The soft glow of the waxing moon shone in through the windows of the hospital wing and its patients, rousing Hermione from her unintended slumber. Shifting from her uncomfortable perch in a chair between two beds, she stretched out her limbs and prepared to make another round.

This was how she had spent the past two afternoons after the Battle had ended. With St Mungo’s swamped with all the critical injuries from the fighting both in and out of the school, some of the overflow of patients had been directed to Hogwarts, as it was one of the few locations with adequate medical facilities. Though a Healer had been sent to assist Madam Pomfrey, they couldn’t keep up with everyone. As it was, Madam Pomfrey was asleep and the Healer was making rounds in the Muggle Studies classroom, since the hospital wing was overcrowded, it was close, and that particular classroom would not be in use for the rest of the year.

Hence, Hermione, as well as Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, had been taking shifts in assisting with treatment. They did everything from menial tasks, like change linens and bandages, to things like soothing the patients who would awaken, screaming from a nightmare they’d had about being attacked, only to find it had actually happened. Hermione struggled with what to say to any of them, because saying ‘it was only a dream’ was, at best, inaccurate. Instead, she simply told them what had happened to them, sent for Madam Pomfrey or the Healer to give them a Dreamless Sleep Draught, and hoped they would wake up a little more at peace.

Turning to her left, the patient in the most critical condition lay there. If she felt tired, she would always sit next to him in order to quickly be aware of any change. It was strange, though, seeing him with such a sickly pallor, his typical complexion being rather florid, and she’d never known him to be quiet, either. However, considering the spell damage that he had suffered, looking half dead was not very high on the list of his ailments. His injuries were so agonising to the point that, until the effects of the Burning Curse that had struck him wore off, all they could do was pump him full of pain relievers and keep him under the Draught of the Living Death so he didn’t have to be awake for it.

Hermione heard a whimper come from him, to which she only sighed. The pain killers were not lasting as long as they should, which only served as a reminder of how bad his injuries were. As soon as the Healer got back, he’d have to be given another dose. In the meantime, she took his hand in hers and gently stroked it, hoping to calm his quickening pulse. When the pained sounds abated, she smoothed the hair from his sweating forehead, grabbed the lamp from the bedside table, and went to check on the rest, most of whom were asleep or sedated most of the time. Her routine was to check pulses, document them, and greet them with a friendly face when they woke up.

Her round done, Hermione returned to her seat and dabbed a damp cloth on her intensive care patient’s brow. He had broken out into a cold sweat, which meant that he wasn’t conscious, but he could still feel quite a bit of pain. Seeing him suffer not only broke her heart, it made her remember. The thought of that sort of torture wasn’t just something she could imagine how it was; she knew what it was like.

The sound of footfalls stirred her from her reverie. Not turning, she resumed her ministrations. “The pain potion is wearing out again.”

“Sounds terrible.”

The voice she heard wasn’t the feminine lilt of the Healer or Madam Pomfrey; it was distinctly male and quite familiar. Spinning in her chair, she gasped, “Viktor!”

“Her-my-nee, it is good to see you again.”

A small laugh bubbled from her chest. “You finally said my name right.”

Smiling sheepishly, he mused, “It has been, vot, over three years?”

They both managed a terse laugh before Hermione asked what she had been wondering the second he came in. “What are you doing here?”

His good humour gone, Viktor knelt in front of her and said, “I vos vorried about you. First, you disappeared from the vedding, and then there vere rumours that you were vith Potter, trying to kill the Dark Lord. I didn’t know vot to think, but ven you didn’t send any letters, I knew you vere in trouble. I came as soon as I heard you vere here.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. She really had no idea what she was supposed to say; ‘thank you’ didn’t sound much better. Nonetheless, that he had crossed an entire continent to check on her reminded her of why she had been taken with him in the first place. However, things were different, with Ron finally acting as if he wasn’t averse to the idea of furthering her relationship, so giving Viktor the wrong idea, or even so much as a glimmer of hope in that area, couldn’t happen. Instead, she settled on the innocuous. “How long have you been travelling?”

Seeming not put off by her deflection, Viktor said, “I left the minute my match vos over this afternoon… so, about seven hours. Most of the Floos on the Continent were being used by people going home, so I had to vait in Prague for over an hour and in Paris for nearly three. I figured you vould be here or that someone here vould know ver you vere.”

“I…” Hermione really had no idea what to say at that point. It made her want to embrace him and to cry out her own pent-up pain and frustration from the past year. Once again, she steered the conversation to a different front. “You must be exhausted! Where are you staying?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, he said, “In Hogsmeade at the Hog’s Head. Even though the barman there looks like Dumbledore and it’s now public knowledge that he and Grindelvald vere friends and I didn’t trust him, it vos the only place vith a room available.”

