but she had discovered the restaurant's delicious version of crepes the day before. The French pancakes weren't unusual in Britain, but she'd never had them with mangoes. In fact, she'd never eaten the orange-fleshed fruit before. She speared a perfectly ripe chunk of fruit along with the bite of pancake on her fork, and closed her eyes as she slid the entire thing into her mouth. The fruit blossomed in a pungent explosion of taste.

"Hermione?" Viktor asked, interrupting his Vratsa Vultures team mate.

She opened her eyes. "Hmmm?"

"You made a sound."

"Did I?"

He leaned closer to her, ignoring Dimitrov's rather arched comment about true love. Hermione didn't understand it, but Viktor flushed. "You did. It vas much like the sounds you make ven ve are alone."

Her cheeks turned slightly pink under her recently acquired tan. "I really like the mango." She poked another piece of the local manga, angling the fork in his direction. "Would you like a taste?"

Black eyes glittered at her as he obligingly opened his mouth. He bit down on the fork though, and the moment was more suggestive than not. Hermione flicked her eyes at Dimitrov, but he wasn't paying any attention to them, instead he was watching one of the Chasers from the Brazilian National Team as she made her way across the elegant dining room. Hermione couldn't remember the witch's name, and, in the next second, she didn't care if she ever remembered the witch's name. For Viktor had leaned into her, his lips practically brushing her ear.

"Fruit is not vat I vant to taste. Later I vant to taste you."

He pulled back and his narrow face was full of mischief as he eyed her heightened color. Hermione felt her blush all the way to her suddenly sensitive nipples. She watched his eyes focus on her mouth as she let her bottom lip slide from between her teeth. "I don't mind skipping the beach."

His expression changed in an instant. Viktor asked Dimitrov's pardon, "Isvinite," before turning fully toward her, his fringe falling into his eyes. "Hermione, you haff not been to the beach yet. Vy is that?"

She glanced around the crowded room, noticing how many people she knew or had met at the World Cup the night before were having lunch. Then she shifted in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable and newly aware of how much her leg ached. "Could we talk about this later?"

From the set of his chin, Hermione recognized that he wouldn't forget. She knew him well. They had been dating seriously for the previous six months. After they had re-met at the Ministry Awards Ceremony, rarely a day passed without them talking or seeing each other, even if it was just an Owl with a quick note of good luck as Viktor had toured with the Vultures and played through the World Cup semi-finals.

"After lunch, ve vill go to our room to talk, then ve vill go to the beach." He pointed out the open window. "It is too beautiful to miss."

Stubborn but observant, he laid a large, calloused hand over hers for a moment, squeezing ever so slightly.

"If you like," she answered. Then turning her attention to Dimitrov, who was eyeing them speculatively, she said, "Isvinite, Grigor. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Is all right, Herm-own-knee. I am one interrupting you. I should go." His long fingers played with the glass of fruit juice and he flicked his eyes in Viktor's direction.

"Ne! Tova e dobre. Please," Hermione pulled a small tote from the back of her chair, "stay and finish your conversation. Viktor and I don't leave until the day after tomorrow, and I know your Portkey is this evening." She withdrew a book -- The Aerial Life and Times of Queerditch Marsh -- from the ubiquitous canvas bag which had been a gift to every guest of the Top Box at the Quidditch Finals. "See. I brought reading material in case you two decided to discuss Brazil's win in vivid, gory detail, right down to Abilio's Wronski – yes, Viktor, I finally learned how to say it – Feint."

"Thank you," Viktor said, squeezing her hand, once more, before returning to his rapid-fire conversation with Dimitrov. Hermione recognized a few words, including Abilio, razbiram – which she remembered meant 'I understand' – and a sprinkling of das and nes amidst the Quidditch terminology she had picked up in the past six-months.

Instead of opening her book to read, however, Hermione stared out the window, to the distinctive shape of Sugarloaf Mountain and the ribbon of sandy white beach at its base. She let her thoughts drift. When Ron had been a part of her life, Quidditch had held little allure, but it was Viktor's career and that made all the difference. It was a difference which could just as easily find Viktor reading abstracts of Hermione's research – to the amusement of his team mates -- as it was for her to study technical aspects of the premiere sport of warlocks. Ginny and Oliver Wood had been excellent, if teasing, living references.

