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Ginny Weasley is a very mature person. Yes, yes she is.
It has become a mantra at this point, one of her daily affirmations when she brushes her teeth in the morning and thaws out her personality for the day. She’s put in a lot of work to get to this point, and she's not willing to throw it all away for some…. some… some minor inconvenience that totally doesn't bother her and doesn't bring up any old memories and she will not ruin her holiday, thank you.
"Gin, could you hand me my mug, it's just…" Harry begins, trailing off as his eyes eventually follow her gaze. "Oh, I didn't know."
Yeah, neither did she. The audacity of him to show up like that in her house (technically, it's Molly's house but Ginny lived here, too) at a time like this. Standing at their fireplace is none other than Vikor Krum, dusting Floo powder off of his now-buzzed hair. At least he's got Hermione to help him, because of course they're still together, why wouldn't they be?
They're just there… Hermione's hands all over his hair and he's looking down at her with some sugary shit sweet goo-goo eyes while she frets. It's humiliating, disgusting, and frankly immature of them to act like that as if nobody can see them. And oh, they're walking over now.
Harry fixes his glasses and sits up a little straighter, simultaneously scooting closer to her chair.
"Oh wonderful Gin, it's so good to see you! How's the Prophet been?" Hermione asks cheerfully, pausing only momentarily before revving up her usual. "I saw that they've increased viewership by some 30% since you've joined, and besides, it's really a service to have a woman with integrity writing about sports for once—we keep your articles in our office, you know."
"You're too sweet, 'Mione." Ginny replies automatically, smiling through her teeth. Harry nudges her toe.
"Well, don't just thank me. It's really Harry, actually. He's just your biggest supporter, I love it."
Harry smiles sheepishly, but thankfully doesn't engage in the back and forth. He and Hermione work together in the DMLE, guzzling espresso shots and tracing spells all day. So, Christmas and every other holiday aren't really reunions for the two of them. That misery is saved solely for Ginny.
Four pairs of eyes dart between one another, though two are pointedly ignoring one another. Fine.
"Hello." Krum finally says to the surprise of nearly everyone.
"Hello, Viktor," Harry says meekly, looking very much like he wants to disappear. With the elephant in the room finally addressed, their compulsory conversation has finally come to a close.
The two couples shuffle off with as much awkwardness as possible and she's thankful for it. Any longer and she might've had to resort to doing something unsavoury.
The second they're out of earshot, Harry's hands are on her shoulders.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fucking okay. Merlin, Harry."
She is looking, very casually, very unbothered-ly, to see where they've gone. Somewhere through the crowd of ginger and noise there's Molly, already moving toward Viktor and Hermione with her arms wide open and her whole heart on her sleeve because that's Molly, that's just what she does, world's greatest welcome wagon for everyone including— fine. Fine. That's fine.
"Isn't it weird that he shaved his hair?" Harry asks, from very close to her ear.
She hums. Still looking.
"Like, the whole thing. It's just— I remember it being very long. Or longer. Before."
"Mmhm."
"Does he look different to you? He looks different."
He does, actually. He looks different in a way she hadn't fully processed in the thirty seconds of exposure she'd allowed herself. He looks— well. He's filled out in a doughy, Bulgarian lager enthusiast sort of way.
"Gin. Do you think it'll be awkward, you know, the whole—"
She turns and puts her hand over his mouth, his green eyes blink at her from behind his glasses.
"Don't," she says, very pleasantly, "worry about it."
She means it, genuinely, even if the blood is running a little hot behind her ears. It's not— it wasn't— look. It was a long time ago. They'd been young and stupid and very explosive in a way that had felt like the whole world at the time, which it wasn't, obviously, she knows that now. Bonded over Quidditch and the rare feeling of being famous for things you'd rather forget and late nights and a kind of reckless shorthand that didn't require much in the way of talking, which had suited them both just fine. The not-talking had been exceptional, actually. World class.
She'll give him that and exactly that and nothing else.
But he was gone more than he was there, always some tournament or some obligation or some continental commitment that he sent owls about in lieu of actually showing up, and Ginny is— she is not someone who waits. Besides, she had her own thing going.