“Oh!” she said, never thinking to make that connection. Hermione had never truly thought about the more widespread implications of Voldemort’s reign, as she had been too busy worrying about Harry and Horcruxes and Ron. Every available second had been devoted to figuring out what they were supposed to have been doing. Lamely, she said, “Well, um, I hope you got a clean room. Aberforth isn’t the tidiest fellow on the planet.”

Something almost resembling a smirk crossed Viktor’s lips. “The second he saw that I actually had money, he cleaned my room right avay.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the idea of Aberforth hurrying to do anything. At any rate, she was glad that Viktor wouldn’t have to try to find lodging so late at night. Most of the spare rooms in the usable sections of the castle were taken by the families of the patients she helped oversee, as well as any students who chose not to leave, although there were very few of them.

But his next question surprised her. “Who is that?” he asked, glancing down at the bed — more specifically, the hand she had unknowingly been holding.

Flushing, Hermione said, “His name is Ernie Macmillan. He got hit by a Burning Curse, and…” She frowned, the mere thought of the effects of the spell making it nearly impossible to say aloud.

Nodding, Viktor said, “I know of it. Karkaroff taught it to his favoured students. I am sorry to say I vas vone of them.”

The darker turn of the conversation made Hermione wonder about things that hadn’t crossed her mind before recently. She remembered how horrified she had been to watch the Unforgivable Curses being performed in her fourth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts class by the Moody imposter and how it had affected Neville to see what had stolen his parents’ sanity played out in front of him. To imagine it being indoctrinated all through school was unconscionable to her, yet he still maintained that base sense of what was right and wrong. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t what she had meant to say at all, but it was what had come out first.

“About vot?” Viktor asked, truly puzzled. “I vosn’t the vone hit vith the spell, and you did not cast it. Vy are you sorry?”

There had been few things about Viktor that had stood out to Hermione when she first met him, but once she bothered to learn more, his simple brand of honesty had always struck her. He was not beguiling or glib or dishonest in any way, and he hadn’t changed in that regard. It did, however, make it more difficult to articulate what was going through her head. But she did owe it to him to try, no matter what sort of ill feelings it dredged up.

“You see,” Hermione started hesitantly, “When I was, er, gone, I was with Harry. We were trying to complete a mission that would weaken V-Voldemort…” She had to stop to draw a deep breath. As per orders from Kingsley, who had been appointed the new Minister of Magic, details of their Horcrux hunt were to be divulged only on a need-to-know basis as to not spread knowledge of such dark magic, but she trusted Viktor. But it didn’t make it any less horrible to think about, much less figure out how to paraphrase it.

Putting his hand on hers, Viktor said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you do not vant to. I know how difficult it is to think of things you have seen that make you sick.” Glowering, he said, “There is a petition in the German Ministry of Magic to give Grindelvald a state funeral, as if he vere some kind of hero.”

The bitterness in his voice didn’t surprise Hermione. The one person on earth he truly hated was Grindelwald, and for good reason. It made her angry on his behalf that it was even an issue. “I’m sorry,” she said again, once more irritated by the words she had meant to say but didn’t.

This time, though, Viktor merely smiled. “I know.”

Hermione’s response was pre-empted by a loud yawn. “Oh, my!”

“You should get some sleep,” he said, consternation taking over his sharp features. “The yellow-haired girl in the Great Hall said you have not slept since yesterday.”

“Well, I, er, suppose not,” she stumbled, “but I have to tell the Healer when she gets back that Ernie needs more pain potion.”

“I vill do it. You need to rest.”

“But you…” Hermione was rapidly losing her will to refute the offer. He was, indeed, right about her weariness, and sleep sounded wonderful. She felt his lips touch her forehead, but whatever he was saying, she never heard.

When she awoke, sunrise was creeping into the windows of the hospital wing, causing Hermione to jump to her feet, momentarily forgetting that she had meant to fall asleep. She looked around to check on her charges, only to find Hannah doing just that.

“How long have you been here?” Hermione asked the other girl. “You weren’t scheduled until eight. It can’t be much later than six.”

Hannah shrugged. “You hadn’t slept in so long, so I came early — about three hours ago — to relieve you. It’s a good thing I did, too, because he was so dead on his feet, but he wouldn’t leave until someone else came to take your place.”

At first, Hermione had no idea what Hannah meant, but the fog lifted from her brain and let her remember more about the night before. “Viktor, where did he go?”

