Chapter Text
“Smile and maybe tomorrow, you’ll see the sun come shining through for you.” Nat King Cole crooned from the record player, the record spinning beneath the needle. A fire crackled from the fireplace; its smoke rolling up the chimney as if it were chasing the cold away. “Light up your face with gladness.”
Hermione leaned against the glass pane, her gaze sweeping over the hunting party below. They were a swirl of bold colors; reds and golds alongside the prettiest shades of blue, with every furred cape trimmed in ermine, and bow and arrow strapped across their back. Their horses stamped their feet in excitement, the call of the hunt heady in the air. And at the head of the party, arrayed in pure black, a man sat astride an enormous steed.
It was the leader; towering man, the lord that her gaze settled on.
As if feeling her eyes on him, the man lifted his head and turned toward the window. Dark hair curled about his shoulders, and she knew that a smirk was on his lips. He’d told her once, that he always knew when she was watching. “How?” She’d asked, and he’d taken her hand in his, pressing it against his heart.
“I feel you here,” he’d replied, in his straightforward way, and they’d both laughed at the utterly sweet sincerity of it. She felt her own heart flutter, as it often did when he spoke to her; more than anyone else could imagine. She’d never had another say the things that he told her, nor mean them as he did.
A childhood filled with reading hadn’t prepared her for life with Viktor, lengthy tomes on magical theory and A Hogwarts History far from the romances that Parvati, Padma, and even Ginny (after breaking her arm on the Quidditch field and on strict bed rest) were obsessed with. Even as an adult she clung to familiar subjects; reading everything the wizarding, and Muggle world had to offer on magic, history, and science treatises, though she couldn’t scoff at the romances that others adored, not after her relationship with Viktor.
No, there were many things she couldn't dismiss after being with him. She brushed her bottom lip with her index finger and felt her cheeks darken.
Boldly she let her gaze rest on her husband.
He was Ares reincarnated; his breastplate covered in shimmering stardust, and his shoulder plates spiked, just as his metallic mask curved like death’s hand over his face, hiding his human features. Instead, he bore the face of a hunter, the mask modeled after the Minotaur that had once stormed and raged through the heavens, with elongated horns that curled circular. She knew better than to be afraid, (she wasn’t a bear made into prey, crashing through the snowy forest with hunters rampaging behind) and pressed her hand against the glass, as wide, honey-colored eyes met burning, decadent amber ones.
“Be safe,” She mouthed.
Butterflies frolicked in her stomach as he smiled, a crooked, flashing smile that he showed only her. She hadn’t believed that he meant his whispered promises; ones of tender nights, and gentle days, with her passions intertwined with his, not at first. She’d always liked statistics and numbers, and facts that never changed. Predictable things, as love, and passion never was. Now - now she knew, without a doubt, that he’d meant it. She ducked her head, a blush staining her cheeks, before looking again. “Please.”
He raised a gloved hand to his mouth; kissing a finger, before holding it up to her.
Always, mila.
Magnificent horns blew, signaling the start of the hunt.
Hermione lingered at the window, allowing the sun to kiss her cheeks.
She felt the velvet curtains with her fingers, appreciating the feel of them against her hand. They were always tied back, the room made light and airy by the view; rolling hills surrounding thickets of forest, as far as one could see. On warmer days, the windows were left open; the sounds of birds singing and the children from the nearby village screaming with laughter, allowed in. Now, even through the thick windowpane, all she could hear was the clatter of hooves, the sound the same as shrieking, rolling thunder.
Across the room, Crookshanks meowed loudly; stalking back and forth across the bed with his tail swishing irritably. He didn’t care for the view; only his disturbed place on the bed. The room reflected her Gryffindor house colors, and the passions of her husband; the room colored in deep reds, and pretty golds; books overflowing from the vanity and the dresser, while a golden snitch rested on her husband's nightstand. Beside it was his favorite photo of her; showing her laughing while she held Crookshanks up to the camera, and his tongue lolled about the side of his mouth. "Oh, Crooks! I'm sorry," Hermione apologized.