So. That was that.
Harry is still looking at her, her hand still over his mouth, his breath warm against her palm.
"It was a long time ago," she tells him, which is true. "And it doesn't matter," which is also true. "And you need to stop making that face," which is the most urgent of the three.
He nods, slowly, and she removes his hand. Good.
She reaches over and picks up Harry's mug and hands it to him without looking.
"Drink your tea," she says.
Breakfast is painful, even more painful than some of her worse Quidditch injuries.
Molly's loaded them up with porridge, sausages, potatoes, the whole bloody fry-up. It's honestly refreshing to eat good food without having to touch a stove, which makes up for the whole socializing before noon bit. Coffee's strong too, though she's so desperate in her drinking that it burns on the way down.
Since when did Hermione start wearing makeup at breakfast? Not that she's staring of course, but she is just across from her. Everytime Ginny looks up from her sea of oats it's thrust in her face: filled in eyebrows, rosy lips, a shimmer on her eyelids that isn't usually there. Maybe it's a pregnancy glow?
Ginny takes another bite of porridge in hopes it'll stifle her thoughts. For Merlin's sake, Hermione's a nice, good girl. One of her closest friends. A friend who, just last night, she heard being put through the mattress some floors down.
She is so, so mature.
She's eating her sausage and she's being normal and she's not looking at Viktor who is sitting two seats down looking insufferably well-rested, the bastard. The smug, well-rested bastard who absolutely did that on purpose because he always did everything on purpose, Viktor Krum does not have accidents, Viktor Krum makes calculated decisions and one of those decisions was apparently to make sure Ginny Weasley heard every single second of it through what are supposedly the walls of her childhood home and she would like to have a word with her father about insulation actually—
"So Harry," Bill starts, leaning back in his chair with his mug. "DMLE keeping you busy? Heard there was a whole thing with the smuggling ring out of Rotterdam."
"Oh, yeah, it got a bit hairy for a while there." Harry says, modest in the way he always is about work, which is sweet normally and mildly inconvenient right now. He reaches for the toast. "Wrapped it up last month though, so."
Ginny looks up from her porridge, perfect moment to hatch her plan.
"You got them all sorted, didn't you babe." She says it like it's a fact, the most natural thing in the world, sliding her hand onto his thigh under the table and leaning in slightly. "All the criminals ruffians and the like locked up, you're so on top of it."
Harry blinks. "I mean— yeah, the team did—"
"So strong." She squeezes his leg and he makes an odd sound. "So capable. Honestly it's embarrassing how good he is at his job, I don't know how he does it."
Ron, still half-asleep, has stopped chewing. That doesn't matter. She is warm and she is affectionate and she is a wonderful girlfriend having a perfectly normal breakfast with her family, for fuck's sake! Harry's gone a bit pink which is genuinely endearing and almost makes her feel bad, almost, but then she hears the faint clink of Viktor's fork setting down and she doesn't feel bad at all.
"It's really not— I've got a good team," Harry tries again.
"You're being modest." She presses a kiss to his shoulder, smiling like the cat's got the cream. Ron looks like he's swallowed something wrong. "He's always like this. Couldn't get him to take credit if you paid him."
"The Rotterdam case was significant," Hermione offers, because she works with Harry and cannot help herself. "Three countries involved, a lot of moving parts. Harry was point on most of it."
Ginny smiles at her. God bless Hermione Granger.
"See?" She turns back, tipping her head up at Harry, who is looking at her with an expression she can't quite read, somewhere between touched and deeply suspicious. Smart man, honestly. After seven years he's learned to tell the difference between Ginny being sweet and Ginny being sweet at someone else. "There it is. Big hero. My hero."
"Yeah, really beefed up since Hogwarts haven't you Harry? I'd thought you'd be stuck as a stick forever!" George says, smiling behind his mug.
"Vell, he is almost same size as before," Viktor comments idly, cutting into his sausage. The room goes quiet, and Hermione elbows him.
"Harry's plenty big," Ginny says. "I never have any complaints."
