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What You're Dealt

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What You’re Dealt


She should have known going to the Quidditch game would prove to be a mistake. And underneath it all, she later had to wonder if she wasn’t trying to betray her determination to avoid him and put an end to her own misery. She reasoned, most logically, that it had been two months, and that he would have moved past their little interlude and found someone else to dally with by now. He hadn’t.

Now attempting to evade him, and pointedly ignoring him as she continued carrying the large ceramic bowl of leftover salad to the pantry, she tried to calm her nerves that had drawn tight at the very sight of him, dripping and sweaty in the dim light. He had surprised her, appearing as he had at the base of the rather rickety stairs leading down to the cellar of the Burrow, apparently having located her somehow when she Apparated here after the game.

She had told him to go home, that she would talk with him later, when there weren’t a room full of people waiting for her to finish and bring up dessert. Of course, that promise may have been less than believable, considering she had pointedly ignored his every attempt to contact her in the last four weeks, sending his letters back unopened, and shielding his every attempt to floo her or Apparate to her home.

He had caught sight of her at the Quidditch match Ron and Harry had talked her into seeing, and it was the first sight he had been able to catch of her since she had left Bulgaria. She hadn’t wanted to explain why she was reluctant to go when she found it was the Vrasta Vultures playing, so she tried to make herself as small as possible in the box that Harry had arranged for.

His presence was continuing to make her skin tingle, which was only serving to make her even angrier after the maelstrom of confusion and desire his sudden appearance engendered in her.

Wrenching the door open, as well as she could while balancing the heavy bowl, she was surprised to feel a rough palm close around her wrist to catch her in case she stumbled as he gave her a good hard shove into the pantry, closing the door sharply behind them.

“Viktor! Let me out!”

“Now, ve vill talk.”

“No, we wont; let me out!” His proximity was beginning to affect her. The damp uniform he was wearing telling her he had Apparated here just as soon as he could get away from the after-game interviews and team talks after seeing her there for the first time in over a month. She could smell the sharp tang of his sweat, the faint traces of leather and spice more pronounced after his match, and Merlin help her, it was arousing. She glared at him.

“Her-my-knee,—” he bit off, his voice incredibly strained and harsh as he glared back at her. There was no bewilderment or confusion from him; he had always understood her, and she had to quickly squelch the warmth of that knowledge.

“Just because you seem to feel that breaking and entering is acceptable…" She was cut off abruptly as Viktor snarled, grabbing both of her wrists in rough palms and jerking her forward into his chest. He took her shoulders in a bruising grip, forcing her head up and stared into her eyes for a second, his dark gaze furious, before he kissed her, hard and demanding, and almost painful. Hermione whimpered, even as she found herself pressing closer, both wanting to feel him, hard planes pressed against every inch of skin she could manage, and cursing him for making her feel so weak.

She should have known better. She really should have. It was just because he had always had a Knight-in-Shining-Armour quality in her memories that caused her to behave rather foolishly, she decided crossly. But really, who could blame her? He had noticed her, made her the envy of every other girl in the castle at a time in her life when she had desperately needed a little bit of attention. He wasn’t supposed to still think of her, or make her feel like this.

His angular features, crooked nose and prominent brow had somehow combined in her memory to be a harsh mould for masculinity and power, until every other boy there that night merely looked like a soft, imperfect copy. She was startled, when he had met her a month ago at the tourist centre in Varna, to find that he still affected her that way, and that it wasn’t just a kindness of memory from a grateful and infatuated teenager.
Even now, when she had been so determined to simply cut and run, her body betrayed her longing under his touch. She could no more stop her traitorous responses to him than she could stop him. She was fighting a losing battle; wanting to simply give in, knowing how wonderful it was to be held in those arms.

She had always been rather amused at how intimidating the others always seemed to find him. Viktor had always been so gentle with her, his rare smile transforming his face and making her feel cherished with his chivalry. There was nothing gentle about him now.

As she had gotten older, his professed feelings had come back to her, often late at night when she couldn’t seem to sleep for restlessness, and she would wonder, lost between burning and confusion as she found her first orgasm. Hesitantly thrusting against her own fingers, as she had seen mentioned in a book, his dark eyes holding hers from the depths of her memories for all that Ron was actually her boyfriend at the time.

