Learning Bulgarian
Lunch finished, Viktor took the floo from the restaurant to his home, handing back Hermione’s trunk and cat carrier before he left. Hermione and Iskra floo’d to the Dobrenova home.
The floo spat them out of a large open hearth stone fireplace with an arched top, into a cheerful and unpretentious parlor with white plastered walls, and tall dark wood ceilings, with obviously hand-hewn wood joists and boards. The floor was covered in a bright red striped flat woven rug. Two walls were lined with tall wood-framed windows. The windows were open, and sheer white curtains fluttered a bit in the cross-breeze.
Crookshanks immediately leapt from Hermione’s arms and disappeared through the nearest window. Hermione peered out the window, and noticed, reassured, that the house was surrounded by a walled garden, which Crooks was carefully investigating. There were runes carved into the window sill – protection runes, mostly- but was that a rune for insects? And vermin? Were the windows charmed to keep out mice and bugs without a screen?! Sometimes magic amazed her.
Iskra took off her shoes, so Hermione did too. “He’ll be fine out there, he won’t be able to get through my wards,” Iskra said, and led Hermione through the house and up the stairs. “Now, why don’t you unpack, shower – the language spell is written magic, so it lasts longer if you can avoid washing it off, and then we can do the language spell tonight and have dinner.”
She gestured Hermione into a bedroom, showed her the loo, resized her trunk, and left her to unpack.
///
Hermione’s bedroom was on the second floor*, big, with more white plastered walls and high, dark wood ceilings, worn wooden floors, two open windows, and antique furniture - a double bed, a desk with a chair, a chest of drawers, a small open bookcase, and a wardrobe. Hermione opened her trunk, unearthed a Three Broomsticks butter beer mug, slipped into the loo and filled it with water. She put her roses on the desk – thankfully unwilted thanks to a stasis charm – cutting the stems with a pen knife from her trunk, and arranging them carefully in the mug. She inhaled the sweet scent of them with a deep breath, and put them on her desk. She pulled out her toiletry bag, and headed to the loo, quickly using the shower, scrubbing her skin throughly (although she eyed the bathtub longingly). She knew Viktor had scourgified her skin, but she never felt like that actually got the body clean. Exiting the bath, she wrapped a towel around her head to corral her curls, and brushed her teeth.
That tooth cleaning spell Viktor had used was amazing. Would it be worth the embarrassment to ask him for the spell? Well, really, what were the chances she’d see him again? From the sounds of it, Iskra would keep her hopping all summer. It’s not like he’d WANT to take time to meet her.
Hermione hung her clothing in the wardrobe, organizing it by type and then by colour and arranged her folded socks and underwear in the chest of drawers. Shoes and boots she stored in the bottom of the closet, aligned so their toes were one inch from the edge of the wardrobe, pairs together but shoes not-quite-touching. Again, almost no one she’d seen today had worn anything muggle, and she felt awkward about what she’d packed.
Bulgarian witches seemed to wear lots of red, black, and burgundy robes, natural colours and earth tones, with woven stripes and copious embroidery rather than the garish colours of the British witches. Lots seemed to wear sleeveless robes, almost like a dress, over white embroidered blouses. They looked a lot cooler than British style robes. Unlike the British, Bulgarian wizards tended to wear loose overrobes open or belted over shirts and trousers or an underrobe. Viktor had been wearing sleeveless deep green linen robes, that highlighted the hazel flecks in his brown eyes, embroidered with burgundy and gold, over a loose white shirt embroidered with crimson, and loose beige trousers tucked into tall black boots that had hugged a pair of very nice calves... No, Hermione, no thinking about Viktor, or his eyes, or his calves... she scolded herself.
She pulled out her books and put them on the book shelves, organizing by fiction vs. non-fiction, muggle vs magical, and alphabetically by author’s last name. She pushed the trunk to the foot of the bed, leaving a gap of a few inches so the lid would still swing open easily.
On the desk, she set out her favourite stationary and pens, lining the pens up parallel and equally spaced on the top of the desk, then the quills, then a row of her multicoloured ink bottles, spun so that the labels faced towards her and each bottle was square. She squared the stack of fresh parchment to the corner of the desk, exactly one inch from the edges. She glanced around the room and squared both the mirror hanging above the dresser, and the landscape painting above the bed. She laid out her pyjamas for the night, her toiletries, her brush on the dresser, and chose an outfit for the next day, shaking it briskly and hanging it to air. It was a simple loose white button up blouse and pleated grey and black plaid trousers that she paired with black leather boots and a black leather belt, both from her mum’s closet.