“He went to get breakfast for when you woke up. He just left about ten minutes ago, so he should be back soon.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, even though Hannah’s back was turned, Hermione stood and stretched her aching limbs. “Well, thank you, Hannah. I can stay late tonight to make up for it.”

“Oh,” Hannah said. “About that… Madam Pomfrey wants to see you. She’s in her office preparing doses whenever you’re ready.”

Fairly certain that she was going to get a stern address for falling asleep during her shift, Hermione took a reassuring breath and entered Madam Pomfrey’s office. “You wanted to see me?” she started quietly.

“Yes!” Madam Pomfrey said, finishing up the last of a tray full of various potions. But rather than pick it up, she set a cover over the top and turned her attention to Hermione. “I have been meaning to talk to you about something, but our paths haven’t crossed very often.” She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Please, sit down.”

Madam Pomfrey’s tone brooked no disagreement, much like she spoke to uncooperative patients. Knowing better than to disregard the order, Hermione quickly took her seat and waited for the lecture to begin. However, the beginning of the conversation didn’t start  anything like she’d expected.

“Miss Granger, your dedication to your volunteer work is admirable and much appreciated, but I think you’re pushing yourself too hard. After your attack… you should be sleeping more.” Madam Pomfrey patted her on the shoulder. “I thanked your young man for making you get some rest last night.”

“Oh, no, he isn’t… we aren’t… He’s just visiting.” Hermione flushed at the suggestion that she and Viktor were an item. That ship had sailed years before, although the implication of a relationship had made her red in the face then, too.

But Hermione’s embarrassment seemed to be lost on Madam Pomfrey, who merely said, “Nonetheless, I am hereby relieving you of your responsibilities here for the next three days, and I prescribe at least ten hours of sleep per day to let your body recover.”

Hermione simply stared. She felt as if she were being punished for something over which she had no control. “I…” she started, but one stern glance from Madam Pomfrey stopped her objection in its tracks. Instead, she straightened her back, held her chin up, and said, “Very well. I’ll be on my way then.”

At that moment, Hermione wanted badly to run out of the room, but she knew Viktor was coming back soon, and leaving would’ve been rude, especially considering what he’d done for her the night before. So she simply went back to her familiar spot next to Ernie and stared at his ashen face. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her shoulder.

“Relax. I am not trying to scare you.”

Exhaling heavily, Hermione said, “It’s fine. I just… spaced out a bit.”

His brow furrowing, Viktor said, “Vot meaning ‘spaced out’?”

“Oh, um… it’s when you stop paying attention, and your mind isn’t focused on anything.”

“I see,” he said before remembering the tray he carried. “I brought this for you. The tea is still hot.”

Smiling at his consideration, she said, “Thank you so much. It was very kind of you to think of me like that.”

“I alvays think of you, Her-my-nee.”

Once again, Hermione was rendered speechless. She wasn’t naïve; she knew the context of what he meant when he said that. That didn’t stop her from wishing that, just once, Ron had done something like that for her. But he wasn’t there. He was with Harry in an emergency Auror training session to help round up Death Eaters. And she had stayed behind to help clean up, because someone had to.

And there was Viktor, bringing her — “Ooh, that’s perfect!” she exclaimed upon seeing what her breakfast had to offer. “How did you know?”

“I remembered that you do not like... things made from flour and sugar. How you say—“

“Carbohydrates,” she supplied.

“Da, carbohy… that. So cheese and fruit, the elf from the kitchen say you like.”

Her lips twitched at the idea of Kreacher doing something nice for her. “It’s lovely, thank you.” She picked a strawberry from the tray, savouring the rich flavour of the fruit, which she hadn’t been able to eat for months, its sweet yet tart taste like heaven in her mouth. She couldn’t help but emit a groan of pleasure.

Viktor must have thought her enjoyment remarkable. He said, “If I knew you loved them this much, I vould have sent them vith my letters. Maybe then you do that for me.”

Hermione had been dreading this. It was bound to come up at some point, his feelings for her, but she had held out the vain hope that he had moved on. It wasn’t fair for anyone that he still wanted something between them, and he had to know that. “Viktor, I can’t —”

“I von’t say another vord, I promise.”

She didn’t believe for a second that he could keep that promise, but Hermione fervently hoped that he did. Since there was nothing else to say about the matter — not anything she could bring herself to say, at any rate — she finished her breakfast in silence, content with Viktor’s efforts to look like he wasn’t watching her.

When she finished, Hermione felt better than she had in months. There was real food in her stomach, and she’d slept more than four hours at one time. Now fully awake, a bit of exercise was in order. “I’d like to get some fresh air. Would you like to come with me? Maybe catch up a bit?”