Hermione attended as many of the Bulgarian National Team's matches and Vultures' games as she could fit into her schedule. Viktor understood the difficulties of a demanding career, but he always made certain there was a seat for her in the Top Box of every stadium where he played. Over the past few months, she had become friendly with most of his team mates, and was now reasonably conversant with the game's rules. She had even recognized fifty different fouls during the World Cup semi-finals, when Bulgaria had lost to the French team (fielded by players from the Bordeaux Buzzards and Quiberon Quafflepunchers.)

When he had been invited to attend the Finals held in Rio de Janeiro, Viktor asked Hermione to go with him. She had been more than happy to say yes, and they had padded the trip by four days, calling it a holiday. The first day they'd arrived in Brazil, the two had followed Muggle tourist tradition, riding the cable car to the top of Sugarloaf. For a man who made his living performing death defying feats of skill on a broomstick, Viktor's nervousness as the cable car swayed while climbing from the mountain's base to summit had secretly amused Hermione.

"Ne."

Viktor spoke rather forcefully, ending Hermione's reverie. He wasn't angry, but nodding his head in earnest. Every now and then she had to remind herself that the nod meant no. He said something else she didn't quite catch because her attention was momentarily captivated by the pursing of his lips. Quite suddenly she wanted to kiss him.

Instead of following her impulse, she dragged her eyes down across the lightly tanned skin of Viktor's throat, measuring the width of his shoulders before following line of his well-defined arms, hidden under the long sleeves of his navy blue shirt, and to the sinews and tendons of his lean fingers as they deftly diagrammed a play. A visceral need for him ... now ... sizzled in her brain, distracting her from the thought that he would make a good coach.

Grigor's shook his head in disagreement, Da!" Then the Bulgarian Chaser plucked the small, Self-Inking Quill from Viktor's hand. He drew two broad strokes across the small parchment.

Rather than returning to her book, which she hadn't been reading, Hermione took another bite of mango and looked around the dining room. Its festive tropical colors and lush floral arrangements set a lively mood. She'd met a number of the diners over the past few days, and in the far corner were two members of the Portuguese team, nursing both their team's defeat and rather vicious hangovers.

Hermione shifted in her chair to ease the dull ache in her right leg. Hiking to the stadium the day before had been taxing. When their host, the effusively welcoming Brazilian Minister, mentioned that the stadium had been built in the Tijuca Forest, Hermione's puzzlement gave him the opportunity to explain how the National Forest was entirely within the perimeter of Rio. He had spent a quarter of an hour waxing lyrical on his country's past and the glory of Rio when it had been the capital of the Portuguese empire. Viktor had come to her aid at that point, escorting her to meet some of his colleagues.

The climb to the top of the hill, alongside the picturesque waterfall cascading to the forest floor, and the sight of the massive purpose-built Quidditch stadium in the hidden valley beyond had been unforgettable. Yet, however rustic and beautiful it might have been, she was now paying the price. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her thigh, feeling the ridges and depressions of the scar beneath her summer-weight robes.

With that keen sense of his, Viktor turned toward her, black eyes instantly noticing the subtle massaging of her hand on thigh. He might have said something, but at that moment, the triumphant captain and coach of the Brazilian National Team entered the dining room. Their faces were still flushed with victory, and they smiled and blew kisses to their fans as the majority of the room applauded their arrival. Brazil's coach was also the coach of the Sao Paolo Swallows, and the rivalry between the Swallows and Rio de Janeiro's Raptors was famous in South American Quidditch circles. The teams' rivalry abated every four years, during World Cup season, when all strife was forgotten. The team captain, the Raptors off-side Beater, was a swarthy, handsome man who had -- much to Viktor's irritation -- taken a liking to Hermione's hair.

One of the biggest differences Hermione noticed between her last long-term relationship and this one was in the way the two men, Ron and Viktor, showed their insecurities. Ron had been suspicious, defensive, and indulged his penchant for verbal cruelty ... always at her expense. Viktor, on the other hand, tightened his mouth into a thin, straight line when he had been pushed too far. Each man had been in the public's eye for years, but Viktor handled the most egregious falsehoods or blatant familiarity without a loss of composure.