Ron chokes on his coffee.
"Ginny—" her mother starts.
"What! I'm just saying." She reaches up and fixes Harry's collar, which doesn't need fixing. He's gone completely red. She loves him, she really does. "Some people are very secure and confident about these things and I think that's wonderful."
"Confidence is important," Bill agrees carefully. "So Viktor, still with the national side? I lose track."
"Retired. Is being two years now."
"Oh that's right," Ginny says, before she can stop herself, and then she has to keep going because everyone's looking at her. "I did a piece on the league transitions actually. Lots of players coming out of that era stepping back around the same time."
Viktor looks at her for the first time all morning. His face does absolutely nothing, which is the most infuriating thing about him, it always was, she could never get a clean reaction out of him and she hated it then and she hates it now. "Is that so."
"Mmhm." She takes a sip of coffee. "Something about the game changing pace. Body not keeping up."
"Ginny," Harry whisper-yells.
"What? It was a good piece. Flint actually reached out about it, said it was—"
"Vas fine piece," Viktor says. "Good writer."
"So Ginny," Fleur says, in that light, slightly oblivious way that usually precedes catastrophe. "Ze Prophet 'as you covering the League season, non? You must travel a great deal."
"Quite a bit, yeah." She refills Harry's coffee without being asked and feels his knee press briefly against hers. "I don't mind it. I like being in the middle of things."
"Ginny was always terrible at sitting still," her mother says fondly.
"Yes," Viktor says. "I remember."
Nobody speaks, but the tension in the air becomes so thick it's nearly unbearable. George's mug stops halfway to his mouth.
Remember lots of things, do you. Great. Fantastic. She hopes he remembers all of it. She hopes it's incredibly inconvenient for him.
"Hermione's terrible at sitting still too," Harry offers, forcing a light chuckle. "She once reorganised our entire evidence filing system during a mandatory rest period."
"It needed doing," Hermione says, defensive and fond at once.
"It did," Harry agrees. "It really did."
The table breathes again. Ron refills his juice. Her father starts asking George something about the shop, and Molly leaves to go grab some unnecessary thing from the kitchen like always. For approximately forty seconds, it's fine.
"Viktor was saying ze Bulgarians are looking at a new training facility," Fleur says, to no one in particular, and forty seconds is apparently all they get.
"In Plovdiv," Viktor confirms. "Expanded. State of the art. The League has invested very seriously."
"Plovdiv's beautiful," Hermione adds.
"We going last spring," Viktor says. "Hermione vas enjoying this very much."
Ginny leans over and steals a piece of toast off Harry's plate."We should do a trip," she says to Harry directly, like the rest of the table isn't there. "Somewhere warm. You've been working yourself to death, you need a holiday."
"I mean, yeah, I'd love—"
"Somewhere just the two of us." She bites into the toast. "Completely unreachable."
"I'll go wherever you want," Harry says simply, and he means it, that's the thing, he always means it, and for a half second she forgets she's being awful and just looks at him.
Viktor reaches across the table for the salt.
She remembers.
"Oh, could you pass that down?" She asks, very sweetly, before he can use it.
He passes it.
Their eyes meet for exactly one second. His are dark and flat and completely unreadable, same as they always were, same as they were the very first time she met him when she was twenty and thought she knew what she was getting into.
She salts her porridge. She doesn't need salted porridge nor does she like it, more of a sweetened girl.
"More sausages," Molly announces, and sets a fresh plate down in the middle of everything like a peace offering from a deity. Whoever's hungry after that exchange is a lost cause.
Pretending to be a mature, emotionally secure adult has proven to be too exhausting for Ginny. Isn't it better to just accept her natural self as-is?
Her natural self has a deep yearning for a midnight snack, and besides, it's her house. She's a grown woman who can eat as she pleases, where she wants and how she wants. And yes, she chooses to do it at midnight in her socks on the cold kitchen floor, quietly enough that nobody hears her creaking down the stairs.
The kitchen is dark except for the light above the stove, which her mother leaves on every night without fail and has done since Ginny was small. It makes the whole room glow amber, and it's so quiet that she can hear her dad's perpetual snores through the floorboards. Ah… just like the old days.