She crossed the room and moved pillows from “his” side of the four-poster bed. It was an assumption that her husband had taken with amusement; always sliding over to make room for her demanding familiar. And demanding was the word to describe him, Hermione thought, yawning as she slipped beneath the thick covers.
Crookshanks had settled into life at the estate with his nose pointed high, and yowl haunting the halls. The elves (ones that had been orphaned or abandoned by their previous families) served him with golden bowls, giving him hand-cut pieces of salmon, and nightly bowls of fresh cream. When she’d asked the elves not to, Crookshanks had hidden under the bed, refusing to come out (or even sniff at the pate she offered) until her orders were rescinded, and the elves promptly celebrated by bringing him twice the amount of salmon as before. Viktor had laughed, gently, telling her she’d been outwitted. “I suppose,” she’d admitted, as he tucked curls behind her ear.
Not that she’d minded too much. She was grateful that her familiar was still with her; surviving throughout her student years to her graduation from Hogwarts, and her gap year where she'd traveled around the world (McGonagall had given her a magical camera for her graduation present; one that she used everywhere she went, her letters to Viktor filled with moving photos), before her subsequent marriage. His muzzle was still a ghastly orange; only one that was touched with white, and his stripes faded and marked with grey.
Viktor’s own familiar was the steed that he rode; named Hermes for the fact that he galloped as if hell-hounds were snapping at his heels. He was sweet with Hermione, taking apple slices gently from her hand and letting her stroke his mane, though she preferred not to ride him without Viktor. Hermes was patient when Crooks strolled about the barn and jumped on his back; insisting in his own, feline way on sunning himself there. The two familiars had their own relationship; made from exasperation and patient friendship, though Crookshanks preferred to roam the manor halls, instead of straying outdoors.
“Nap time?” She offered, stroking his tufted mane. Crookshanks answered with a purr; a throaty, little noise and settled beside her, laying his head against the thick pillow he liked. Pulling the covers up about her shoulders, she closed her eyes at the sudden warmth; the material charmed to know the warmth she needed. It was a gift from her mother-in-law, one sent after they announced her condition. “You mustn’t catch a cold,” Sofia had admonished in her letter, before adding that she’d requested the elves to keep the fireplaces blazing and steaming cups of tea sweetened with honey on her night-stand. “Not when you are our treasure and carry our heir, Hermione.”
Like her son, Sofia was an honest, and steady character; one that Hermione had instantly taken to. The fact that Sofia kept her elves in patterned pillowcases, allowing them to choose their own adornments had defined their relationship, (Something, Viktor swore, she’d always encouraged), and ensured Hermione’s love for her mother-in-law. As she’d grown older, her relationship with her parents had lessened; their ability to accept the magical world faltering. Sofia understood, having Muggle friends as a child; and offered her motherly advice, without overwhelming her with opinions. They often exchanged letters, both of their owls following a familiar path; knowing that each mistress offered sweet treats in thanks.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, resting her head beside her familiar’s.
“Mila,” a low voice crooned in her ear.
Strong arms wrapped about her waist and pulled her close against his chest. “Mmph- “ Hermione said, his lips catching hers. He tasted like a fiery hunter; one who chased with fearless abandon, cantering through the clinging underbrush, and who sang before smoky infernos. She nibbled on his lower lip, taking the plump flesh between her teeth; until his tongue pressed against her teeth as if chiding her. She let go of his lip, her tongue flicking against his. He chuckled; a rough, rumbling sound that made her shiver.
Her eyes opened to meet his dark eyes, desire glittering within them.
“I’ve made it back to you and our little one,” he murmured. His hand moved to caress her abdomen; his calloused fingers spread wide over the gentle curve of her stomach. She’d just begun to show; something that delighted her husband to no end and prompted him to cover her face and her bump in continual kisses. He woke her often with a pressing erection, whispers of adoration in her ear, and professed that he loved nothing more than seeing her filled with his child. “Safe and sound, Hermione, as you wished.”
