The Russian Rose

Chocolate curls tilted to the side, considering the magical painting before her cinnamon eyes. One would think that such an artifact, an early example of magical landscapes, would be shown in some lavish centers of tourism and travel. Later, these very formulations, pigments to charmed oil upon enchanted, woven canvas, formed the modern day techniques. On this day, however…

“My, I never knew centaurs were truly so-” Her mother muttered, posture mirroring her daughter.

Glimmering in the light, a golden frame, large and ornate with more filigree than Hermione cared for, held a most peculiar landscape. One that, perhaps, normal parents daren’t expose to their impressionable thirteen year old daughters. Centaurs and satyrs chased nymphs and dryads about an idyllic meadow, the singular tree in the foreground, framing the rolling hills and swaying flowers. When caught, well, Hermione’s deadpan expression drastically differed from the oddly perplexed gazes her parents sported. 

“Lascivious?” Her father provided.

“I was going to say, fond of fornication,” Alisa Granger finished, delicate and diplomatic. 

“Ah, always one for alliteration, my love,” David Granger and his curly honey locks bobbed.

Below, a bronze plaque explained the history of the piece. From 1347, painter unknown. Basis of the charms and paint making, a subset of potions in its own right if Hermione were being totally honest, and modern portraiture. There, laid out in Cyrillic. Of course, being a magical art museum, a tap of her wand or finger morphed the words from the nostalgic letters of her childhood to the alphabet she regularly used. 

Coming into Moscow, as they often did for at least a small portion of their holiday, Hermione requested one thing. She wanted to explore the magical quarter. Her mother left her motherland for dental school in England. Supposedly, her stay ended with the residency, but life never followed to plan. Meeting David stymied and redirected her original goal. Her mother always assured Hermione it was the best diversion of her life. 

Luckily, the magical world mingled a little more freely in some ways. After the harsh grip on religion the USSR enforced, liberated Russia skyrocketed in mysticism and spiritual pursuits. Meaning, more cross over. Hedge witches and squibs partnered together to sell homeopathic remedies. Amulets and talismans, some more distinctly Christian flavored than others, littered market stalls. A well asked question to the right person  (being a letter to the Russian diplomat within the British Ministry) easily led Hermione to the current district she explored.

Rolling her eyes to the vaulted ceiling, a beautiful marvel in its own right, the young witch wandered further down the gallery. This particular room, with the warm, cedar floors and meticulously spaced benches, houses the pre-Muggle Renaissance pieces. Each exhibit proudly boasted of magical artistic sophistication long before their mundane peers (because even the magical world admired the works of Donatello and Da Vinci, Raphael and Michelangelo). 

The nonplussed murmurs of her parents faded into the background, soft and reassuring. Several glinting frames later, a forest scene enthralled the girl. Mist rolled over the hills and peaks. Deep green trees broke the haze, letting the eerie fog waft around and through their boughs. The distinctive screech of birds of prey tickled her ears. All the while, creatures peaked through the serene scene. At one point, a small dragon rose and flew about the forest, green scales glistening in the unseen light source. 

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice startled Hermione from her silent reverie. 

An intense looking boy stood not two meters from her. Dark, piercing eyes contemplated the canvas before them. Naturally straight posture accentuated his height, hands folded neatly behind his back. A deep, heavy brow and a large nose  carved a distinctive, almost harsh profile. Hermione deduced him not to be Russian. Though he spoke well, fluent as she, the accent pointed elsewhere. Though to be fair, Russia encompassed quite a bit of land. Perhaps he spoke with a regional accent she couldn’t identify. 

“Yes. One could say it is hypnotic, even,” Hermione murmured in response as another creature -a gryphon if she were not mistaken- breached the flowing fog. 

“I quite agree,”  a small, quiet smile bowed his lips. 

Turning back to the painting, silence blanketed the teens. They watched another gryphon emerge from below, playfully flying alongside the other as they circled the ancient tree tops. Her mouth curved upwards at the sight before hearing the boy speak once more, almost to himself. 

“... In 1436. The method of enchanting beings with their own true intentions within paintings involved extensive and complicated charms,” he narrated, dark eyes sweeping along the painting’s accompanying plaque. “In more modern times, the charms and enchantments used to bring the piece to life are no longer in use, considered to be too arcane and complex. It is said that this simplification results in diminished liveliness and varied responses.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Hermione mused aloud as her mind cast back to the various portraits throughout Hogwarts. “The older portraits are always more… chatty. There is something to be said for doing things the right way instead of the most expeditious.”

“That is what I think, as well,” he glanced at her, the slight smile softening his stern features. “I have seen too many friends blown up by quick, sloppy work.”

“As have I,”Hermione grinned back. She extended a hand, “I’m Hermione, by the way.”

“Viktor,”he returned by gently grasping her hand, clicking his heels and bowing. 

Enchanted, figuratively this time, Hermione fought a light blush that threatened to spread across her cheeks. Instead, she turned the conversation to the painting, and they talked. Before each subsequent frame in the current gallery, the pair first observed before Viktor or Hermione read the information supplied in bronze next to each frame. Then, they discussed. 

At first, Hermione held back, not wanting to expose her more swotty tendencies. Much to her delight, she discovered Viktor quite well read. In no time, she lost her normal reserve to lively debate and conjecture. 

Despite her lack of popularity in school, Hermione understood the notion of “holiday friends.” Unlike her, the Doctors Granger were sociable, amiable, and able to hold a conversation with just about anyone. Between Dr. Alisa Granger’s great love for music and art, as well her talent in it, and Dr. David Granger’s adoration of sport and competition, they charmed just about everyone they met. There are friends they only see when on holiday.