The fridge is just Tupperware. Tupperware. Tupperware. A solid wall of stacked, labelled, neatly organized Tupperware. There's enough food in here to survive a siege, all sealed stacked and ready to go. All this good food, and Ginny doesn't even think about touching it. Molly's saving it for… some reason, and any interference with that spells certain death. The best course of action is one of those quick snacks that she'd never eat otherwise, like pretzels and hummus.
She digs through the impenetrable fortress of leftovers to find a bunch of blueberries. Good enough on their own, but some chocolate would pair nicely, and so begins her search of the pantry, which is also a disaster.
Floor to ceiling is stacked with dry goods, preserves, and things her mother buys in bulk for reasons Ginny has never fully understood. The chocolate chips have to be somewhere in this haystack, she saw them three Christmases ago and Molly Weasley is allergic to throwing things away. She bends at the waist, shuffling past the oats and flour, seeing the tiny bag just in reach—
A throat clears behind her.
That same timbre, specifically pitched low enough to annoy her. She doesn't need to turn around, but she does anyway.
"Your clothing very inappropriate for veather, and for vhat purpose?" Krum says, marginally allowing his features to resemble disgust.
Ginny mirrors the expression with her face scrunched and nostrils flared. "The people who live here aren't sick fucks who creep around at night, so I don't need a purpose."
She tries to advance past him, already feeling her internal temperature start to spike. She hates him. Not in a cute, joking way, but in a way that he might be what brings her Bat-Bogey Hex out of retirement.
Like a big Bulgarian boulder, he doesn't budge. His eyes simply follow the path of her legs, from the hem of her (admittedly) short shorts down to her toes, probably re-counting all the freckles in between. It'd take an idiot not to notice that, but the implication is far worse.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake, Krum," she hisses, voice low enough not to wake the whole house but still edged. "You really think I dug these out of the bottom of my drawer just so you could get a midnight show? Please. Why the hell would I wear anything for you?"
"I do not know. That vhy I am asking you, because this not seeming normal. Like you miss or something, da? Vant attention vith display at breakfast."
"Your stomach has expanded so much it's a miracle if you're still able to see your prick, you're washed up now, mate. Quidditch star my arse—" The sheer audacity of this man! It's hard not to laugh at his presumptions when he looks like… that.
Krum continues looming, his heavy accent rolling thick and lazy. "Clothes barely covering anything, is obvious. You vear them for me. Admit. Besides, you are vone eating chocolate in middle of night. Not slim Chaser like before, I see. "
Ginny snorts so loud she nearly chokes on her own spit. She doesn't want to examine the validity of his claim, and Harry would tell her if she were getting… moving on.
"Whatever. You're such a perv, what the hell are you even doing down here anyway? Shouldn't you be upstairs polishing your trophy or something?"
"Getting vater," he says, pausing with a glint in his eye. "For my Hermione."
Muscle memory is such a funny thing, because the words feel just like a Bludger to the gut. The impact, momentary blanking, the loss of breath before the pain radiates throughout your body. But just like on the field, she recovers quickly.
She points to the sink across the kitchen, jabbing at the air like she wishes it was his eye. "Sink's right there, go fetch."
He moves past her, not quite close enough to be a thing, and she stays very still and eats one of the blueberries. Tart and crisp, just like she wanted. The chocolate melts perfectly on her tongue. What could be more perfect?
Ginny’s eyes betray her for a second, tracing the width of him as he stands over the sink, remembering how it felt when he used to crowd her space back in the day, all that size and heat and intensity focused on her. Such a thin line between love and hate, passion and anger.
She shakes her head like she can physically dislodge the thought. She's sure her ears are only red because she's angry. Get it together, Weasley. And why is she still standing here anyway?