The Raptors' captain, Alberto Tavares, surveyed the room, his vivid green eyes slipping past Viktor as if he didn't recognize him. His smile grew wider when he saw Hermione. Abruptly abandoning his coach in favor of engaging in a little out-of-the-air gamesmanship, Tavares threaded through the dining room, pressing the flesh of his fans while eyeing Hermione as if she were the Golden Snitch.

As the threesome waited upon Tavares' invasion, Viktor made a rather unflattering comment in Bulgarian, drawing a snort of mirth from Dimitrov. It was a phrase neither man would translate. By the time the Raptor's captain reached their table, Viktor was on his feet and angled between Tavares and Hermione. She couldn't help but feel rather amused, although amusement turned to pure, feminine pride when Viktor stepped into the pregnant pause which had suddenly dampened all conversation in the room. With his hand outstretched, he said, "Congratulations, Alberto. It vas a fine game you played. I trust Abilio has recovered his senses."

Brazil's captain seized Viktor's arm, and, in that effusiveness which was so much a part of the South American charm, he pulled Viktor into a hearty embrace. "Si, Bernardo is fine. He is home with his wife and she is lavishing tender kisses upon his conquering brow."

When he released Viktor, Tavares turned so neatly that he placed himself at Hermione's side. He reached for her hand, which she offered with a touch of reluctance. The Quidditch star counted on her not to make a scene, kissing her fingers longer than necessary before Hermione retrieved her hand. "Perhaps," he said with a little flash of dimple, "I should see about finding an esposa. Eh, 'ermione of the hair magnifico? Do you think I need a wife?"

Hermione laughed. "I think you need a Keeper. Now, if you'll excuse me," she made to rise and, to her surprise, it was Dimitrov who held the chair for her, "I will wait for you upstairs, Viktor."

She angled her head up to meet Tavares' measuring look. "Congratulations, Alberto. Your team flew an amazing game." Turning to the tall Chaser, she said in Bulgarian, "Chao, Grigor. Have a safe trip home."

Dimitrov air-kissed her cheeks, first one, then the other. "Chao, Herm-own-knee."

Viktor's sharp eyes had missed nothing, and there was a hint of satisfaction in his expression. Hermione placed her hand atop his crossed forearms. "You," she said, leaning up to kiss him – something she rarely did in public, "I'll see you upstairs."

Viktor's eyes met hers. "I vill see you soon. Ve haff something to talk about, yes?"

"I hoped you'd forget, but yes we do." Hermione picked up her book and Tavares handed her the canvas tote. Meeting Viktor's glance once more, she then left the dining room, conscious of at least three pairs of eyes watching her, and willing herself not to limp, even though it hurt to walk.

Once in the elevators, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. There was a potion for pain in their room. When the shiny brass doors slid open to reveal an empty corridor, Hermione relaxed. There would be no one to see her awkward gait, and she counted the numbers on the doors until she reached 2528.

The canvas tote dropped from her fingers as soon as she entered the room, and she hobbled directly into the bathroom. The wide marble tub was inviting and the idea of taking a hot bath vied briefly for precedence over taking the potion, but Hermione decided in favor of the longer lasting remedy. Grabbing the green phial containing a single dose of Muscle Ease, she downed its contents in one practiced swallow.

Relief would be swift, leaving her muscles like jelly for the first half hour. She would need to be either sitting or completely horizontal quickly, so Hermione stripped off her outer robes and limped toward the balcony.

She paused at the foot of the bed, her eyes immediately drawn to the small tray of delicacies. Viktor must have arranged for it, she thought, an affectionate smile curving her lips. She plucked the vase with its single antherium from the dark wood, dropping her pale yellow outer robes in a pile next to the tray. The fruit was enticing and the small dish of glistening sweetener was tempting enough that she touched the tip of her finger to the surface of the viscous liquid. Flicking her tongue out to lap at the honey, she made her way onto the balcony. Very little noise filtered up this high, even the sound of the ocean itself was muted, but Hermione found it restful.

Fresh ocean air filled her nostrils with its salty tang. Ipanema Beach was beautiful, and Hermione settled herself into one of the canvas-slung chairs, setting the bud vase on the small table at her side, and angling her legs up on the balcony's railing. Her timing was excellent as lethargy stole through her muscles with a swiftness belying the sudden torpor of her limbs.

Tilting her head, Hermione relaxed against the high back of the magical chair as it conformed to her body. She would rest her eyes for a few minutes.