The other children often bored Hermione to tears. On occasion, she met older children who indulged the bookworm. Those were always her favorites. Therefore, the rarity of making her own holiday friend amazed her to no end. Perhaps the inevitability of separation loosened her tongue, or the anonymity of the encounter. Afterall, Viktor attended a different school entirely. Either way, Hermione enjoyed his company, finally understanding just why her parents made friends during their journeys. 

“Ah, Hermione, there you are! We have just met the loveliest people, and,” her mother called, finding the teens in the adjoining gallery. Taking in the sight of the two, heads tilted towards a very graphic depiction of battle (“Do you think they tire of dying all the time?” she muttered to her new friend who just chuckled when the people in the frame shouted “Yes!”) Alisa raised a single, manicured brow before she smiled, her happy glow eliciting a silent groan. “You must be Viktor.”

“Yes, ma’am,” polite wariness painted his tone. 

Though, not for much longer, as her father and two other adults meandered down the hardwood floors. Viktor eyed his own parents (deep in an animated discussion), Alisa Granger (much too smug), and an irritated Hermione (saying something about not again). His posture, stiff and defensiveness just moments before, relaxed. 

“As I was saying,” her mother continued as if nothing happened. “We met Viktor’s parents, and they are just lovely.”Turning to the boy, she added, “Your parents graciously invited us to dine with you this evening. I was on the way to collect you and share the good news.”

“Thank you for telling us, Mama,” Hermione sighed, her put-upon impression fooling no one. 

“There’s no need to be so excited, darling,” her mother tutted, grinning further at the smothered chuckle from the boy next to her. “We will meet you both at the portrait gallery at 5pm. Don’t be late.”

With that, the dentist sashayed towards the other adults who all smiled and waved. A small hand waved back in acknowledgement, watching the small knot of people walk away. Shaking her head, Hermione chanced a look at her current companion. A similarly bemused exasperation graced his features. Dark, intense eyes met her cinnamon. 

“Do you ever get the impression that people like your parents more than you?” Hermione wryly asked, a crooked grin on her face.

“All the time,” he snorted.

They laughed.

Viktor proved to be an excellent companion. They wandered through the magical museum, exploring as much of it as possible with only a few hours left. Naturally, they fell short of the whole collection. Instead, they perused some of the ancient tomes on display, Hermione nearly drooling over several manuscripts. Five o’clock ticked ever closer. All the while, her new friend grew more and more nervous.

“What do you think of quidditch?”Viktor blurted as they approached the portrait gallery. 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione asked, snapped out of her thoughts.

“Quidditch, what do you think of it?” He repeated, obviously nervous and shuttered.

“Well,” she blinked, gathering her thoughts. “It’s a dangerous game.” A heavy brow rose, the bemused exasperation once more making an appearance. “What?! You asked me something so disconnected from this afternoon. Give me a moment to gather my thoughts, will you?”

Viktor huffed a laugh, but respected her request. His lean form rested against the wall, next to the window. Late afternoon light followed the dust motes floating in the air. An odd feeling washed over the young Gryffindor before she brushed it away.

“I admit, it is fascinating,” she began, pursing her lips as she concentrated to order her thoughts. “However, I confess I don’t know much about the sport as a whole. Most of my friends are absolutely mad about it, though. I’ve never been one for sports themselves, but I do enjoy the atmosphere of a match and cheering on my teams. I have always had a mind for maths and statistics, so I help my father with his sheets. I do admit that’s fun, too. Why do you ask?”

Cinnamon eyes observed the changes once more. Forced relaxation bled into relief before ending in a considering gaze. Hermione supposed she passed some sort of test when he pushed off of the wall and continued their sedate pace towards the portraits. 

“I play,”  Viktor cryptically answered.

“Oh really? So does my friend, Harry,” Hermione beamed, curiosity swirling inside. “He’s the seeker for the House team. The youngest in over a century, or so they say.”

“I should clarify,”he chuckled at her enthused response. “I’ll be starting for the Bulgarian national team.”

A pensive frown tugged at Hermione’s mouth. The information itself didn’t bother Hermione over much. Being best friends with Harry Potter rendered one some measure of immunity to celebrity status. If anything, it taught Hermione that most celebrities are normal people who happen to be known for a singular facet of their personality or life.

“Don’t you have a game in a couple of days, then?” Hermione mused aloud, memory swirling to the headline of the magical newspaper she spied just the day before.

“Tomorrow.”

Silence fell upon them. A bit awkward, Hermione admitted, but not uncomfortable. She processed the information further. Viktor obviously feared her response, most likely that of a slathering fangirl who didn’t know decorum if it bit her in the back. A reasonable concern, she acknowledged. With how their parents took to one another, they may very well be seeing much more of one another. Better to be sure of someone than to assume, Hermione concluded.

“Don’t you have practice then? I hope dinner won’t be too taxing on your schedule,” she recalled. 

“We had a hard practice in the morning before portkeying over,” genuine warmth and amusement suffused Viktor’s voice. “Coach gave us the rest of the evening off. We will meet again, bright and early. As you can see, dinner does not interfere with my schedule.”

“That’s good to know,”  Hermione nodded, though she rolled her eyes at the apparent joy he derived from her misplaced concern. “Now, let’s get going before we’re late. I don’t know about you, but I don’t wish to incur my mother’s wrath.” 

The boy grimaced and lengthened his stride. Hermione, used to trotting through stone corridors and passages, easily kept pace. Hushed voices drifted around the next corner, familiar to both. Bright light flooded the room, highlighting the glittering frames and their occupants. The energetic whispers of the portraits sparked her initial curiosity. Down the way, her mother and Madame Krum exchanged an animated discourse. Next to them, her father’s intelligent eyes darted between the women and the approaching teens, a thoughtful expression further stoking her inquisitive mind. 