They had kept in touch after her fourth year, surprisingly; a fact that had driven Ron crazy. She had been flattered by Viktor’s declaration that she made him feel things he had never felt before, a declaration he allowed to be pushed gently aside when she had carefully told him that she just didn’t, couldn’t, look at him like that. Perhaps he had understood better than she had back then, so he remained safe, the fluttering feelings he had briefly stirred in her rather tournament-distracted fifteen-year-old self easily put away and brushed aside as she confided in her friend who never got closer than the parchment they both touched. Letters, she found out, allowed a layer of safety, an illusion she hadn’t realized had been there until he had looked at her, his intense gaze boring into her from across the flagstone circle, and she knew he had remembered her in ways he understood she hadn’t really been prepared to deal with the last time he had seen her.
Suddenly, she wasn’t looking at him through the parchment anymore, and he made her tremble in ways she had foolishly tried to bury, and everything changed in that moment.


The pantry was small, tiny even, and lit only by a single charmed light. Even if she could somehow break the hold he had on her, there was no way she could get far enough away from him to be able to clear her thoughts.

“Can you understand vhat you do to me?” His breath was hot and moist against her neck. She could feel the wooden shelves, filled with Molly’s preserves, digging into her back where he pressed her against them, but she didn’t care. He panted slightly, as if just holding her like that was more than he was able to handle, and for a moment, that made her excited too. When he spoke, his usually gentle voice shook. “I vill not let you go vith just your vords of nonsense. I not be knowing your vord rubbish you used, but I think it is vhat you being speaking, Her-my-knee.”

She had been so happy to see him. She was on vacation, for the first time since her travels with Harry and Ron to rid the world of supreme evil and its subsequent battles. When the opportunity to simply take some time alone, the idea of visiting Bulgaria, with all its history seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. It had absolutely nothing to do with Viktor Krum, at all.

She was getting rather good at lying to herself, it seemed.

His lips were trailing up her neck now — though to be honest, trailing seemed to imply a languidness that simply wasn’t present in this charged atmosphere. Claimed might be more like it, as though he were trying to mark every inch of her skin, overwhelming her senses until she simply gave in to him. His rich burgundy robes were bunched under her fists, though she was no longer sure if she was pushing him away or pulling him closer – or merely trying to anchor herself as she felt in danger of losing herself in this unfettered moment. Viktor seemed to pay no heed to her indecisiveness; he knew what he wanted and truth be told, she admitted, he knew what she wanted too, but something in her rallied at that almost blatant surrender.

“Don’t make any more of this than it is, Viktor. You have a life in Bulgaria, one that doesn’t need to include me.”

He growled; really growled against her skin, made sweaty by the close confines of the pantry. She could almost feel the moment when he snapped, when this stopped being controlled and friendly. He grabbed her roughly, taking possession of her mouth and senses. She felt her elbow nudge something off the shelves as she let go of his uniform to grab his shoulders, unsure of her own intent.

“Because simply asking me vhat it is that I vant would leave you vith the possibility that I might say you. You are scared, Her-my-knee, and you think you see how it is in your thoughts, and so you go about making it just how you see them.” His fingers were working on her simple summer blouse now, deftly opening the buttons, even as he kept her gaze. She wondered inanely if he could still have managed that impressive trick if he hadn’t been so angry and actually paying attention. His fingers whispered over her aching flesh as each button gave way to him, baring more of her skin for his pleasure. Somehow, she was finding it difficult to muster the will to resist him.


The candles had been beautiful. They had made his dark skin glow olive-gold in their light. He had smiled often, a hesitant, beautiful smile that had completely transformed his usually brooding demeanour. They had laughed, and she had been startled to find that she was lost just watching the way he was swirling the ice left in his glass, knowing those exceptional seeker’s fingers would be deft in ways she hadn’t been ready to appreciate the last time they’d met. Swish and swirl, the ice had flashed through her vision, between those long fingers, glowing amber through the cognac. She had been far too relaxed, too warm and comfortable for what had happened next, and when he kissed her, his kisses had burned with the pleasant warmth of the alcohol against her skin. It had been wonderful, a moment detached from her everyday life back in Britain. A night like an exotic fantasy.

She should have known that he would not consent to stay detached, separate as he had been in their letters.

He had stopped being safe.

Nerves stretched wire taut, she almost shook when she felt something smooth begin trailing along her bare arm. The box they had knocked to the floor had been filled with emergency candles, and he had stooped to scoop one up from where they lay scattered all over the floor. The cool wax contrasted sharply with the heat of her skin, and she did moan, unable to stop it. He grinned, feral; triumphant, and he trailed it along her collar bone, skimming her breasts, and down her stomach; pausing only to circle her belly button twice before gathering her skirt in one hand and securing it in the waistband so that it was out of the way, never pausing in the candle’s progression as he began dragging it along her inner thigh dragging it upwards still slowly, purposely. Her eyes widened when she realized his intent, and she pulled back slightly.


“Shhh. You need to lose your thoughts for a little vhile, Her-my-knee. You need just to feel, and know that it is me who does this thing to you, to make you burn and moan vith vanting.”