Ugh... Why was witch’s fashion so different, and why hadn’t she at least looked at Lavender’s magazines? Maybe she should wear a pinafore dress over her blouse instead? Or was that too childish? No, she’d stick with the trousers.
She took another deep breath in, and let it out, slowly, enjoying the hint of rose in the air. Well, that was as organized as she was getting, and at least the effort had made her feel a bit more in control.
With one final look around, she shifted the roses from her desk to her bedside table. A girl could be romantic about her first flowers, right?
Room settled, she sat at the desk and dashed off a quick note to her parents. Then she pulled a package from her trunk and carried it down stairs, and handed it to Iskra, who was in the sitting room.
“Here, as a thank you for hosting me this summer – it’s not magical, because I learned of the apprenticeship right before I left Hogwarts and didn’t have time to get anything in Diagon Alley, but I hope you enjoy it.”
She waited anxiously as Iskra carefully unwrapped the cheerful floral wrapping paper, and opened up the gift. “Oh, it’s lovely, thank you,” Iskra said as she pulled out the large wool throw blanket. “And so soft! I’m sure I’ll need it, if I’m to spend the summer in Britain.”
Hermione had agonized for hours, wondering what to get as a hostess gift for a woman they’d never met as she shopped her way through Muggle London, refreshing her underwear, favourite bath products, muggle stationary, and casual clothes. Finally she’d settled on the soft Scottish wool blanket in dark purples and greens, figuring no one ever had enough blankets, and if her hostess didn’t like it, it was easy enough to stash away in a closet. Seeing the decor in Iskra’s house, she wondered if she should have chosen something with more red.
“Do you have an owl I can borrow, to send a letter to my parents?”
“Yes, of course! They must be quite worried, sending you so far by yourself. Come, I’ll show you the owlery.”
Iskra led Hermione into the garden. From outside, the house was two-storied, and a delightful baby-blue plaster that contrasted with the dark wood of the frame. The second story overhung the first story, with an overhanging second story supported by carved dark wooden beams. There was more dark carved wood at the soffits and eaves below the red tile roof. The wood-trimmed windows were plentiful, tall, and mullioned with arched tops.
The garden was lush and well ordered, but a hodge podge of edible plants, magical plants, and ornamentals, with many, many roses. Crooks had laid claim to a stone bench in the sun and pointedly ignored them as they walked by, stretching and basking in the July sun. Looking around, she felt like she was in one of the illustrations from the books of fairy tales she had read as a child.
Hermione spotted the plant her roses must have been taken from as Iskra lead Hermione to the owlery, a round stone building with a conical roof that reminded Hermione of a dovecote on an old English estate. They sent the letter off with one of Iskra’s five (!) short-eared owls – apparently she kept up an extensive foreign correspondence, and all of her owls were internationally certified. On the way back, Iskra summoned two bowls from the kitchen, and they picked fresh raspberries for dessert.
“Now, if you’re ready, let’s get that language charm in place,” Iskra said briskly.
“Yes, I’m fascinated to know how it works! You said it’s written on the skin? I’ve never done written magic, other than runes.”
“It’s a bit of a tricky charm. It’s midway between a dual-cast charm and a ward, really. The caster must be fluent in the language they want to teach, and the recipient can only learn words they know. The target must be naive to the language, almost completely. I’ll write a word in ink on your skin, then we’ll enchant it together. As the ink fades, you’ll lose the language, whatever you haven’t assimilated with use.”
“What kind of ink?”
“Oh, just generic spell-ink. It fades with the fading of the word, so be careful how hard you scrub. It seems to only work the once. So I’d recommend we only converse in Bulgarian, and that in addition to speaking with me, you make a point to speak with others on the team about as many things as possible, and read only in Bulgarian before it fades. And, of course, it isn’t miraculous. You’ll struggle with the proper sounds, because your mouth isn’t used to them. I have the local paper delivered, and a few Bulgarian grimoires and textbooks and novels you can read, and of course, my warding notes, and I’ll keep the radio on in the house. My hope is that by the time the charm fades, you should be fairly fluent. You might have a few headaches though!”
“That’s incredible. Why haven’t I heard of this?”
“Oh, its something I’ve been working on. I won’t release it until I fix a few more issues – don’t worry, I’m using one of my tested versions on you, not the experimental ones. Now, roll up your sleeves, please.”
Hermione rolled up her sleeve, and Frau Dobrenova – Iskra – wrote in careful black letters across her skin with a brush – разбирам .
“What does it say?” Hermione asked.