The warmth of the sun beat upon her closed eyelids and within a very short few minutes she had dozed off.

~o0o~

Viktor let himself into their room with the economy of movement he was known for, his eyes immediately finding the bed, the heap of pale yellow cotton, but no sign of Hermione. It was very quiet and he was much later than he'd intended. In fact, the afternoon was gone and twilight was creeping across the sky. He turned his head to the open door of the lavatory, noticing the empty green bottle.

"Po dyavolite!" he swore. He'd seen her rubbing her thigh at lunch, but he'd been so involved in his conversation with Dimitrov that he hadn't really paid attention to Hermione's discomfort.

Where was she?

He stepped further into the room, his eyes automatically noticing the tray of fruit, the lack of rumpled bed linens as he scanned the rest of the room. The glass doors to the balcony were open and he spied her bare feet, propped upon the railing.

Within seconds he had draped his own outer robes atop hers, and stood in the opened doorway, looking down at the sleeping woman. The beauty of the ocean view was not enough to pull his attention from Hermione. She was as neat in her sleep as she was in most things, her ankles were crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Her hair, which brushed the tops of her shoulders, had reacted to the sea air and was curlier than he was used to seeing, but he barely registered its existence. Instead, he noticed the way the thin strap of her dress had slipped from her shoulder to loop around her bicep, across the scar he'd first noticed the night of the Award Ceremony. He also noticed the way the angle of her legs allowed the skirt of her light dress to slide down her thighs, giving the impression that she had longer legs than she really possessed. Viktor eyed her lightly tanned skin, his eyes settling their focus on the dusky color of her longest scar.

It was unlike the scar on her bicep, or the one on her torso – from Antonin Dolohov, he reminded himself. The other two had faded over the years, but the scar on her leg was different. It reached in one straight line from hip to knee, as if she'd been pressed against the straight edge of a long blade. Intellectually he knew it had come from her former Potions master – a hex of his own creation – just before she'd Petrified him and slapped a Portkey into the wizard's hands. It had been keyed to take him to the Ministry's holding cells.

The fact that Severus Snape was serving a life sentence in Azkaban might be gratifying, but Viktor had other things to think about, such as how much pain Hermione had been in to take the Muscle Ease. In six months, he'd only seen her take it twice, and each time it had been after particularly strenuous activity.

"Kreten!" he swore. The hike to the stadium hadn't been particularly long, but the hill had been steep and they'd taken the scenic detour next to the waterfall.

"Hi," she said sleepily, awakened by his profanity.

"Boli lit te?" he asked, and then corrected himself. "Does it hurt?"

"Not now."

"I am sorry, Hermione. I did not think ..."

"Viktor, it's all right. I'm fine now. I should have taken the potion last night before we went to bed, but," she smiled a tiny, reminiscent smile, "it was your fault I forgot."

"My fault?"

"Yes. You distracted me." She arched her eyebrow and then her back.

"Did I?" His eyes automatically dropped to her chest where her breasts were straining the thin fabric. His body reacted instantly to the physical enticement.

Her voice retained the husky purr of sleep. "You know you did."

He crossed to the rail, halting next to her feet, resting a hand on her crossed ankles. Her skin was warm and smooth. "Vat about now? Am I distracting you now?"

He encircled her ankles, holding them in place, when she would have pulled her legs back. Her eyes flashed. "Viktor."

"You don't haff to get up. I vant to talk to you, and it's beautiful here."

She captured her lower lip between her teeth before glancing beyond him, at the changing colors of the sky. "It is beautiful."

"Ti si hubava." He smoothed his fingers along the silken texture of her shin, looking at nothing else but her.

"Thank you," she said, shifting uncomfortably.

Compliment her intellectual prowess and she accepted with remarkable savoir faire, but tell her she was beautiful and it flustered her. It was these contradictions Viktor found so fascinating. "However that is not vat I vanted to talk about. Hermione, vy vill you not go to the beach?"

She looked away from him. "It's just ... It's ... It's difficult for me to discuss."

He patiently waited her out. She was very good at diverting a conversation, especially when she found the topic disturbing. Yet one of Viktor's biggest professional assets was his ability to read a situation, knowing when to wait and when to accelerate into a dive. He could feel her tension under the smooth surface of her skin.

After a minute or two, she huffed. "Fine. I'm embarrassed."