“Viktor, and I presume Miss Granger,” a tall, imposing man greeted them. 

“Yes sir,” Hermione curtsied, wishing to show respect. Her eyes inevitably turned towards the mothers. “What are they talking about?”

“History,” the stern man remarked.

Hermione audibly sighed, ignoring the horribly hushed chortle of the Bulgarian boy behind her. At least I know where he gets it from now, she mentally lamented.

Dinner went swimmingly. If Viktor were to be honest, he knew the Grangers and the Krums would foster a warm and genuine friendship. From a young age, his mother taught him to listen to his magic. The greatest tragedies and the greatest triumphs could be traced back to whether or not an individual followed it. On this day, it led him true.

Something nudged him to come to the art museum that day. That same, niggling feeling gently prodded him into the landscape gallery, one of his favorites. In front of the painting depicting his own homeland, the little witch pondered. Normally, Viktor never really interacted with new people -especially those his parents befriended on holiday. Yet, a certain type of calm and serenity wrapped around him, relaxing his mind and loosening his tongue. 

The ensuing hours wound to this point in time. Two sets of intellectual adults debating and discussing something or the other. Their children at a large table, stacks of books creating a sort of flammable fort. One that sat precariously close to its own demise. 

“What is this?” Viktor rose a bushy brow.

In a jar his mother conjured, the young witch before him created a small, blue flame. It floated near the bottom, happily bobbing back and forth. Viktor couldn’t decide what impressed him the most: her ability to produce the enchanted flame wandlessly or the creation invented by the Hogwarts’ witch across the table. Hermione’s cinnamon eyes shone with shyness and triumph in equal parts. Perhaps letting her know the British trace did not extend beyond the Isles was not the smartest idea.

“I call them bluebell flames,” she shrugged, embarrassment finally winning. Dainty fingers swept a wayward curl behind her ear. “It’s just something I made up when I got to school. I had more time on my hands, then, so I thought, why not, you know?”

White teeth nibbled on her lower lip, apprehensive gaze meeting his own. Despite the less than graceful movement and generally surly appearance, no one in Durmstrang accused him of being slow. Hogwarts, as an institution of learning, definitely needed to explain quite a few things. For instance, how they allowed the populace to ridicule such a brilliant student. Spell creation thwarted most of the wizarding world. To show such aptitude within the first few months of exposure to magic hinted at immense magical potential.

“Does anyone else know of them?” He asked instead. 

“Not specifically,” she slowly responded, thinking through the question with more care than it initially warranted. “I used them to distract a professor in an effort to save my friend. I targeted the wrong person, but achieved the desired results.”

“I feel like there’s a story here,” Viktor wryly observed. 

“There’s always a story there,” she confirmed with a laugh. “Let’s say I went to cause a distraction, but never explicitly told anyone the minutiae.”  

Viktor delighted at her display of cunning. His new friend certainly led an interesting life. Too adventurous, if he were being totally honest with himself. Despite their short acquaintance, Viktor acknowledged his interest in Hermione, and wished to know her better. Judging by their parents’ closeness, it would not be difficult to arrange.

A lull in their conversation allowed the spirited discussion of the parents to drift over to their table. The elder Krums weedled the Grangers, and have been since finding them in the portrait gallery. At first, visiting Gringotts Moscow and doing a proper genealogy test consumed their debate. Next, the idea of getting Hermione private tuition throughout her time at Hogwarts. That merited more reflection from the elder Grangers. The added suggestion of a Bulgarian tutor drew forth a delighted laugh from Mrs. Granger and a playful scowl from Mr. Granger.

“You will, of course, be coming to Viktor’s game tomorrow,” his father stated, no small amount of pride shining in his voice.

“And miss the death defying acts of valor and bravery that have been promised?”Mischief glimmered in Mr. Granger’s cinnamon eyes. “Never!”

The easy, quiet atmosphere soothed Viktor’s nerves. When he signed onto the Bulgarian national team, Viktor expected some level of fuss. However, the torrent surprised him. Papers and magazines plastered his face and person everywhere back at home, hailing him as a prodigy. The assumption irked the Bulgarian. Sure, a measure of natural aptitude figured into his ability. Hard work, blood, sweat, and tears separated himself from the others, not some nebulous, intrinsic ‘talent’ journalists and pundits asserted. 

Perhaps his least favorite part cropped up almost instantly -fan girls. He was not so well known outside his homeland to worry when traveling abroad (not yet, at least). However, they were insufferable. The library, deep in the stacks, proved to be an invaluable escape. He prayed they remained so after this summer’s rush of games. Qualifiers for the Quidditch World Cup started the next day, and they were determined. 

“Interesting,”Hermione’s quiet murmur broke Viktor from his thoughts. “Seems like Petrov’s weakness is his left. Your chasers would want to take advantage of that.” 

It took a moment for Viktor to cotton on. Dark eyes darted from his open playbook to the sheaves of parchment she casually pursued. While unable to view the pensieve memories of previous games in their rented rooms, the coaching staff created a table to quantify their observations. Tilting his head to the side, Viktor elected to stay silent, seeing what other insights the diminutive witch deduced from nothing but names and numbers.

“He also came off a left shoulder injury not too long ago,”her unconscious remark further intrigued him. “Being the keeper, that’s a bit of a problem, isn’t it? They’ll probably block that side, forcing your chasers to play to his strong side. Granted, Fedorov just received some bruised ribs in practice, if this injury report is to be believed. She could probably be pushed out of the way to make some space for formations…”

“I thought you said you didn’t know much about Quidditch?” A devious smile bloomed across his face and grew when she startled. 