Nodding, Viktor said, “As you vish.” He extended his arm, and she took it, still unable to quit blushing after all these years at his subtle chivalrous gestures.

Not really heading anywhere in particular, they set out for the grounds in relative silence. However unintentionally, though, Hermione ended up leading them toward the outskirts of the boundaries. Hagrid’s hut came into view, and its owner was in the garden, hurling gnomes a distance she had never seen before.

“Vot are those things he throws?” Viktor asked.

“Oh, those are gnomes. They like to pop into people’s gardens, and the only known way to get rid of them is to chuck them. Most of the times, though, they come back.” Upon seeing one particularly mighty throw from Hagrid, though, she winced. “That one probably won’t, though.”

A hail from Hagrid curtailed any further explanation. “Mornin’, Hermione!”

Feeling obligated to converse at this point, Hermione redirected them toward Hagrid and said, “Hello, Hagrid. I see you’re doing better.”

“Ruddy ungrateful spiders,” Hagrid mumbled. Finally noticing her companion, he extended his hand. “’Ello, there, my boy. Fer a minute, I thought ye was Harry.”

His smile polite and not nearly as patronising as most people’s when they addressed Hagrid, Viktor said, “I can think of no higher honour. You fare vell, I assume?” He took the proffered handshake, and much to Hermione’s surprise, didn’t wince at the subsequent pressure from Hagrid’s massive grip.

“As well as could be expected, I surpose. Ruddy Death Eaters!” Hagrid picked up another gnome and threw it even further than the last. “Firs’ they run me out of me own ‘ouse, then they let these bloody things infest me pumpkin patch.” He plucked one more gnome from the ground and handed it to Viktor. “Give ‘er a go?”

Viktor shook his head. “I vill pass. Her-my-nee does not like to see small things suffer.”

Hermione could’ve hugged him at that moment. “I just think there could be some other way to ward off gnomes.”

Hagrid shrugged. “It’s the only way ter get rid o’ the little buggers.” Picking up two gnomes in the same hand, he gave them a hefty launch. “B’lieve you me, I tried.”

“Well, then I shall leave you to it, Hagrid,” Hermione said, feeling guilty about not wanting to converse with him, but she had things she wanted to discuss with Viktor before he left. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

Grunting, Hagrid said, “Right, right. Nice ter see ya, Hermione. Viktor.”

Once again, Viktor offered his arm. They started toward the gates leading toward Hogsmeade, and Hermione was screwing up the courage to speak her mind. It threw her, however, when he addressed the subject first.

“So, vot is betveen you and the angry orange boy?”

‘Ron is… complicated,” she started. “I know he had feelings for me, but he won’t admit it. There was some, er, progress a few days ago, but for once, I can’t do all the work. He had to meet me halfway.”

“So vhere is he?”

Sighing, she said, “He’s off with Harry, helping to look for the Death Eaters who escaped during the battle. There aren’t many of them, and they’re expecting to have them rounded up in a few days or so.”

“But vy did he leave ven you are here?”

Why, indeed. Hermione had been wrestling with that question nearly every waking hour, and none of the answers that came up satisfied her. The whole thing was exhausting just to contemplate. She sat on the ground in the middle of the grassy path and hugged her knees. “I don’t know.” She lamented the note of regret in her voice, but the way Viktor was making a convoluted situation between her and Ron seem so simplistic made it hard to not ask the same questions herself.

Likely seeing her distress, Viktor sat down in the dirt beside her. “Three years, I vait for you. You vant your orange friend; I understand. But I do not understand how he could have your heart ven he does so little to appreciate it.”

His frustration was palpable, but he just didn’t know the real Ron. “That’s not fair. He’s had a really rough go of it, and —”

“And vot have you had, then? I heard you vile you vere sleeping, crying and saying you didn’t know anything. Vhere vas he then?” By the end of his blustering, Viktor was nearly shouting.

Something inside of her snapped at the mention of that horrible time in Malfoy Manor. “He was chained in a cellar, screaming for me while a madwoman nearly tortured me to death! You have no right to question how much he cares about me because of that. He would’ve taken my place in a second.” Angry tears were streaming down her face, but she didn’t care. “He would do anything for me. I’m sorry you don’t understand that, but you just weren’t there. He loves me, I know he does.” She buried her face in her knees and repeated, “I know he does.”

She felt Viktor’s hand on her shoulder, his forefinger tracing a persistent circle on one of her tension-knotted muscles. “Then vy do you sound like you are trying to convince yourself of that more than me?”