He goggled at her. "Vat? Vy?"

She just glared at him as if he'd asked the stupidest question on the planet, and he supposed he had. He let go of her legs and dropped to his knees in front of her. "Is this about your scar?"

"Scars," she replied, correcting him, confirming his suspicion. It shocked him to some degree. She was so self-confident he sometimes forgot she had insecurities.

"You know vat I think about your scars. You earned them protecting people."

She sighed heavily. "I know I should get over this, but I don't really like to talk about how I got them. Maybe one day I'll become like Mad-Eye Moody, popping out his magical eye to scare the kiddies." She sighed again. "I don't like remembering that this scar," she pressed her bicep, "reminds me of the first person I ever killed ... or that I use the phrase the first because there were more. I think by the time he cast Sectumsempra on me, Snape had no soul left to divide, and I thank all the powers that be I never once used an Unforgivable. By the end, I had enough hate and anger to cast them all."

Her hands turned under his, squeezing the one he'd placed atop her twining, nervous fingers. Since that first night, they really hadn't talked much about the war. He hadn't realized she might still need to. He kept his mouth shut and just let her talk.

And she did. She talked and cried a little and talked some more. And all through her recitation, Viktor listened, attentively, ignoring his knees which were beginning to ache from his position on the hard balcony

"You know I have trust issues, we've talked about this. Snape was another one who betrayed my belief in him."

This was something he hadn't heard before and he stiffened. "Vat do you mean?" he asked, pulling the second chair over. "I had no idea ... I don't know vat I vant to ask."

"It's nothing terribly unsavory, Viktor." She rolled her eyes and Viktor realized he was glowering at her. "Honestly! There's no scandal, no sordid details. He was someone I had misjudged when I was a first-year, and then, later, when he saved our lives again and again, well, I had more faith in him than I did Dumbledore. Harry always thought I was an idiot." She glanced at him and got a funny little smirk. "A typak."

He began to relax. "Who is teaching you all these vords? Soon you vill haff better gutter language than me."

"Roza is surprisingly inventive," she said referring to the only witch on Vratsa's team.

"Ivanova has a filthy mouth."

She laughed. "How sexist of you. You and Grigor won't even tell me what pederast grozen gyrbav prokazhen means, and I can't find it in the dictionary."

"I should hope not. It's not a polite term." He chuckled then. "Leave it to you to look up cant."

"You know me. I like to know things. Pederast isn't too far from the English translation and I know that grozen means ugly --."

"Hermione, you're changing the subject." She'd done it so neatly, too. He'd almost lost the thread of their earlier conversation.

She flushed, and in the growing twilight he thought she was enchanting even with the residual signs of her tears.

"Sorry," she murmured, then her voice grew stronger. "It's just really simple. I'm self-conscious about my scars, especially in public. I'm getting better about it; when people know who I am they point and talk about me, usually within range for me to hear them – I got that a lot at school and I never liked it."

"I remember ven I vas at Hogvarts. There vas that reporter. Vile voman."

"Rita Skeeter. Yes, she was horrid."

They were silent for a few minutes, both remembering the events leading to Voldemort's return to corporeal form.

"Can you accept that I'm learning how to live with the scars and it's difficult for me? I will keep trying, if only for your sake."

"Hermione!"

"I know what a social butterfly you are."

"Hermione, you do not need to change who you are for me."

Abruptly she pulled her legs off the balcony's railing and leaned toward him, her expression entirely sincere. "Obicham te."

She didn't say it often, but it always affected him especially when she said it in his language. "I loff you, too."

They stared into one another's eyes and Viktor smoothed his hands up her arms, his thumb hooking into the strap drooping off her shoulder, his eyes latched onto her dark-fringed irises.

And then she licked her lips and the entire moment changed.

"Dai celuvka, molia te," he said, and the register of his voice dropped an octave.

Her lips were still warm from the afternoon sun as she pressed against him to comply with his request. Desire wrapped her fingers around him and prickling anticipation awoke in his groin.

Then Hermione rose and stepped past him toward their room. "Ella tyk," she said before crooking her finger as if to Summon him.

Viktor surged up from the chair, pulling her roughly to him. She was pliant in his arms and he lowered his mouth to hers; tasting her, touching her, reveling in the fact that she was here after all this time and that she loved him. He shifted on his feet, dropping one hand to adjust his growing erection. Hermione's hand covered his and her fingers curled around the edges of his palm, feeling him through the material of his trousers.