His lips quirked about her name, only briefly, before he kissed her cupid's bow and the tip of her nose. His accent had lessened over the months spent in her company; his English improving with a rapidness few had believed. She knew better: her then-fiancé wasn't thick, not as others were quick to assume. He had a focus that rivaled her own when it came to things he cared about; learning English alongside his constant improvement at Quidditch. He was relentlessly intense about things; more than anyone knew, as even their friends wondered how he dealt with her obsessions, and the times she researched magical matters until she fell asleep over a pile of books, and ink-stained her fingers.
After his third visit to the library, where he’d found her hidden study nook near the restricted section, he’d asked her for help. She’d hesitated at first, not knowing if it was a trick; until he’d given her sugar quills from Honey Dukes, and no taunting Slytherins had appeared afterward. She’d taught him little phrases (the time he’d said, “I’m chuffed to bits!” still made her smile) and answered his questions as best as she could, once she’d found that he actually wanted to learn; paying rapt attention as her brow furrowed, and the end of her quill tickled her nose as she thought about his question.
And he was curious about countless things; the history of Hogwarts, and life in the United Kingdom among them. She'd been pleased with his questions, and how he'd nodded her head as she told him about S.P.E.W. - even promising to send him a letter of invitation, and a button for the club soon. He hadn't laughed at her ideas, nor turned up his nose at the idea of house-elves being freed. He'd grown up with house-elves as his friends, he told her, and never thought any less of them. It was the same as squibs, those without magic; as the village that crowded his ancestral home was filled with knowing squibs, who depended on his family for their protection, and support. Half-bloods and muggle-borns were common among them, though the lineage Viktor came from was as pure as could be. Still, he said, he understood; and had classmates that were horrified at his thoughts, though they disagreed less as his fame grew.
“Quidditch made me like this,” he admitted, and she knew what he meant: popular, and caged, in his own way. “Not…free, but I am who I am.” He’d shrugged afterward, and his acceptance had struck her; as he was friendly and truthful with her, despite the expectations of him.
He’d been more than a star player at Quidditch and was as different from other Purebloods (like Malfoy, she’d thought with a shudder) as could be. He didn’t call her a mud-blood or even muggle-born. Instead, he called her by her name, pronouncing it ‘Hermy-own’ until she’d taught him how to say her name correctly. With a smile, one that Harry had raised his eyebrows at, and Ron had questioned. She’d never been known for her patience, not with “her boys”, but was with Viktor. She’d rolled her eyes and hadn’t bothered to explain, not when Ginny had smacked Harry in the head and said, “She likes him, you dolt!”.
Really, she’d had nothing to add, not when she’d stalked from the room and left Harry and Ron gaping behind her.
She rubbed her cheek against his, and lips curled upward into a contented smile. “It seems to be your habit.” She teased him softly; the words more truthful than joking. He came back to her, just as he always kept his word, ever since he’d courted her during their time at Hogwarts. She hadn’t realized, then, that he’d been courting - not until he’d kissed her at the Yule Ball (and not under the mistletoe, like Harry had!) and gave her a sapphire bracelet; one interwoven with diamonds. A bracelet that Ginny had gaped at, and explained meant Viktor was announcing his intentions to the world.
Hands on her hips, she’d confronted him.
“Marriage, Viktor?”
The wind had whipped about their shoulders; as they’d stood on the cliff, overlooking the Durmstrang vessel. He hadn't towered over her; instead, he’d sat on the ground, heedless of the dampness.
“If you’ll have me.” He replied evenly. “I want you, Hermione as my fiancée, my wife.”
Three little words had hung between them; as she’d huffed and sat beside him, his arm wrapped about her shoulder. She’d told him she couldn’t, not when she had years of studying ahead, and he was going back before the term ended.
“I won’t make you wait for me,” she’d waved between them, and he’d cocked his head.