All Hermione could do was look over at him. He was so earnest, and if he said that he’d waited years for her to love him, then he meant it. He wasn’t putting forth the question to demonise Ron or to make her feel badly for rejecting him; it was because he truly did care about her. “I…” There was nothing she could conceivably say at this point because she didn’t have an answer. Ron did fancy her and had for a while — that much she knew — but did he actually love her like she wanted him to? The way Viktor loved her: unconditionally and without faltering?

It had been inevitable. He was going to kiss her, she could feel it, but somehow, it still managed to throw her off kilter. His lips were warm and firm on hers, shy and undemanding in their presence. Fingers snaked a trail up her arms, the light friction causing a tingle to follow in their wake. Their occasional snog from years ago had been far different than this. Back then, it had been a couple of untried teenagers figuring out how it was done.

This time, though, there was a reverence ingrained into Viktor’s every touch, almost begging her acceptance, a humble plea for her to cherish him in the same manner. It was all Hermione could do to separate herself, and when she did, they were both fighting for their next breath.

“Can you not feel it?” he said, intensely focused on her. “Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing for me, and I vill leave and never come back.”

“Viktor, I —”

“Tell me! I vant to know if I am to go another three years vithout someone to share my heart vith who doesn’t live across the vorld. I vant to know that, if I offered you a life vith me, you vould take it. I deserve that much.”

Was he asking her to elope with him? “I can’t leave here; I wouldn’t. And how could I even consider leaving? The whole country is in shambles, and I have to help sort things out.” Shaking her head, physically punctuating her denial, she added, “I can’t just leave my life behind and run off! If you knew me at all, you wouldn’t even ask such a thing.”

“It vos not vot I meant. I vould come to you vherever you vanted to go.”

Stymied, Hermione stammered, “Th-think about what you’re s-saying. You’d give up your l-life for me?”

“I have done nothing but think about it. Vot vould I be giving up compared to vot I vould gain? The love of the most beautiful voman on this soggy little island is vorth a lot more than any of that.” He framed her face with his hands, and their mouths were only separated by what seemed like a hair’s breadth. “Remember ven I told you that you vere my first kiss and you didn’t believe me? And the look on your face ven you realised that I vasn’t kidding, that I had no idea vot I vas doing?” His lips brushed hers. “Tell me you remember.”

“I do,” Hermione panted. Every sense she had was reeling, and his continued proximity didn’t help.

“Tell me vat you vant.”

How it had taken her this long to come up with an answer, she had no idea, but Hermione did what she should’ve done a while back — before he decided to throw her resolve for a loop. Standing back up, she moved away from him so he couldn’t kiss her again. “Viktor, you are a wonderful person, and I’m glad that I got over my preconceptions of Quidditch players and got to know you.

“But I don’t love you in that way. I don’t think I ever will.” Steeling herself to the hurt on his face, she continued. “I love Ron, so whether he loves me back at the moment or not doesn’t matter. I can’t keep giving you hope that we’ll ever be more than friends.”

By then, however, that stern expression that Viktor had reserved for everyone else, his focused façade, had taken over. The deference was gone, replaced by indifference, and Hermione had to admit that it stung. But it was what she wanted and what both of them needed, and letting him down easy had never worked the way it was supposed to.

It didn’t take long for Viktor to become politely frosty. “Very vell. I am sorry to have disturbed you.” Without another word, he spun on his heel and proceeded toward Hogsmeade, probably to collect his things and get out of Scotland as fast as he could go. And she didn’t blame him one bit for it.

Later that evening, Hermione was dozing on one of the sofas in the Gryffindor common room when the sound of the portrait hole opening pre-empted her nap that had been a long time in coming. Looking over to see who it was, she nearly ran toward the newcomers when she saw that it was Ron and Harry.

Almost instinctually, she crushed Harry in her arms. “I was so worried about both of you!”

‘Nice to see you to, Hermione,” Harry said once the breath that had been knocked out of his chest came back to him.

Letting go of him, Hermione turned to Ron and gave him an awkward smile. “Well done.”

With a snort, Ron said, “Well done what? You don’t even know what we did yet.”

“I just…” She knew she was waffling because the subject of Viktor would come up if he bothered to ask how her day had been. Which he wouldn’t unless she gave him a reason to do so. And she didn’t intend to. “Madam Pomfrey gave me the next few days off to rest and recuperate.”

Nodding in approval, Ron said, “Bloody good thing, too. It’s not right, us spending all our time pretending to be lookouts when you’re slaving all day in the hospital wing.” Scowling at the sofa, he asked, “And why the hell are you sleeping on that? It’s like a plank with a blanket sewn on.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, but she restrained a full on smile. If she’d had any doubt about the choice she’d made earlier, he’d just erased them.