Harry Potter had not dreamed of his father coming to his bedside for several days. He hadn't needed James to come. The days had not beed horrible since the first task had completed - Ron was back to being Harry's friend and many of the students in the halls had decided to be a bit nicer to Harry after witnessing what he had to go through as a Champion. Even Ernie Macmillion had paused to tell Harry that he was sorry for being so horrible before, and although Cedric was still his Champion, he certainly wished Harry luck.

"What a blighter," Ron muttered as Ernie walked away. "Imagine having the nerve that one's got!"

Harry shook his head. He was glad Ron was back on his side, and didn't have the heart to tell Ron that he himself had been more of a blighter than Ernie had done. But Ron had gone from a glowering snod to Harry's biggest advocate in the days since the task, making up for his weeks of madness since Halloween.

"Don't worry 'bout him, Harry, he'll see he ought to have been in your corner all along. You're bang on to win now - you're tied at first! All those people who thought you couldn't do it are eating their words with jam on, I reckon, hey?"

Honestly, Harry thought, he didn't much care about anyone eating their words or seeing themselves told off for not believing in him. Half the time he didn't believe in himself. Rather, he just wanted to get through it; bonus points if he was in one piece when he got to the other side.

Hermione seemed much better at understanding that bit of it, at least.

"Ronald, honestly. Harry doesn't need to win, he just needs to survive the tournament. And Harry, that requires getting busy thinking about that egg! The clue isn't going to sort itself out you know!"

Harry nodded, "I know. But all it does is screech at me, Hermione! What sort of clue is that? I doubt any of the other Champions have solved it either."

"Well, I know Viktor hasn't," Hermione sighed.

"Viktor?" Ron stopped short walking. "Viktor, who?"

"Krum, Ronald," Hermione answered, rolling her eyes. "What other Viktors do we know?"

"I wasn't aware we knew the one! Since when do we know Krum?" Ron looked from Hermione to Harry and back again.

"It isn't a big deal, Ron, I've only been reading with him in the library is all, for the most part." Hermione shrugged.

"Did you know about this?" Ron demanded Harry, looking over his shoulders as they rode a moving staircase on their way to class.

Harry shrugged. "Dunno, don't think I did. How long have you been seeing Krum, Hermione?"

"Seeing Krum?!" Ron choked on air. "It isn't like that of course!"

Hermione whirled about, "What are you saying it like that for?"

"What? You'd never work out with Krum! He's a world famous quidditch player, innit'e?" Ron said, "He's like to be after some pretty girl, you know, a muggle model or actress or something."

Hermione snorted.

"You're pretty, too, Hermione," Harry interjected, skewering Ron with his elbow.

"Yeah but not Viktor Krum's Girlfriend sort of pretty, he doesn't want to go out with ordinary girls!"

Hermione drew a deep breath, "You're a positive arse, Ronald Weasley," she said, stepping neatly onto the landing as the staircases connected.

"What? It's true!" Ron persisted.

"Let it go mate," Harry said, shaking his head.

Hermione stormed away to the library before the boys could catch her up, muttering to herself in annoyance over Ron's shallowness. How anyone could be so bloody thick was just impossible to comprehend. For someone usually so empathetic and kind, Ron sure had a terrible streak of thoughtlessness in him, and she hated it bothered her so much when he said such stupid things about her looks. Why should it bother her anyway? She wasn't shallow, she didn't care about looks... so what if Ron did?

She sat on the floor in the back corner of the library, where she and Viktor Krum had taken up a residence, far from prying eyes at the tables, and crossed her legs, pulling her Ancient Runes book from her bag, along with a roll of pastilles. She shoved one of the orange ones in her mouth and sucked on it as she leaned against the bookcase and rested her book against her knees.

Viktor wandered in and sat down next to her without a single word.

Hermione looked up from her book at him.

Viktor's face was lined with tiredness, dark circles below his eyes, and a heaviness to his broad shoulders. Hermione put down her book. "Viktor? What's the matter?" she asked.

Viktor looked at her, a sort of dazed expression held his features hostage. He shook his head and turned to his book bag, pretending to be focused on something else. Hermione frowned. "Viktor...?" she pressed.

Viktor slowly turned back to Hermione and their eyes met.

Hermione's eyes searched Viktor's and finally she asked, quietly, "Is it something to do with your, erm,
- boyfriend?"

Viktor blinked at her for several moments, then said quietly, "Aleksander is not my boyfriend."

"Oh." Hermione bit her lips, pausing.

"Not anymore," Viktor clarified in a whisper.

Hermione's eyes softened and she glanced around the shelves, then nudged herself closer, her voice barely a breath, "I am sorry, Viktor. What happened?"

"My father does not approve," he rasped as quietly as he could, terrified of anyone else hearing but so very desperate to tell Hermione that he felt his heart might burst if he did not get it out of him. "This is why he fired Mr. Kent as my trainer. Then Aleksander, he came to my room yesterday, and we were in a moment when my father came. I pushed Aleksander into the closet before he could be seen. My father knew someone was there and to keep him from finding Aleksander, I told him I had -- a - a girl." He stumbled, his cheeks reddening.