“I don’t,” she insisted, sending a mock glare at his antics to hide the pink flush on her cheeks. “As I said before, I’ve helped my Papa with his boards for a long time. He always taught me to analyze my opponents weaknesses and use them to my best advantage. Muggle football has similar principles to Quidditch.” Her shy, self-deprecating shrug concerned Viktor, though he dare not mention it. “Injuries, even magical, take time to fully recover. Even if we physically overcome certain things faster, the kinesthetic trauma stays for a bit longer. 

“For instance, if you are recently healed from a bad ankle injury, you may still automatically hobble to help save your ankle. There’s no reason to do so, it’s healed, but your body remembers the pain and wishes to avoid it,” Hermione elaborated, finally relaxing under his interested attention. “It stands to reason that Petrov may very well still favor his left and Fedorov, her right and torso. So, you see, I don’t really know much about quidditch. I just know how to look at the information given to me.”

Stunned silence followed her observation. Despite her protestations, Viktor truly believed Hermione knew more about the game than she realized. Her sound logic and succinct conclusion indicated she discerned more than others in any given situation. Unease and wariness crept into her body language, muscles tensing and eyes narrowing.

“Your father is a smart man,” Viktor brought himself to reply, slow and deliberate with his word choice. “It is important to size up the competition before making a plan of attack. It is a valuable skill to possess.” 

An assessing gaze settled upon her, seriously considering his options. On one hand, he barely knew this girl. Clever but humble, intelligent and unsure. Contradictions and mystery surrounded Hermione. And yet, his mother taught him to trust his magic. Instead of a protective coil, it rested within his chest. A beguiling sense of warmth and ease radiated throughout him. Choice made, Viktor nudged the playbook in front of him to this new friend of his, seeing what she could do.

“Are you sure about this, Ognyana?” Alisa inquired, her intelligent hazel eyes darting between the woman and the children.

“Sure? Not at all,” the elegant woman shrugged. “However, there is nothing wrong with checking. At the very least, you will open an account here. It isn’t the worst contingency plan, all things considered.”

An indignant shout caught the attention of the adults. Across the rented parlor, what appeared to be paper quaffles pelted Viktor. He ducked behind a large tome, mischievous grin plastered on his face. Chestnut curls practically rose of their own volition, as she created a small armory of parchment balls. Her eyes twinkled with hidden delight, the only indication that Hermione found just as much joy in her current predicament. 

“Children,” the surprisingly stern tone from David Granger snapped the teens to attention.

“Papa, I can explain,” Hermione, eyes wide, babbled.

“Mr. Granger, it’s not what it looks like,” Viktor attempted to explain at the same time. 

“I was just trying to demonstrate-”

“And she just started to throw them at me-”

“It was self-defense, I swear!”

“Enough,” the Englishman raised his hand, instantly silencing their protestations. “Clean this mess up. Now.”

Hermione and Viktor chorused ‘Yessir,’ before looking around at the hurricane of parchment created. They surveyed the destruction for a moment, before sheepishly catching each other’s eyes. Instantly, laughter bubbled up, their mirth filling the room. It died down soon enough, replaced by companionable chatter. In her seat, Ognyana Krum observed all. 

“She should get a Gregorovich,” Ilian suggested, catching the interest of the other parents. “She is obviously powerful and clever. There are people who will not like it one bit. It is best she has a way to both practice and protect herself should something happen. A wand without the British trace is invaluable.” 

“I suppose people like the Malfoys will not look kindly upon her, no,” Alisa remarked with a sigh.

“She goes to school with the Malfoy scion, no?” Ilian inquired, keen eyes watching everything.

“And beats him in every subject since her first term,”she nodded, a pensive expression upon her delicate face. “It’s been a worry, of course. Old families do not like to be outdone by the bourgeoisie.”

“It’s why I’ve so strongly suggested the outing,” Ognyana gently reminded them. “Pureblood society is not unlike your muggle nobility. In fact, one can say they are halves of the same coin. The only difference is that inheritance is remarkably important. If what we suspect is true-”

“They may better accept her,”David finished the thought. “And here I thought it was for general curiosity.” 

A deep chuckle rumbled through Ilian. Ognyana knew her husband, and understood what piqued his humor. As if they would say no to the lovely Miss Granger, who’s voracious curiosity tempered by a compassionate heart, endeared herself to them. It would make certain aspects of their life easier, perhaps, but any hardship they’d suffer due to her presence easily paled to the value she added in a single day. 

“It’s been a long time since she’s been so easily accepted,” Alisa murmured, watching as Hermione instructed Viktor just how to maneuver the impromptu quidditch pieces. “Usually, Hermione struggles to connect with her peers. Even when we are on vacation, where stakes are lower. She has a few friends now, but another one never hurts.”

“Especially if we are reading the signs correctly,” David groused. “She hasn’t told us what happened, not truthfully at least. None of it sounds promising, though.”

“How do you plan on changing that?” Ognyana quarried, dark tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face. 

“We’re hoping you may be able to help,”the Englishman remarked, eyes shrewdly assessing the Krums. “As we are not of the magical world, we do not have the necessary context to correctly assess the danger of her conditions. In our world, the threat of a single broken bone, let alone multiple horrendous fractures would be considered very dangerous. In your’s, it’s practically child’s play. And something tells me we can trust you,” honey brow quirked towards the Bulgarians.

“That would be your own magic,” Ognyana hummed, a thoughtful expression furrowing her brow. “A common misconception is that squibs cannot use magic. The reality is that they have weaker cores and the inability to utilize them as efficiently. However, squibs often have, what muggles term, supernatural abilities.”

“Talking to ghosts or the dead, seeing auras, psychics, that sort of thing?” A surprised Alisa remarked, rethinking past events. “Well, that makes a great deal of sense.”