“Hermione?”
“Not when you’re…” she’d swallowed, perfectly aware of her righteous curls, and protruding teeth. “When you’re you and I’m - well - me. You have a career ahead of you, and I have some ideas, but- ” they were in two different places, and would always be, she thought. “You should have someone like you, Viktor.” She’d finally said, as bluntly as she could. “Pure-blooded and pretty - I can’t even stand to ride a broom, though I understand the theory of flying- “
He’d seemed to understand, though he quieted her by bringing her hand to his lips; sweetly kissing her knuckles. “Do you want me, Hermione?” Her eyes had burned, as he made her feel like a girl; a real, blushing girl that she never would have believed she could be.
“Yes,” she admitted, as disturbingly honest as only a Gryffindor could be. “I do.”
“As I you.” He set her hand in her lap, before wrapping his pinky finger about hers; something she’d taught him. “I will wait for you- “ he looked at their fingers; hers engulfed by his. “If you will wait for me, if you want me. I will not…” he paused, searching for the words. “I will not force you, Hermione. Friends, yes?”
“Always,” she agreed readily. He was different than Ron, and nothing like Harry, but she liked him all the same; finding herself looking for his familiar hat and hearing him call her name. She liked the way that he remembered what she was reading, and her interests; while he’d gotten her to watch him practice Quidditch, not minding when she peppered him with questions about the sport after (a fact she’d carefully kept from the others, not wanting them to imagine that she was a fan of the sport). Already they’d promised to write to each other when he left, carefully writing down the other’s address and the name of their owl. “And the rest- “
Slowly, she rested her head against his shoulder. “I’ll think about.”
She hadn’t given him an answer, not until her gap year, when he’d met her whenever she’d asked: after receiving her N.E.W.T.S. results, they’d had fish and chips in London - explored the back streets of Venice together, and marveled at the art museums and watched as glass was blown - on the beaches of Greece, where the sunset was a beautiful shade of pink, and the water clear to the bottom - and never asked to stay. He’d let her leave, kissing her note and pocketing the accompanying gift; always something kitschy, and touristy; like an ornament of Big Ben, and a vial filled with sand from the Grecian beach they’d sunbathed at. He displayed them in his sitting room (his mother’s favorite was the mini Eiffel Tower that lit up) and showed them to anyone who visited.
“Who are they from?” They’d ask.
“From her,” he’d reply, every time.
And he’d kept his lips sealed on who his friend was, even to his closest friends who he treated as brothers. He kept his dreams and his excitement inside of him; instead concentrating on the Quidditch field, and the idea of his friend beside him; her hand tucked in his. Instead, he played to win, receiving as many bruised ribs as he gave others black eyes and busted jaws; his fame ensuring his image was splashed across the newspapers.
Still, he'd write his friend; after every practice, and every game, when he stumbled into his room and found a tawny owl with a missing ear tapping at his window. She would always be his friend, regardless of her eventual answer. And so, halfway across the world, his friend Hermione would receive a letter held in the beak of a spotted, silver owl.
Until Christmas, when he'd found himself invited to spend the holiday with her at the Burrow and found himself gifted with a scratchy, oversized sweater and drinking eggnog with the Weasleys. And Hermione; his Hermione, who rested her head against his shoulder and sang Christmas carols with him. Their friendship had never dwindled, and she was warmer with him than she was with any another; despite how she laughed with the twins and scolded Ron after he feasted on chocolate from Honey Dukes. She'd had a quiet word with Harry too, after he'd come to celebrate the holiday with Ginny, and the rest of them; though Hermione spent the most time at Viktor’s side. Yet he - he’d been stunned when she’d leaned up on the tips of her toes and whispered a single word in his ear after he’d come back from playing Quidditch with Ginny, Ron, and the rest of the Weasley clan.
“Yes.”