The glass is in his hand now, filling filling filling with water. She watches it rise, as does the feeling of bile in her throat. This time, shaking her head doesn't cut it. He's actually going to take it upstairs to her. Ginny loves Hermione. Hermione loves Krum. Ginny… Ginny had him and then didn't but what if things—
There's a sound of glass breaking followed by water rushing. The cup's bottom has popped clean out, just like a cork. She's too busy wondering when her wandless magic got so good to notice
Krum's annoyed, yet unsurprised face. The floor is covered in water, as is his shirt. Oops.
His dark eyes glare at her, and she just leans against the counter, eating her blueberries. She chews slowly and savors the taste of victory, even if incidental.
Krum turns back to the sink, filling another glass with more care this time.
She waits two seconds before focusing again, intentionally this time and… splash. Water all over the tiles this time, some of it hitting his shins and pooling around his big stupid feet.
He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. "Ginny."
"Vitya." She teases in the same drawn-out tone, only realizing once the significance of that name when it was too late. Fuck. Her stomach drops. Surprise shows on both of their faces, and his eyes… look different for a second, like they're not in the present moment.
She hasn't said that name in years, not out loud, not even to herself in the quiet moments she doesn't acknowledge having. Her mouth never did catch up with the rest of her body. She looks away first, staring at the blueberries.
Everything comes back in a rush. She used to say it all the time like it was nothing, because it was nothing, because it was just what you called someone when they were yours and you were theirs. At least that's what he said. She said it after games when she threw her arms around him and kissed him hard enough to feel his teeth when he smiled against her mouth. She said it in those sweaty moments of bliss when she was too dazed to get water but he got it anyway. She said it over takeout containers and bad films and the ordinary unremarkable evenings in their flat that she does not think about, the ones that felt like something she could keep to herself for once, right up until she couldn't. She said it so easily back then, the way you say things when you don't know yet that one day you'll have to stop.
It makes her so angry she… she… she needs to break another glass.
"You are acting like child," Viktor says, still surprised by the old nickname but quickly masking it.
"Mmhm," she says, unmoved, already eyeing the tap.
He doesn't say anything else, only turning back to the sink with his ever steady demeanor of someone who has decided that engaging is beneath him. He fills a fourth glass, slowly and deliberately, and she watches him do it and waits and destroys it just as cleanly as the others, water spreading across the tiles, and this time he doesn't react at all. He just stands there, hands braced on the counter, head slightly bowed, breathing.
"Enough. You vin, Ginevra. Happy now?" His eyes drag over her again, slow and pointed, taking in the tiny sleep shorts and the way they cling to her hips. "These shorts ugly anyvays. Barely covering fat arse. Not even vorth looking."
Her face burns, but he's already making his way back up the stairs. At least he'll have to return empty handed.
"Gin, you can be honest with me. We're all adults, it's alright and… I'm sure there's some sort of solution if… if anything."
"We don't need a solution, alright?" Ginny says in the lightest voice she can muster. She continues passing the brush through her hair, untangling nonexistent knots. If she just keeps staring in the mirror, she won't have to face her friend's eyes. Those sweet, sweet eyes that deserve no harm.
Hermione sits down beside her, face already scrunched up like she's solving arithmetic—which usually is not a good sign. Her sweater this year is navy blue, which suits her quite well. Hermione doesn't deserve any of this. She's lovely and smart and one of her closest friends and she is also, through absolutely no fault of her own, collateral damage in a war she didn't start.
"You know I just want everyone to be comfortable," Hermione says, in the careful tone of someone who has been rehearsing. She's obviously been thinking about this for a while, Ginny can tell even through the haze of her earlier mulled wine. "And I know it's been— I know the last few days have been a bit… I've noticed, Gin. I'm not blind."
"Nobody said you were blind." Ginny checks her left eyebrow in the mirror and smooths it with her thumb.
"I just feel terrible," Hermione continues, and her voice does that slight thinning thing it does when she's genuinely upset. Ginny's heart skips a beat because she is not actually a monster. Only a monster to Viktor specifically. "If I'd known it would be like this I never would have— I mean, I thought enough time had passed, it's been years, and you've got Harry and Viktor and I are very settled, so I just assumed—"
"Mione." Ginny sets the brush down and turns on the stool. Hermione's face is scrunched in a way that makes her look about fifteen, and she's twisting the sleeve of her very nice navy sweater, and it makes her feel a fresh wave of affection for her. "You don't need to do that. He can come every Christmas, yeah? It's fine."