He groaned.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him beneath heavily-lidded eyes.

"Let's go to bed, Viktor."

"Ne," he replied, then released her for a moment to draw his wand. With a sharp jab then a flick he Summoned the tray of fruit and honey non-verbally. The dark wooden tray floated in their direction, and then Viktor directed it to the small table between their drawn together chairs next to the bud vase with the single, red, heart-shaped flower. He slid his wand back into the slim pocket of his trousers. "Here. I vant you here. Now." He thrust against her, relishing the sound of her quick intake of breath as she comprehended his meaning.

"Here?" Her eyes darted to the corners of the balcony, then out to the rapidly emptying beach below and across the street from their hotel. "Viktor, I ..."

"Let me show you." She allowed him to pull her to the railing. He leaned sideways, scooping up a slice of the mango from the plate. It was slippery, but his fingers were deft and sure, and he held the slender strip of orange fruit firmly. With his other hand about her waist, he turned her to face the beach while stepping closer to her. He nuzzled her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, and spoke softly in her ear. "I know you do not like to fly. I understand it. But this is vat I see ven I fly."

Her soft, "Oh," of comprehension accompanied a little gasp when Viktor stroked her arm with the warm fruit. He followed the fruit with his mouth, sucking the sweet nectar from her skin, sliding the strap of her dress lower, revealing the fact that she wore no Muggle lingerie to support her breasts.

The hand at her waist slid upward, underneath the full, ripe breast, fingers Seeking the budding nipple through lightweight cotton.

He licked the trail of mango juice, pressing his hips against her, his erection fitting neatly between the cheeks of her bum.

She moaned and pushed back into him.

He moved, switching sides; sliding the thin strap of her dress off the other shoulder before following the scrap of material with the mango slice and his mouth. Hermione started to turn toward him. "Ne!" Viktor commanded. "I vant you to see, to understand. It is quiet up here, restful."

Hermione arched her neck, giving him greater access. "It might be quiet, but I don't think restful is the word I'd use."

Viktor noticed the playfulness in her smile and his erection twitched. Drawing a glistening nectar line across her chest, skimming the top of her dress, he leaned around her arm to follow the fruit trail with his tongue. His hands assisted, and when he stood up, he had bared her entire upper body.

He painted the thin silver line of her oldest scar between her breasts, angling toward her appendix, then he lifted the mango, and her eyes watched the piece of fruit as Viktor raised the fruit to his mouth ... and bit.

Hermione's eyes widened, tracking his tongue as it licked the juice from the fleshy orange fruit. He grinned. Then he painted her tight nipples with the blunt-tipped mango.

"Viktor." Her voice was unsteady.

"Lubya," he murmured, feeding her the rest of the mango. That same, titillating sound she'd made that morning was his reward.

"Mmmmhhhmmm."

Viktor's erection was painfully hard, but he dropped his head to her breast, sucking the wandtip-sized nub into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it. She squirmed beneath him, threading her fingers through his hair, holding him in place. The fragrance of her arousal mingled with the salty, fruit-scented air.

He flicked his tongue again and she gasped.

A small hand slid down his back, smoothing over the linen of his shirt, around and under his arm until she reached the placket of his trousers, and found him. She squeezed and he almost bit her nipple from the force of his reaction. He released her breast and straightened.

In the variegated colors of the setting sun, Hermione was a stunning image of color and warmth. Her breasts stood proud, and her slender waist nipped in before the curves of her hips caught the draped fabric of her dress. He bucked his hips into her hand and said huskily, "Iskam da te eba.

"Yes," she answered and turned, stepping toward their room.

He nodded his head, and she took another step toward the door. She'd forgotten that he didn't mean yes. "Ne, Hermione. I vant you here, now. I vant you to know that I think of you ven I'm on my broomstick. I vant you to know vat I do sometimes thinking of you on that broom."

"Viktor." Her breath caught, her breasts swaying with the movement. "I've never done something quite so ... so ..."

"Public?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I can't ..." but her eyes strayed to the railing and the view beyond.

"You can. You are vet, Hermione. I can tell."

Her eyes flicked back to him. "You do that to me, Viktor. You always have."