His grip was deceptively gentle, and as soon as she tried to struggle, she found out just how easily he could subdue her. Part of her was wondering if maybe she really wanted to be let loose. The smell of his skin was working its way into her senses, the urge to give in and taste him, to run her tongue over his collarbone, where she knew he was sensitive, was almost overwhelming.

He worked the candle under the edge of her knickers easily, and the first thrust was unexpectedly forceful. He used the blunt end of the candle, forcing it inside of her with little effort, and a pleased smirk at the betraying wetness he found there to ease its passage. She felt uncomfortably wicked, having something other than him inside of her like that, and at first she was too shocked to really process what had happened, before he was murmuring in her ear, encouraging her.

“So beautiful!" he breathed. "The candlelight in your hair vas like caramel taffy, all sweetness and laughter. You liked the candles that night, didn’t you? Do you like to be reminded of it like this? I want to see your face as you fall apart for me; only me.”

His words, so harsh, almost possessive, but yet discordantly gentle at the same time had her moving, thrusting against the intrusion without even realizing it. When a soft moan split the thin air between them, she bit her lip to keep from doing it again.

“Viktor - we’re going to have Harry and Ron down here in a minute. They’ll wonder where I am…" But that was a lie too, when she wasn’t sure whether she was telling him to stop, or simply warning him. Viktor just groaned against her skin and thrust relentlessly into her, twisting his wrist in such a way that she cried out again, louder and muffed against his damp Quidditch robes, and she knew she didn’t want him to stop, ever.

“Let them. They can learn vhat a sexy and passionate voman you are – let them see how your eyes glow vhen you are being pleasured just so. Do you think they vill recognize you like this? Vill it arouse them, hearing the beautiful sounds you make?” His gruff voice was as relentless as the blunt-ended candle he was using on her, and she was as perversely and uncomfortably aroused by the images being wrought, by the possibility of being caught, of two men behind that door listening to her as she lost control and being excited by it. All sense of the fact that they were currently in Molly’s pantry and how incredibly inappropriate this was, was lost in the sound of his wonderfully sexy voice in her ear.

She came against the cool wax, a low and guttural moan in her throat that felt as though it may have been pulled from the earth itself, but she fought to keep his eyes, to stop herself from closing them and finding that this was all a fantasy and she was actually in her bed at home. He drew the candle from her slowly and brought it to her lips, inviting and yet commanding with his stern gaze. Hesitantly, she opened her mouth to allow him to slide it inside, giving her a taste of what he did to her before it was pulled away and he was kissing her, sharing the experience before she had a chance to swallow. Dimly, she heard it hit the floor with a small clatter.

She was scrabbling now, desperate to feel him against her and bothered that she wasn’t more upset at this lack of control in the face of what must be her hormones for this man.

He groaned again, saying something in Bulgarian, the harsh syllables foreign in her ears but arousing nonetheless at this evidence of her effect on him. She was fairly certain they were curse words, and she reached to undo his trousers under his robes, too impatient to bother with the rest of his clothing.

She had no more than fumbled the zip down when he stopped her progress to lift her up, strong arms cording beneath her hands as he pinned her against the edge of one of the shelves; her skirt still bunched around her waist, blouse wide open and hanging from her elbows, and her bra pushed down under her breasts, pinching the underside of them, even as they were pushed up like a cheap enticement. She felt thoroughly debauched; and yet, it was Viktor. He watched her, his large eyes nearly black in the dim light.

She felt cherished.


“You sent me away once, and I vent, because you were young,” he said, his voice strained. “I vill not be letting you just send me away so easily again. Not this time. I cannot.

They had been wrapped together, still entwined, and the candles had burned down low. Hermione had felt the lassitude that comes after amazing sex steal over her whole body, small fissures of pleasure still sparking unexpectedly along her taut nerves, and she wondered briefly if she should get up, and go back to her hotel room, but she was too deliciously lazy, throbbing in all kinds of wonderful places to move away from Viktor’s broad chest. He was running a soothing hand down her spine, and she giggled when he hit a ticklish spot. He had leaned over and placed a kiss over her ear tiredly, on the edge of sleep himself.

“I loff you, Her-my-knee.”

It had been whispered, but it had been loud enough in her ears to keep her up for hours, just laying there and watching him sleep as seven candles burned down, one for each year since had seen her last, he had joked. She had watched them go out, one by one.

He could have anyone he wanted. Groupies followed him, fans snuck into his hotel rooms, famous witches charted his every move.

She was just Hermione; bushy haired, not spectacularly thin nor exceptionally voluptuous, or if she was honest, voluptuous at all.

He was her knight; her one childhood memory that gave her strength in the dark parts of her life.