"Oh Viktor," Hermione murmured, petting his arm.

The touch of her hand on his arm was so unexciting compared to Aleksander's touch, it made his stomach twist with the realization that it had been her he had said was there instead of Aleksander. As though there were any comparison. The fact that he was so hopelessly unattracted to girls burned in his chest all the more, painfully deep. It wasn't that Hermione wasn't lovely, pretty, a good person - it was that Viktor craved the muscle and sinew of a boy. He hung his head, ashamed all over again.

"I did a terrible thing, Hermyown," he murmured.

"Kissing your boyfriend is not terrible," Hermione said firmly. "It's - it's perfectly normal. I know society hasn't realized it yet, that things aren't very easy for - for people who are gay, but it oughtn't be that way. You are a good person, Viktor, and I'm sure Aleksander is also good, and you deserve to love and to be loved. Whatever that looks like."

Viktor studied his hands. Hermione's words touched his heart and he didn't quite know what to say in reply. He felt heavy, and sad; he wished more people had hearts like Hermione, had understanding like hers. And he felt guilty.

"I told my father the girl was you," he confessed.

"Oh!" Hermione flushed violently and she looked away, covering her cheeks with her hands. They burned hot against her palms.

"This is what I am sorry for, Hermyown, is it something you might forgive me for?"

"Of course, Viktor," Hermione replied, cheeks still burning.

"I had to say something," he explained, "I do not know what my father would do if he had found Aleksander."

Hermione nodded vigorously. "I understand."

Viktor took her hand into his. It was so small and breakable. He carefully wrapped his large fingers around her hand. "For listening to me and saying the good things, I thank you."

"You're welcome."

They sat in silence for a moment and Hermione bit her lips, unsure if she should take her hands back from Viktor's hands or just leave them there in his grasp. He seemed to have forgotten he was holding them, even.

Suddenly there was a sound at the end of the row of shelves and Viktor tore his hands back from hers quickly. Fleur Delacor stood at the end of the aisle, a small stack of books in her arms, and she stared at Viktor and Hermione in surprise, an eyebrow raised as she glanced from Hermione's still flushed face to Viktor's sad, solemn eyes.

"Pardon moi," she said, stepping carefully around their legs, even as Hermione and Viktor both drew them back. Her foot caught on Viktor's book and she tripped and though she caught herself before going down, several of her books spilled onto the floor. Viktor quickly got up to collect the books, apologizing profusely for tripping her as Fleur said, "No, no eet wuz me being -how do you say it?- clumsy!"

Viktor handed her back her books, his eyes catching sight of the cover. Siren Songs of the North Atlantic. The Mermish Lochs of Scotland. Mermish Aboveground: Translation and Interpretation for the Gilless. He stared at the book covers, then looked up at her. Fleur's eyes met his for a moment and then she quickly turned and rushed away.

Meanwhile, in the pub in Hogsmeade, Declan Alectric was tugging Oliver Kent's arm 'round his shoulder, staggering their way back to the inn. "It isn't even eleven in the morning yet, Ollie!" he reprimanded. "How are you staggered already?"

Oliver's weight pressed fully against Declan. "It isn't already if its actually still," Oliver said.

Declan sighed.

They reached the inn without incident, and Declan dared to dream they may reach the room without issue, but then he saw her: Rita Skeeter, preening in the lobby, powdering her nose with a compact she held in the palm of her hand. She must have spotted Declan in the mirror for she whirled about, a cheshire cat smile of amusement as she took in the sight of Declan dragging Oliver's sodded ass across the lobby. Declan groaned as Rita's eyes lit with amusement.

"Morning Deccy," she sing-songed. "How's your big scoop working out for you?"

Declan tried at ignoring her, walking 'round her and heading for the stairs.

"Oh look," Oliver slurred, "Its that garish Skeeter woman we hate!" His voice was a jumble but not so much the words were unrecognizable and Declan swore as Rita's lips pursed and twisted with a wicked expression. Declan hurried up the stairs with Oliver before she could come over.

In the room, he deposited Oliver on the bed, where Oliver kicker his feet against the blankets and groaned, complaining about being put to bed like a child. Declan locked the door and set a muffling charm on it, checking that there were no cracks or crevices of beetle size that she could get through, either.

When Declan turned 'round it was to find the black shaggy dog sitting on the bed next to Oliver, who held onto the beast's fur with weak-knuckled fists, face pressed into the dog's neck, seeking comfort the way that humans do from their pets. Declan stared at the dog and the dog stared back, both sets of grey eyes meeting one another. He hesitated, eyes flitting to Oliver's slack face, on the edge of sleep (though much further gone than waking), then back to the dog's.

"I know who you are," Declan said.

The dog's head tilted.

"You don't have any idea who I am do you?" Declan asked, and he smirked, "Probably driving you mad aren't I?"

And the dog began to change.