The eavesdropping Weasleys had cheered at the news and rushed forward to congratulate them; Fred throwing Hermione up in the air, and Ginny making Viktor swear he wouldn’t hurt her, while George whistled at the news, and Ron clapped him across the shoulders. Molly had hurried to make her cherished fudge in celebration, while Arthur made a quiet note to take time off work for the wedding.
And afterward, Viktor had swept Hermione into his arms; regardless of the crowding others, and promised he would make her happy, while she kissed his cheeks and said he already had.
Carding her fingers through his silky hair, she smiled at the memory.
“Did the hunt go well?” Hermione asked. It was held during the winter; when the bears that teemed the forest wandered near the estate, and the surrounding village; desiring the magic that flourished from celebrating, joyful families. They were far from the normal, brown bears Hermione had assumed them to be, as every Bulgarian tour book promised. No, they were bears that devoured magic; emerging in the winter months from their slumber and roared with hunger; their shadows casting fear over the villagers. It was Viktor’s great-grandfather that had created the hunt, turning it into a time of revelry, and noble duty, a ceremony steeped in old tradition and magic.
“Mhm. We found the bear stalking at the outskirts of the village,” Viktor hummed, his aura dancing about hers. It felt so alive; brimming with excitement, as it weaved throughout hers. She knew that he’d been taught things at Durmstrang that she couldn’t even dream of, studying at Hogwarts, where the limitations were far more severe. He could transform a book that she held into a snapping gryphon, the same as he could cast a warming charm over her without using a wand. Yet she never felt the difference between their magic until the hunt came, when his magic, his touch promised excitement - possessiveness - his scent, and his touch calling to her. "He would have taken the villagers at nightfall, mila, wanting the children’s sweet magic.” He knew she still questioned the hunt, though she was past creating clubs in protest. Instead, she spent time researching magical creatures (including the ferocious bears, though Viktor and the house-elves persuaded her not to study them up close) and writing treatises in their defense; dedicating her first published work to Remus and Tonks.
“Like ours- “ Hermione said slowly, feeling the thrum of life that entwined with her own; one that she recognized as their child’s.
“Exactly,” he agreed, his fingers drawing circles across her navel. “I won’t let anything happen to you, supruga. I promised that, didn’t I?” His tone was earnest, and his heart warm. They'd had a private wedding ceremony before he carried her through the village; the villagers throwing flower petals and scraps of colored paper, good luck charms scribbled on them. And the Weasleys had attended, the Potters too, and a retired McGonagall had celebrated with them; though the rest of the wizarding world hadn’t learned of the marriage until months later.
“You did, suprug.” She replied, relishing the way his eyes lit up at her use of Bulgarian. He'd taught her words (starting with husband, though she hadn't known it at the time) through his letters, though now he taught her using a more physical approach; kissing and licking her most sensitive parts when she pronounced words right and sometimes spanking her when she got them wrong.
“Then you know I mean it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. She shivered, nestling closer against him, and he looped his arm about her shoulder. It wasn’t fear that she felt, no - she buried her face against his neck, and licked at his skin. He tasted like cinnamon with an undertone of sweat; the taste dancing on her tongue. She inhaled, feeling euphoric flames beneath her skin.
“Ah, V-Viktor,” Hermione mewled; her cheeks burning. “Will you-?”
She felt as helpless as a kitten, weak from burning desire; tension pressing down against her pelvis. Her breasts felt heavy, and her nipples perked at the thought of his attention. He knew how to touch her; sliding his fingers between her legs and making her ride his hand until she was breathless with pleasure. There were other times when he had her on her hands and her knees, thrusting inside of her from behind while massaging her breasts with his hands. He could be merciless when fucking her; rolling his thumbs over her nipples, and causing milk to squirt on to the comforter, until he pulled out from her, and turned her over; taking her that way while latching on to her breast with his eager mouth. The pleasure he gave her was more than she could imagine; and she too, pleased him, with her hand pawing at his cock, and her kisses lighting fire under his skin.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
He cooed at her shyness, knowing what she wanted. Pregnancy had made her eager for the comfort of his arms; her heart filled with adoration as he covered her body in kisses, and hooked her legs over his shoulders, and laved at the bud between her legs until she lost herself in ecstasy; panting and writhing in his hold. He would bring her to orgasm again and again, before holding her close after; and filling her heart with his words. She felt safe when she was with him; safe and cherished as no one else had ever made her feel.