“Yes,” the other woman confirmed. “If I’m not mistaken, you are able to sense auras, even if you cannot see them.” Slow, deliberate motions swirled the steam of a wine glass. The resonant, calming ticks of a grandfather clock accompanied the cracking fire and quiet murmur of the teens. “I cannot disagree with you, of course. Here, in Bulgaria and Russia, we believe in our magic more so than England. We use it as a compass. It is safe to say we, too, feel the blooming kinship.”

“It is our honor to assist you through this time,” Ilian rumbled, firm in his resolve. “I cannot imagine how difficult this situation must be for you.” 

“Thank you,” Alisa accepted, nearly in tears. 

“This is bloody amazing,” David Granger exclaimed from the family box, momentarily forgetting just where they were. “Hermione, why didn’t you tell me it was this exciting?”

Chasers zoomed by the stands, juggling the red quaffle back and forth. Sure enough, the Bulgarian team worked hard to break the defensive wall the opposing team used. Flashes of burgundy and white jostled for position, racing towards the distant Russian goal posts. For the past two hours, each team fought, tooth and nail, for their points, a paltry 40-50 in favor of the home squad.

A familiar tightness clenched Hermione’s chest. While thrilling to most, she found it nerve wracking. She dreaded watching her friends hurtle at incredible speeds. Harry’s impossible feats and attempted sabotage ill prepared Hermione to watch Viktor play on a whole different level. The part of her not terrified out of her wits marveled at his control and grace at just fifteen. 

“Because it scared me to watch Harry,” groused the girl, eyeing the lashing robes in the wind. 

“And now Viktor?” Her father’s impish grin exasperated his daughter.

“Terrified,” she muttered, eyes fixed on the players in front of her.

A sudden roar erupted throughout the stadium.

“It looks like Krum has spotted the snitch!” Exclaimed the announcer, his enthusiasm feeding the crowd’s furor. “Ivanov streaks behind him, right on his shoulder! That’s a tight right turn. Bulgaria uses the distraction to hit the bludger right into the Russian chasers!”

Jumping with the rest of the stands, Hermione held her breath. Viktor and Ivanov sped closer and closer to the ground, picking up velocity. Just as they were about to crash, brooms pull up, their wake blasting the grass below. In one last effort, the Russian seeker shoved Viktor. A tight barrel roll avoided collision, and, in that moment, an outstretched hand grasped the fluttering gold speck. 

“HE HAS DONE IT,”  the announcer roared. “THE BULGARIAN ROOKIE, VIKTOR KRUM, HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH IN JUST TWO HOURS AND TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES IN HIS FIRST PROFESSIONAL APPEARANCE! WHAT A GAME!”

And the crowd went wild. 

Her father jumped up and down, embracing anyone and everyone in his general vicinity. The Krums, who graciously brought the Granger family into the small family box provided, celebrated with the others. Viktor’s two friends who attended, Mikhail and Dimitar, relived the match in wild, gesticulating hand motions. Still in her seat, Hermione glanced at her mother. Alisa Granger observed the whole with a small, content smile. 

“You know, your father has a new sport to drag you to,” she remarked, brow arched towards her daughter.

“Yeah,” Hermione sighed, her large smile giving her away. “It never gets easier to watch, though.”

“I can only imagine,” laughed the elder Granger. “If that’s a quick, relatively tame match, I can’t imagine how grueling the longer, dirtier games feel to watch, let alone play.”

Hermione hummed in agreement, leaning against the last row of seats. The small Krum delegation milled towards the back wall where snacks and refreshments appeared. While she enjoyed the energy of a match, Hermione preferred to watch the post-game excitement from afar, much like her mother. It provided a moment of quiet before being pulled off onto some other pursuit. 

“Nishka,” Mikhail called, waving his arms in an energetic, ridiculous manner. “Wasn’t our Viktor impressive today?”

Walking towards the group of people, her chuckling mother right behind her, Hermione internally cringed. She couldn’t decide if she liked it more or less than Ron’s butchered ‘Mione. Granted, it gave the boys great trouble to say her name. For this reason, Hermione accepted the nickname with some grace. Ron, however, had no excuse -he simply chose not to use it.

“Very much,” Hermione responded with a huge grin. “He truly is amazing in the air.”

“Just so,” the excitable boy bounced. “We all knew he was destined for great things from the moment we saw him on a broom.”He slung a lanky arm around his friend’s shoulder, faking sniffles and teary eyes. “They grow up so fast.”

“One of us had to,” Dimitar snorted, hazel eyes sparkling with laughter. “Gods know it’s not you.”

“You wound me, dear sir,” Mikhail gasped, hand grasping his heart. 

Hermione visualized how well the three fit together. Mikhail kept them laughing, breaking the tension and the stress. Meanwhile, Dimitar offered witty banter and cutting commentary. Viktor grounded and inspired the other two with his hard work and dedication. All three, Hermione wryly observed, possessed mischievous streaks. 

“Will we be seeing more of you, Nishka?”Dimitar inquired, snapping Hermione from her internal musings. 

“Well, I don’t know,”Hermione pretended to consider, tapping a finger to her lips. “What do I get out of this?”

“My undying gratitude for not leaving me alone with this idiot,” Dimitar jabbed a thumb towards his friend. Mikhail employed puppy eyes, pouting lips, and hands held in front of him to implore Hermione. “He can be insufferable.”

“Well, I guess,”she laughed, unable to hold back her mirth. “With an offer like that, who can say no.”

“That is what I like to hear,”exclaimed the other boy as he bounced back to his full height. 

“We should be heading down, kids,”Ognyana’s voice rose above the babble. 