His smile was predatory. "Good to know. Ella tyk." She didn't move, her lip firmly clamped between her teeth. So he said it again ... in English. "Come here."

He saw the moment she made up her mind. She released her lip, squared her shoulders and tilted her chin, but he noticed that her hand, when she reached for him, trembled from a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.

Grasping both of her hands he pulled her to the railing, wrapping her fingers round it, holding them in place. "Hold on to this," he said before he grasped her hips. He leaned forward, along the line of her back, nuzzling his way through her hair to kiss the nape of her neck. He felt her shudder, and slid his arms around her, cupping her breasts in both hands. Fingers plucked and fondled the tightly budded peaks.

One of her hands released the railing, to help, to feel.

"Ne, Hermione! Do not take your hands from the rail. If you do, I vill stop." He stood behind her, and her hand returned to the rail. Razbiram?"

"Razbiram." It was a barely formed word, more like a caress carried on the evening breeze.

Viktor rubbed against her bum, his need heavy and demanding. Dropping his hands to her hips again, he pulled her back against him. His body sought that friction, the wet heat which would lead to release.

With one foot he spread her legs; a hand slid over the bunched skirt down to her thigh, feeling the ridge of her scar under his palm, but not really noticing its existence any more. He adjusted her stance so that her bum spooned tightly against him.

A deep, guttural sound was wrenched from his lips when she rolled her hips invitingly.

Abruptly he withdrew his wand from his trousers, and with a practiced swirl and incantation, they were both naked.

Hermione stilled, tension rippling along her back. If anyone looked up they ... she ... would be visible.

"They do not know to look, mila. Do not think to see vat is in the air above them." He massaged her tense muscles and she relaxed beneath his hands, enough to enjoy what was about to happen.

Viktor angled her against him, rocking his hips, sliding his erection between the cheeks of her bum. He bent from the waist, his chest brushing against her smooth, unblemished back. Kissing the patch of skin beneath her ear, he whispered, "It is like this in the stadium ... quiet."

One Quidditch-roughened hand followed the line of her hip bone, dipping into her pelvic girdle, fingers threading through her thatch of tight curls. Hermione's breath hitched when he brushed over her hooded bundle of nerves, then slipped between her damp nether lips, gathering liquid excitement on his fingertips.

"The people vatching cannot really see vat is happening." Removing his hand, he raised it so they could both see the glistening liquid coating his fingers. He licked one finger, then another, but the third, his index finger, Viktor used to coat her lips with her own essence. Her tongue flicked out to taste. "I think of you ven I am in the air. Hermione, I think of you often, and vish to share vith you my love of flying."

"I'm not ..."

His finger stopped her mouth.

"It's all right. Razbiram."

While he positioned her, his erection jutted out from his body, as if reaching for its snug nest. Viktor sampled her body's nectar once again, adding it to his own seminal lubrication. "Many of them never notice the Seeker until the end of the game ..."

He stepped between her legs, noticing her uneven breathing, smelling the sharp tang of her heightened need.

"... after ve haff already seized the Snitch." He thrust hard, sinking into her familiar depths in one powerful stroke.

"Ah! Fuck!" Hermione's hips swiveled and he sank deeper. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the railing.

"Eba!" he swore.

"Yes!" She panted as she spoke. "Oh, Viktor."

He pulled out, half-way, the evening air cool against the heat of his damp phallus. Arching his back, he withdrew almost to the entrance to her body. His lips kissed her shoulder, tasting the remnants of mango mixed with sweat and excitement. "Ven I am in the air, I think of you," one hand found her mons, "of us," he pinched her clit and thrust at the same time. She whined deep in her throat. " ... every time I catch the Snitch."

He withdrew again.

"This feeling, Hermione ..."

He bucked his hips, sliding into her hot depths as she rocked meet him.

"There is nothing else like it."

Viktor flicked her clit and thrust deeper. She moaned; a keening note. Then he did it again ... and again, reveling in her tight sheath.

"Nothing is better than this."

He thrust and pulled back, the friction of her body's grip heady and exciting. Sweat dotted his brow and between his shoulder blades. The muscles of his arse flexed and bunched, and his scrotum slapped against her mons and his fingers. The electric spark of pre-release burst in his groin.

Her muscles fluttered under his touch. "Viktor!" It was a rising plaint.

He pinched her clit again and Hermione wailed as her orgasm ripped through her.