"Is it though?" Hermione asks, in a way that suggests she already knows the answer.
Ginny is tipsy enough— just barely, two glasses of mulled wine on a light stomach while she helped her mother with the snowball fight preparations— that the truth feels closer to the surface than she'd like. She turns back to the mirror and checks her eyebrows again, which are still even.
The thing she cannot explain to Hermione, the thing she will absolutely not be explaining to anyone at all, is that she's not even sure she's doing it for the reasons anyone would think. It started as revenge, fine, she can own that. Viktor tampered with the hot water pressure during her shower on the second morning and she stormed downstairs furious and damp and that was when it became a thing. She gave him a mild Confundus at dinner that night and watched him put salt in his own tea one day, call George Fred the next, and lock himself in the garden shed. He's been sly and deliberate and exactly as infuriating as he's always been, and she's matched him beat for beat with the scoreboard in her head currently very much in her favour.
And the other thing—the loud thing, the thing that started the second night when she heard them miraculously forget a silencing charm again. And yes, she reached over and woke Harry up and he was very, very obliging about it. To the demise of everyone, both couples are going at it louder and louder each night like some pathetic competition, headboards slamming, moans exaggerated just to rub it in.
It's not about wanting Viktor. It's about not letting him win.
"We're all adults," she says, which is what she said ten minutes ago and is just as true now. "Nobody's going to make a scene."
Hermione looks at her with those earnest, intelligent, nothing-gets-past-me eyes, and Ginny reaches over and squeezes her hand once.
"Your sweater's lovely," Ginny says. "That blue's really good on you."
Hermione opens her mouth, closes it, and makes a sound of resignation. "You're deflecting."
"I'm complimenting you, there's a difference." Ginny turns back to the mirror and reaches for her lip gloss, uncapping it with her teeth. She looks great. Relaxed, unbothered, not at all like someone who's engaged in a low-grade psychological war with her ex under her mother's roof.
She catches Hermione's reflection as she applies the gloss, but the energy has shifted. It's subtle, the way Hermione's things always are, but Ginny has known her long enough to read the frequencies. The air feels electric, charged. Maybe it's something in Ginny's face, some flicker of the competitive spirit she can never fully put away, some micro-expression she didn't manage to smooth out in time. Whatever it is, Hermione has clocked it.
"Is it just— I've always wondered, actually. Whether it bothers you. That I had him first." She tilts her head just slightly, sugar sweet. "The Yule Ball and all. First impressions being what they are."
That is a very interesting card to put on the table.
Ginny caps the lip gloss, presses her lips together, and smiles at Hermione's reflection. "God, no," she says, in a voice just as sweet."Why would that bother me?"
Why would it bother her, she thinks, when she knows exactly what sounds he makes, how deep he can reach without even trying. When she knows exactly how his brows crumple up and he groans when he finishes, especially when she's the only one who caught him off guard and rode him right back. It had been explosive, equal fire—him lifting her like she weighed nothing, bending her over and slamming back in from behind until her legs shook and she was begging for more, soaking wet and furious with how good it felt. They'd wrecked each other endlessly, chasing orgasms like points on the pitch.
"I just wondered," Hermione says lightly, "given the atmosphere this week."
"The atmosphere's been fine. I've been perfectly pleasant."
Hermione makes a sound that is not quite agreement.
"I have," Ginny insists, turning back to the mirror and touching up the corner of her mouth. Not at all thinking about February in Sofia when it snowed for a week straight and they didn't leave once, not for anything, not for food or daylight or basic human responsibility, and she learned things about herself that she is still processing years later.
"I'm sure you have."
"We had a perfectly civil conversation just the other night actually," Ginny says, which is technically true if you define civil very loosely. "And Viktor's always been— you know." She waves the lipgloss vaguely. "A gentleman. So charming."
"He was," Hermione agrees. "Still today."