Jubilant cries and excited chatter followed them down the plethora of stairs. Swept up in the excitement, the long, arduous climb of earlier transformed into an energetic descent. Marble floors stretched along the ground floor, echoing their laughter and cries up into the vaulted ceilings. A flash of their badges admitted them into the visiting player lounge. 

Scattered across various sitting areas, the team engaged with friends, family and VIPs alike. A freshly showered Viktor stood near several other players, all deep in discussion about what Hermione guessed to be strategy. At least, that’s what she thought until they broke out into uproarious laughter. At the sight of his parents, Viktor jumped up and embraced both with great feeling. Introductions swept by and soon, Hermione found herself wedged on a sofa next to the chaser, Clara Ivanova.

“Tell them, Nishka,” the bold woman demanded, her finger pointing at an unrepentant beater. “Just because the male of a species is colorful doesn’t make them better!”

“It does make it easier to find and kill them,” Hermione impishly agreed. “There are merits to being able to blend in when needed. Like surviving.”

“Bah, what good is survival when you can be the center of all attention,” one of the other chasers, Alexei Levski declared, spreading his muscular arms wide. Dark eyebrows waggled above mischievous brown eyes. “How would lovely lady birds ever know if a male were interesting if we just faded into the background, hm?”

“You could start by talking to them instead of at them,”Clara snorted as a couple of the others around them laughed. “I thought only beaters were supposed to be this dense!”

“Hey,”a broad shouldered man called from across the low coffee table. Pyotr Valchonov’s boyish good looks and easy-going nature quickly eased Hermione’s nerves when they met. “I take offense to that remarkably accurate accusation!”

“Besides, if the ladybirds want a show, they need to find the best flier,” the third chaser,Vasily asserted, puffing out his chest. “And we all know that’s me.” 

A cacophony of good-natured disagreements rang out from the gathered group. All the while, Hermione leaned back, content to absorb the atmosphere. If nothing else, she learned to listen to her magic on that day, and it told her these were good people to be around.

Carved marble and glimmering gilding towered over the Grangers. Gringotts Moscow certainly maintained the neoclassic flair and grandiosity of it’s London counterpart. The indistinct  chatter of a busy weekday echoed through the lobby. Cinnamon eyes soaked in the streaming morning light, dust motes dancing in the air, before spotting a familiar figure. Ognyana Krum offered to accompany the small family the day after Viktor’s match.  If their visit confirmed suspicions, Hermione would need all the help she could get.

A beatific smile greeted the family. Exclamations exchanged and cheeks bussed, they strode towards the center podium. Normally, Hermione approached the tills to either side, speaking to the normal tellers. For today’s visit, Madame Krum explained they needed to speak to a manager. The wizarding world held matters of inheritance and lineage in the utmost importance.

“Come now, the Goblins are an ornery lot, but one cannot blame them for it,” the witch commented, seeing her parents’ reluctance. “The magical world treated them quite ill over the centuries, and they do not forget. Be respectful, but not timid. Assertive, but not arrogant. A goblin ally is an ally for life, and you never know when the connection may come in handy.”

The goblin, dressed in a smart waistcoat and trousers, peered at the golden pocket watch in his hand. Pointy teeth sneered in their direction in a formal greeting, Hermione remembered from her History of Magic classes. Madame Krum returned a toothy smile of her own. 

“May your enemies wilt and your coffers grow,” the Bulgarian witch offered.

“As your spells strike true and your family prosper,” he returned, finally resuming a ‘normal’ expression. “What business may we conduct with you on this day, Madame Krum?”

“I am accompanying the Granger family,” she smoothly answered, a no-nonsense tone pleasing the floor manager. “They wish to perform the Family Rite and, if able, open an account at this branch.”

“Do you, Doctor and Doctor Granger, understand the terms and conditions binding you should you open an account with Gringotts today?” The goblin turned his dark, shrewd gaze towards her parents. 

“Yes,” they chorused.

“And do you understand that in requesting the Rite of the Family, Goblin Nation is not responsible for any harm, mental, emotional, physical, or magical, you and your kin may experience?” His proclamation startled the muggle adults.

“Yes,” they answered more hesitantly the second time. 

“And will Madame Ognyana Zora Krum, master Healer, be your wizarding witness to this ritual?” One last affirmative, and a gnarled finger beckoned forth a colleague.  “Ragnok will be overseeing the proceedings on behalf of the Goblin Nation. Have a good day.”

Like goslings, the small group filed behind Ragnok in his navy waistcoat and silver pocket watch. Cinnamon eyes flicked back and forth, used to the marble columns and frescoed ceilings. Behind, the adults muttered about the procedure. Madame Krum attempted to reassure them, whispering that the goblins are contractually obligated to relate the various ways such a rite may backfire. 

“You will find that many things in the magical world come with similar disclaimers,” she explained to the best of her ability. “Since it is such an integral part of our very physical existence, everything and anything can have unforeseen, long lasting consequences.”

“Is that supposed to help,” Mrs. Granger raised an eyebrow.

“In the only way we know how,” Madame Krum smirked. “By telling the unvarnished truth so you aren’t blindsided.”

“Now, doesn’t that sound familiar,” Mr. Granger hummed before his wife pinched his arm. “Ow! I wouldn’t change it for the world, darling.” 

“Good answer,” her mother finally smiled.  

The creature led the group to the back of the bank. Shortly thereafter, several of their colleagues arrived before unlocking the door. Inside, a handsome desk with equally priceless chairs occupied the center of the room. Panels and ornate carvings adorned the walls, though paintings and portraits were curiously absent.

“Now that we are all assembled, and away from prying eyes and ears, let me inform you how we will proceed,” Ragnok stated, standing on the other side of the table. “First and foremost, Gringotts aligns with no Wizarding nation. As such, any and all information revealed today will be kept in strictest confidence until such a time that you or your descendants wish to disseminate the findings.  