"Zavinage te obicham!" he shouted – knowing it was the truth -- as his own release burst from him in hot, shuddering spurts.

Resting his forehead on her shoulder, he gasped for breath, feeling the burn in his thighs.

It was this last feeling which reminded him of her scar, and he realized she was trembling. Instantly remorseful, Viktor pulled out of her, even though he remained partially erect.

She was his first priority.

"Hermione! Are you all right? Boli li te?"

Releasing her hands from the railing, she brushed the hair out of her face. She looked ... sated. "I'm fine. Better than fine actually, but do you think we could sit?"

He did her one better, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into their bedroom, where he placed her on the bed. She was smiling at him, a broad, unreserved smile which caught at his heart.

"That was amazing," she said quietly.

Viktor ran a hand through his hair. "That it vas." He sank to the bed, alongside her.

Before he could say anything else, she asked, "What did you say?"

"Ven?"

"That last thing, just before your climax."

He tried to think what he'd said, but didn't remember much more than the explosive release ... oh. Heat covered his cheeks, his neck, his ears. At least she couldn't see his ears.

"Viktor, what is it? I thought you were telling me you loved me, but it didn't sound like the way you usually say it."

"It vasn't. This ... it is a different ... a different phrase."

"Care to tell me, or do I have to find my English-Bulgarian dictionary? I brought it with me, you know."

Her expression emboldened him to answer. "It is a similar expression. It does mean I loff you." Her smile widened and softened. "I know ve haffen't been together for very long, Hermione, but I haff loffed you a long time."

"Even during those years we weren't together, I thought about you ... wondered why you'd stopped being my friend--" when he jerked upright, she soothed him with a quick kiss. "I understand. I'm no longer upset; I'm just trying to tell you that I've always had feelings for you, even when we weren't together. I hope you don't doubt that I love you?"

"Ne! Not at all. I know you loff me. I don't think it, or guess it, or hope, but, Hermione, I know you loff me. Vat I said earlier, it is a sort of declaration." She sat up and wrapped her arms around him; her breasts were slightly sticky from the mango juice which had dried against her skin. He returned her embrace, meeting her eyes fearlessly. "Vat I said means that I vill loff you forever."

Her breath caught in her throat and he saw the instant sparkle of moisture in her eyes. She cupped his face. "Teach it to me."

He held her gaze. "Zavinage te obicham."

"Zavinage te obicham." she said it haltingly, tasting the familiar and unfamiliar syllables on her tongue. Then she leaned in and brushed his lips with hers. "Zavinage te obicham, Viktor Krum. I will love you forever."

He kissed her.

She kissed him.

They snuggled on the bed, legs and arms entwined, as their tongues teased and flirted: first in his mouth and then in hers.

After several rather breathless minutes, Hermione laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers stroking the light dusting of hair between his flat male nipples.

He caught her hand, raising it to his mouth, kissing her fingers. He smelled the scent of her on his own hand. "Thank you for indulging me."

"Believe me, it was my pleasure." Her voice practically purred the last word. His erection twitched and her smile became mischievous. "We don't have any plans for tonight, do we? We can suit ourselves, can't we?"

"Yes, ve can suit ourselves. Vat do you vant to do?"

"I think I want to see what mango tastes like on you."

"Vat about the honey?" he asked.

"Too sticky," she replied. "I think the mango is just right."

And in the hours that came after, she proved to him that she was indeed a know-it-all.

~o0o~

Bulgarian to English translations:

Da, yes

Ne, no

Dobre, good (multi-purpose)

Chao, good-bye

Mila, dear

Lubya, love

Isvinite, excuse me

Ella tyk, come here

Boli li te, does it hurt?

Tova e dobre, It's okay

Ti si hubava, you're beautiful

Blagodarya, thank you

Obicham te, I love you

Zavinage te obicham, I'll love you forever

Dai celuvka, molia te, give me a kiss please

Razbiram, understand

Po dyavolite, damn it

Kreten, retard

Typak, idiot,

Smeshnik, clown

Iskam da te eba, I want to fuck you

Pederast grozen gyrbav prokazhen, unsightly hunchbacked leper pervert

Portuguese to English translations:

Si, yes

Esposa, spouse, wife

Magnifico, magnificent

Panqueca com manga, pancakes with mango