When he had woken the next morning, it was to find his bed empty, her hotel room cleared out, and a note, expressing her regret and her firm belief that what they had shared was not meant to be repeated.

She hadn’t seen him since — until now.

She closed her eyes, feeling him beneath her hands and took a deep breath. He was determined enough to follow her, to hunt her down to the Weasley dinner after a Quidditch game a month after she had run away – she didn’t stand a chance.

She opened her eyes and stared at him, trying to convey everything she wasn’t even sure she understood yet in that one gaze. “I know.” She reached for him, letting action stand in for the inadequacy of her words.

His skin was so soft. She wouldn’t have expected it from someone who played professional sports, but every inch of him was like velvet-covered steel. He groaned when she managed to use her heels from her pinned position to push his boxers down his lean hips, allowing his erection to spring free. It was already damp with beads of his own ejaculate, straining hard and proud from coarse dark curls. She struggled with the heavy robe, clasps stiff in her fumbling fingers, and he offered her no help, making sure she would have nothing to hide behind tomorrow. Instead, he concentrated on just supporting her on the narrow shelf.

She had barely taken his cock in her hand, the veins soft prominences against her hand, when he grabbed her wrist and twisted, slightly. His face was tense, eyes narrowed as brows drew close in concentration, his lips thinned and almost disappearing. “Do not do this, obicham.” He stood there for a long moment, just trembling, before he seemed to regain himself. He looked up at her with a sly smirk before pushing forward from his lean hips, to tease the sensitive inner folds of her vagina. He rubbed lightly against her clit with the head of his cock, her own wetness made it slide like silk. She whimpered again, trying to strain against his grip and force him to impale her. His grip on her prevented her from moving more than a few centimetres.

“I am not gentle man, Her-my-knee. Not always. If that being the kind of man you vant, say it now, before I am lost completely.”

She broke. “You. I want you. ” It was a painful sort of knowledge, like the violence of a dam breaking.

That was all it took, and he was pushing forward, filling her completely. She gasped at the sudden sensation, nearly losing her precarious perch on the shelves, having to grab at his shoulders at the last instant. She dug her fingers into the muscle and closed her eyes, concentrating wholly on the feelings of being stretched, the rough passage of him forcing her walls to accommodate. The fact that the Weasley family dinner was gong on just above them was completely ignored as she frantically pushed back, trying to get closer, trying to get the friction she so desperately needed. She felt like she could explode under him if only he would touch her just right. His thrusts were driving the edge of the shelf into her hips in a way she knew was going to leave incredible bruises, but she didn’t care; the sharp pain and stinging abrasion only driving her harder, making the sweet pleasure bearable. The itchy feeling of sweat pooling in the waistband of her skirt was merely a minor discomfort; the deep flexing of his buttocks beneath her heels blending with the sensation of his hot mouth on her nipples and breasts, teasing and nipping roughly, his hands kneading her flesh in a rhythmic pistoning of his hips.

Vaguely, she heard containers on the shelves behind them shaking, and something fell to the floor, unheeded as it shattered.

He let go of her hip to fist a large hand in her hair, at the base of her skull, and with a sharp tug, forced her to look at him. Sweat beaded along his forehead and cheekbones, and she was suddenly struck by the urge to lick it off, to taste him. “Mine. I vill neffer let you go, Her-my-knee.”

The sheer possessiveness of his declaration, and the realization that she trusted him enough to find it arousing, was enough to undo her completely. With a cry that was probably more than a half-sob, she came, shaking in his arms as she did. She tried to muffle her noise against his uniform, but he wouldn’t allow it, using his hold on her hair to prevent her movement, and letting her cries echo around them in the tiny room. He, on the other hand, was almost silent as he came, as if needing to hear her, not wanting to obscure the evidence that he had reached her, that she needed him too.

She panted against his neck, cradled in his arms and feeling safe for the moment. She loved him, and it still frightened her. She wasn’t ready to say it, to express it openly to have it vulnerable to the outside world yet, but she knew. And apparently, amazingly, so did he; had possibly always known, since she was just a gawky fifteen-year-old girl, patiently waiting for her to be ready for him. Pulling away from his chest, she tried to smile at him, a little uncertain in the face of the vulnerability he didn’t bother to mask.

She drew a shaky breath even as he continued to hold her against the shelves, as if not willing to release her until he was sure of her submission. Quirking her lips slightly, she leaned forward to rest her forehead against his. “Come upstairs? I have it on good authority that Molly’s apple pie is not to be missed.”

It wasn’t a declaration, but it was an answer and she felt Viktor’s laugh rumble under her hands, and in that moment they were transformed.


      Shuffle. Pause… Stand.