“Understood?” He waited for the elder Grangers to nod, both seated across the table. Their rapt attention assured the goblin. “Next, the Rite itself is rather straightforward. Using a blade, I will take blood samples from each of you. This specifically crafted blade will break any and all concealments, including, but not limited to, potions, enchantments, wards, charms, talismans, and other such methods Magicals use to deceive.”

“Err, excuse me,” a small voice spoke up. All eyes turned towards Hermione, who hid an embarrassed flush to the best of her ability. “Pardon the interruption, Ritualist Ragnok,” the Goblin nodded, interest flaring in his eyes at the proper title. “May I ask a question?”

“You may, but I reserve the right to answer,” he bared his teeth in what may have passed as an amused grin.

“Why not use Thieves’ Downfall instead of the dagger?” She queried, the spark of curiosity in her eyes.

“Very good question, Miss Granger,”the goblin acknowledged with a small nod. “Thieves’ Downfall only works on the physical level. For this ritual to work, we must dispel everything from your magical core to the blood in your veins. The lengths the greedy go to acquire what is not theirs is limitless. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” Hermione bowed in respect. “Thank you Ritualist Ragnok.” 

“Any other inquiries before we continue?” At the negative, his authoritative narration resumed. “We will use the ritual blade to take a blood sample from each of you and place them in corresponding runic arrays upon this scroll.” A large roll of light parchment rested next to the black box. “I will cast the requisite spell, and then we shall go over the results.”

Hermione noticed Ragnok was fairly certain they’d find something off about the Grangers. Her parents kept their council, agreeing to the now-explained ritual. Unlatching the brass closure revealed a glinting, wickedly sharp dagger. The silver blade attached to an ornate hilt, sparkling within the sapphire, velvet lining. Runes and the Goblin’s language shimmered on the surface, barely visible. 

A gnarled hand lifted the deadly weapon, inspected it, and used a white cloth to polish. Satisfied, Ragnok held out his other hand, beady eyes focused on Hermione’s father. Stifling the look of alarm, he bravely offered his hand. A slight grimace accompanied the expert stroke. An attendant appeared at David’s elbow, taking his left wrist. With a single sweeping motion, the cut disappeared. Awe and admiration dawned on his face as the unknown goblin stepped back.

By the end of this exchange, the blade shone clean once more. Alisa, prepared to the best of her ability, hand outstretched. Her tight muscles and rigid shoulders betrayed the stoic calm of her face. Just as before, a small, knotted hand firmly grasped her mother’s small wrist, trailing a single finger up the crimson line. Wonder bloomed in the Russian’s eyes as her skin knit together.

Much to her parents’ surprise, Hermione possessed no qualms. She readily offered her dainty palm to the Ritualist, barely reacting when the blade traced a line down the meaty flesh of her hand. A small smile thanked the goblin healer in their midst. The heat of her parents combined curiosity burned, though no adequate explanation rose to the forefront of her mind. There were unhappy, painful truths when practicing magic. Goblins performed arcane rituals and magics, and that’s simply how the wizarding world worked.

Soft chanting filled the air for several moments, rhythmic and hypnotic. The previous inert scroll floated a few inches. Glowing light pulsated as the spell continued. White light flared for a moment before the scroll fell to the table, open for all to see. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, all the while Ragnok muttered to himself, issuing orders in his native tongue.

“Miss Granger, Heiress of House Orlov, I humbly welcome you and your kin to Gringotts,” the goblin bowed deeply. A soft gasp from the forgotten side of the long, mahogany table briefly drew her attention.  “May your enemies lay at your feet and your coffers always be full.”

“T-thank you, Ritualist Ragnok,” Hermione answered, unsure but sincere. “May your sword always strike true and your riches grow.”

“I thank you, Heiress Orlov,” straightened the goblin. “Now then, let us discuss the results…” 

For a full half hour, the small delegation worked to understand the information. Madame Krum’s initial hunch proved to be correct. Hermione inherited the Illustrious and Most Magical House of Orlov from her dedushka Leonid. The scroll indicated him to be the last Orlov, though he never attended magical school due to his insufficient magical core. Hermione’s mother hummed, eyes contemplating the text, when it identified her as a squib. 

True surprise landed on her father.

“A Black and a Delacour. Interesting, David,” Madame Krum’s eyes danced with mischief. “Should this have been a true wizarding pairing, you would be considered the creme de la creme, indeed.”

“For better or for worse, both of the primary lines are still intact,” Ragnok commented, evaluating Hermione’s standing. “The Head of House Black is incarcerated. The Second of House Black is currently Lady Malfoy.”At the shocked and alarmed expression from the young witch, the goblin continued, “However, House Black holds a superficial influence over your affairs, Heiress Orlov. You are simply fourth in the line of succession. Similarly, the House of Delacour may claim you a relation, but you are far from the heiress.”

The ornate room transformed into a small hive of activity. Madame Krum explained the basics of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, to the best of her ability. Ledgers and tomes, as well as a few, select boxes, piled next to Ragnok and another high ranking goblin. Fear of the unknown squeezed her heart as she watched the activity flow around her. At this moment, Hermione wished for nothing more than Harry to be with her (a soft wispy whisper in her mind asked for Viktor, but she brushed it away like smoke in the wind).

“What does this make me?” A thoroughly lost and confused Hermione glanced around the room. 

“It depends on what circles you keep, Heiress Orlov,”a scratchy, soft voice answered. Turning towards the other goblin, who must’ve been older than Ritualist Ragnok, chestnut curls tilted to listen. “As an Heiress, blood rank should not matter. You will find the more conservative of your kind will look down upon you for not being raised in their society.  Simply put, miss, you are a witch of great potential and financial standing.”