“Любимото ми място е да бъда заедно с теб,” Viktor murmured, rolling her on to her back, and propped her against the down pillows. He was always mindful of her condition; keeping his weight off her, even when she begged him to crush her beneath him. He’d smirk and promise later - after it was safe, and she was well - he’d take her as roughly as she wanted. There were many times when she hadn’t been able to sit after he had her; her bottom red and swollen from his spankings, and her privates sore from his attention. “моята любима.”
Together with you is my favorite place to be, my darling.
He trailed his fingers across her cheek, before cupping her face in his calloused hands. They were hands that had never touched another; not in such a tender way. He’d wanted her ever since he saw her sitting in the Quidditch stands at Hogwarts, with her face buried in a book, and her wild curls cascading down her shoulders, completely ignoring the chaos about her. “Only you, Hermione, always only you.”
She closed her eyes at his words and felt her heartbeat quicken. He said the words often, yet they never grew weary and made her feel the same as when he'd first declared them. “You know how I feel,” she said softly; turning her cheek, and nuzzling her face into his palm. “I love you.”
She’d realized that, as he accompanied her throughout her gap year; always at her side, never demanding, never wanting or pressuring. He’d allowed her to be herself, seeming content as she wandered through areas restricted to tourists, and gazed at the sights; sometimes quietly, other times reciting every fact that she’d read about it. He’d nod his head and discuss it with her; truly - not in the sometimes-pandering way that Harry did, or brush her off as Ron tended to do, wanting to talk about Quidditch instead. No, Viktor was different from the rest. He listened and engaged with her and seemed more than content to be with her. He was her friend, she’d realized, a true one.
And as she learned about his quiet sense of humor, and his confidence, she’d found herself entwining her fingers through his, and resting her head against his shoulder. Could it be, she thought, she wanted something more?
She’d looked at her wrist, where the bracelet he gave her weighed. He hadn’t wanted it back, and she’d kept it; tucking it away in her bag, until she - she found she’d wanted to wear it. It'd felt wrong not to after she'd put it on again, and felt the clasp shut by itself over her skin.
Yes - yes.
She’d embraced her feelings towards Viktor and never regretted it.
“I love you,” she repeated, her eyes wet. Inwardly she blamed it on pregnancy hormones; though her heart beat faster, and happiness tickled her cheeks regardless. He saw her tears, holding her gaze; but said nothing as tears rolled down her cheeks and on to her collarbone. He knew how she shied from emotions, as much as he embraced his; and never chided her for it, instead knowing what she meant, in her own, quiet way. And as he slid down, down, down to settle between her legs; she felt him whisper against her dripping cunt. “I know.”
His tongue darted forward, tracing the apex of her curls. He knew just how to tease her; swirling his tongue against her folds, making her beg for more until he finally plunged inside. This time he peppered her clit with kisses; before resting his head against her naked thigh and lapping at her damp opening through her small knickers. He smirked as she trembled; her hands gripping his hair. “Please- “
He blew warm air against her skin; before broadly licking her slit. Her feet pushed against the sheets, as he continued to lap at her entrance; before dipping his tongue inside of her cunt again. He thrust his tongue in and out of her dripping cunt; his nose bumping against her clit. She was his favorite treat; her musky aroma sweet on his tongue. He wanted to make her scream and fall apart beneath him; his adoration seeping into her skin. But first - he spelled out letters with his tongue, and she laughed until she moaned; knowing what he meant.
Love - you - too - mila.
“Always,” he murmured, and she knew the words to be true.
She rocked her hips against his mouth; thick, happy tears dripping down her cheeks without shame. “Always, Viktor.”