“It means, I understand,” Iskra said. She waved her wand, and the ink dried. “Now, hold my wand hand with your free hand, and I’ll hold your wand hand with my free hand. Then we’ll chant - you say, in English “Share your language with me,” and I’ll say, in Bulgarian “I share my language”.
“Oh! I didn’t know magic could be done in your own vernacular language, I’d always thought it was all done in Latin, except runes.”
“Of course it can. It’s western Europe that’s so obsessed with Latin,” Iskra scoffed. “It can be convenient to avoid to avoid confusion – I often cast in Old Church Slavonic, especially for old family magic – but it’s not necessary. Using a language that’s not as well known can help protect spells from being countered, too. But most spells are more powerful with successful practice, so using everyday words often dilutes the caster’s power. But for others – it can add power. Language charms are one of them. And longer rituals are often easier if done in your own language, because they take some of their power from the caster’s understanding of the words.”
“That’s fascinating…”
“Now – we will take turns chanting our part, and the word on your skin will glow and feel warm. Keep looking at my eyes. When it shifts from silver to blue, we will release each other, and the spell will be done. Do not release me before that, or the spell will fail, and it’s not a spell that allows repeats. Ready?”
“Yes.” Hermione was nervous – what if she messed it up? - but also never one to shy away from trying something. She was a Gryffindor!
Iskra and Hermione linked themselves together, holding their wands
"Spodelyam ezika si,” Iskra intoned, looking into Hermione’s eyes.
“Share your language with me,” Hermione said, holding the eye contact. She could feel this ... flutter... in her arms.
“Spodelyam ezika si.”
“Share your language with me.”
The flutter had a direction. It went from Iskra to Hermione’s left hand, then coursed back through Hermione’s right hand to Iskra.
“Spodelyam ezika si.”
“Share your language with me.”
It was flowing... anti-clockwise. Widdershins, like in old tales of witches... Did magic have directionality?
“Spodelyam ezika si.”
“Share your language with me.”
With every repeat, the flutter was getting stronger and she felt... warm.
“Spodelyam ezika si.”
“Share your language with me.”
Oh! She could see, out of the corner of her eyes, a glow of silver.
“Spodelyam ezika si.”
“Share your language with me.”
The warmth was coallescing, in Hermione’s head, and her eyes, which were starting to ache, but also in the letters on her arm. Iskra gripped her tighter as she swayed a bit.
“Spodelyam ezika si.”
“Share your language with me,” Hermione forced out.
She saw a flash of blue light, and the word on her skin flared with heat. Iskra dropped Hermione’s arms, breaking the circle.
“Kak ste?” Iskra asked. How are you?
“Az sam dobre.” Hermione replied automatically. I’m fine. Wait – had she just … “It worked!”
“Of course it did,” Iskra said. “It’s my spell.”
///
They chatted over dinner - bread and cold meat and cold vegetables, Iskra admitted she wasn’t much of a cook. Hermione pled exhaustion and a headache, and headed for bed, setting the Bulgarian books Iskra had given on the bedside table, next to her roses. She couldn’t believe she had new books from a whole other culture of magic, and was too tired to read them. She carefully brushed her teeth (she MUST ask Viktor for that tooth cleaning charm once her trace was gone!), washed her face, braided her hair back, put on her pyjamas, and curled up on her bed around Crooks, who had already claimed his spot in the dead-centre of the bed.
“I think we’ll be okay here, Crooksie,” she whispered as she ran a gentle hand under his chin, in that spot he loved, and he purred. She drifted off to sleep in dark room, moonlight slanting in from the windows, to the sounds of a purring cat and the whisper of wind in trees, and the fragrance of roses wafting from her bedside table.
///
Dear Mum and Dad,
I’ve arrived safely in Bulgaria. You’ll be unsurprised to hear that the Foreign Travel Office at the Ministry of Magic is just as difficult as Heathrow, and there was a mix-up with my ticket that took a while to sort out. Dad, you were right, of course, to get me there early. Apparently there’s much more travel than usual due to the World Cup.
Portkeys are awful. You know I’m never carsick, but they made me very nauseous. I think I’d rather be stuck on a bus all day than ever take one again.
Frau Dobrenova is lovely, and has told me to call her Iskra. So far, she isn’t annoyed by my questions and I’ve learned tons already, I feel like my head’s about to burst, I’ve doubled my understanding of the theory of WHY things work just in one afternoon. She is doing a charm to teach me Bulgarian tonight, and I am very excited.
Crooks also didn’t much care for portkeys, but he seems to like the garden.
Love,
Hermione