Those words calmed the irrational emotions flooding her system. In Britain, everyone fell into tidy little boxes with their labels and stereotypes. Purebloods, the snobs of the Wizarding world (even the Weasley’s, despite Ron’s protestations. Excommunicating a squib uncle and refusing to talk about it is not how one treats family). Half-bloods who know just enough to be dangerous. Muggleborns, those who had little to no hope elevating beyond a certain threshold. Goblins, however, drew no distinctions, a refreshing contrast in Hermione’s mind.

“I am Laglor, House Orlov’s financial advisor and accountant,”bowed the elder goblin. “It is my honor to see the Illustrious and Most Magical House of Orlov restored. I am at your service.”

“Thank you, Gold Counter Laglor, may our partnership ensure mutual wealth and power,” Hermione curtsied, feeling it appropriate following the traditional words she found in the library. “If I may ask, where do you believe it most logical to start? It appears as if the House finances and matters have been long neglected.”

A puff of dust flew from a leather bound ledger as an attendant deposited another on top, illustrating her point. The goblin next to her nodded in thought, rounding the table with a small wooden box in hand. 

“I believe it best to start with this,” his long fingers opened the box. Resting in a nest of plush, black fabric, a singular ring glinted in the light. “It is the House of Orlov Heir’s ring. It is enchanted to protect you against a variety of threats, as well as transfigure into both a size and style to suit you. Accepting this ring will tie you to House Orlov for life. There is no turning back.”

Hermione considered the piece of jewelry with great thought. At thirteen, almost fourteen, most considered her naught but a child. Those who knew her understood Hermione never shrank from a challenge or responsibility. Therefore, when life threw her an ancient magical house, and all the expectations and responsibilities bundled with it, she grasped the opportunity with both hands. A single, resolute nod, and Hermione accepted. 

Madame Krum staid her parents, murmuring reassurances and information. The Heir’s ring, she divulged, would be the most efficient and effective protection during her time away. The goblins will offer protection for their home, and they would be fools to reject. It does not mean official responsibility now, simply a pledge to uphold the House upon her majority.

Half listening, Hermione stepped forward, accepting the piece of glinting platinum. Just as promised, it swirled and changed from a rather clunky, garish eagle into a sleek, slim band. A screeching eagle stretched its wings. One claw grasped the hilt of a wand while the other grasped a dagger, crossing beneath its body. Silver wings extended half way down the slim band, bringing texture to the simple piece. 

“Should you wish to be more discrete, a tap on the head will reduce the sigil further,” Laglor instructed, which Hermione promptly followed. Indeed, the sigil shrunk down to a small oval of clear beryl. Barely visible, an etching of a screaming eagle remained. “If you were to restore the ring and tap the wand, it would expand to the size of a wax seal. Only you are able to do so. You are expected to sign and seal all official documentation in such a manner.” 

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Hermione visited the vaults, deep in the bowels of the bank. All the way, Laglor’s continuous elucidations overwhelmed the young Gryffindor. If Hermione needed to access her vaults in Moscow, the London branch would floo her to Laglor’s offices. Basic services, such as gold withdrawal and financial overviews, were permitted at the Diagon Alley location. Everything else must be through here, where her principal vaults resided. Her eyes widened when he casually confirmed at least three. 

Rough, stone hewn walls encased rows upon rows of rare and wonderful artifacts. From furniture to books, family wands to jewelry, they glittered beneath the magically lit lanterns. This, Laglor assured her, was simply a family vault, where the most precious and helpful items awaited the next Orlov.  

“You needn’t visit the gold vault unless you deem it necessary,” the goblin remarked, amused by her shock. “We are able to retrieve the amount you require should you desire physical currency. You will receive a bank card to use as well. It is muggle compatible, of course.” 

Hermione simply nodded along, mesmerized by the priceless volumes in front of her. At the encouragement of her parents, and Madame Krum, a small, silver bracelet laced with protection magic, joined her spoils. As she passed the bookcase by the entrance, a sense of need struck her. A brown, leather book, no thicker than a short novel, called like a siren. Without conscious thought, Hermione retrieved the rare tome, asking for protection spells to be placed upon it. 

Once done, they swung back and forth as the cart careened back to the surface. Madame Krum walked towards a till, attending to her own business while her parents quietly discussed the possibility of protective enchantments with Ragnok, who met them at the entrance to the tunnels. Twice in a short time, intuition gripped her, crystalline and clear. 

“Gold Keeper Laglor, would it be possible for me to obtain a copy of the trial and case findings against the Head of House Black, as an heir?” Cinnamon eyes bored into the shorter, stern goblin.

“I believe I can do that for you, Heiress Orlov,” he nodded slowly, considering and calculating all the while. “Do you not trust the British Ministry?”

“Do you?” She arched her eyebrow.

“Very well, Heiress,” he chuckled. “Anything else before I got to inspect the ledgers?”

“Just one thing, and if you wish not to answer it, I will take no offense,” Hermione rushed out. For the whole of the meeting, from the moment the goblins discovered her lineage, they treated her with great care and respect. An unusual circumstance, and Hermione wanted to find out why. “What is the standing of House Orlov with the Goblin Nation?”

“A respected patron and trusted ally of our Nation,” for the first time all day, the elderly goblin gave a deep, respectful bow. “Much as your forebears, you seek knowledge and justice for all. It does you and your line credit, Heiress. Until next we meet.”

Hermione curtsied and bid farewell to her accountant. Cinnamon eyes stared beyond the beautiful walls of bas reliefs and golden gilding, glimpsing a whole different world. One in which she possessed the power to truly make an impact. True, birth and wealth shouldn’t define a person, but that’s not how either the muggle or magical worlds worked. Nothing else remained but to make a difference.