She thinks about the time Viktor was so distinctly ungentlemanly that she had to sit down afterward and reassess her entire understanding of the concept. "Lovely," she says. "Really, that's so sweet."
"You know, he still talks about Bulgaria. The flat there."
The flat. That lovely, luxury flat with nearly every room christened more than once. It had a perfect view of the Black Sea.
"Mm," she says pleasantly. "Gorgeous country."
"We've been thinking about spending more time there, actually."
"You should," Ginny says, and means it with her whole heart, because Bulgaria is extremely far away. "You'd love it."
Hermione opens her mouth to respond, and then George's voice comes barreling up the stairs from somewhere below, loud enough to rattle the windowpane: "OI, ARE YOU TWO COMING OR AM I DIVIDING TEAMS WITHOUT YOU, BECAUSE I WILL, AND GINNY YOU'LL GET PERCY—"
"DON'T YOU DARE," Ginny shouts back, already moving for the door.
She can feel his eyes on the back of her neck. In the wild, being able to tell when you're being watched is an evolutionary strategy for prey animals. Which would mean that he's the predator, but he's not. Not only is Ginny emotionally mature, but she's developed so much, she hardly can care if someone wants to ogle her or not.
The garden is freezing this time of night, but a Warming Charm has her in a cozy enough bubble. Though honestly, she really wants to suffer right now, which is why she entertains the convo.
"What."
"You causing issues vith Hermione. She crying and vondering vhy ve cannot get along. This problem… ve fixing now, Ginevra. Enough bullshit."
"Isn't it funny how you still can't manage to get her name right?"
Viktor exhales slowly. "Ve are not talking about zat."
"I'm talking about whatever I want," she says, and wraps both hands around her mug. The tea is still too hot but she drinks it anyway. She's got her fuzzy slippers on, the ridiculous ones with the rabbit ears that Harry bought her, and her robe is pulled tight around her shoulders, and she looks, she knows, like a woman who has been crying and has decided to be annoyed about it instead.
He sits down beside her without being invited, which is characteristic, and she stares into her mug and lets him.
The garden is quiet after midnight, just the wind and the far-off sound of the wards settling, and the light from the kitchen window makes a yellow square on the snow.
"Lets just get it out," Viktor says. "Like adults."
She almost laughs. "Now you want to be adults."
He doesn't answer that. He waits, because he's always been good at waiting for things that aren't her, and eventually the silence does what silence does.
She thinks about the mornings. That's the thing that gets her, not the leaving, not exactly, but the mornings that came before it. The mornings she'd wake up and he was actually there, actually still in the bed with his arm heavy across her waist, and she'd lie very still so she wouldn't wake him because she knew, she always knew, that it was borrowed time and she wanted to keep it as long as possible. Twenty years old and brand new at everything, new to the team and new to being someone's girlfriend and so completely terrified underneath all the bravado that she could barely look at herself some mornings. Was she good enough to be on that pitch. Was she good enough to be next to him, Viktor Krum, the superstar, the legend, while she was still just a rookie trying to prove she knew what a broom was. She'd lie there in the dark counting his breaths and thinking, I am not going to be enough to make him stay, and then she'd get up and make coffee and be fine.
She was right, as it turned out. She's very rarely wrong.
"Do you ever think about me," she asks, unsure of what she even wants the response to be.
A pause. "Sometimes,"
She wraps both hands around her mug.
"You make me see," he starts, and stops, and she can hear him choosing words the way he always did, probably translating. "You make me realize how much time I put into sport. Always. Never stopping, never— having no family around, no friends that real friends, just coaches and contracts and the next thing." His English is rougher now, the way it gets when he's actually in something, when it's not performative. "I vas chasing. Always chasing. Thinking if I get to next reward, next title, prove something to— I do not know. To everyone. My father. Myself. And I vas just— I never stop. Never look around."
Ginny says nothing. The rabbit ears on her slippers are slightly lopsided and she looks at them.
"You treated me vell," he says. "Better than I— I am sorry, Ginny. For how I left things."
She puts her mug down on the bench between them. Very carefully, but obviously not enough because when she turns to face him her eyes are wet and she's furious about that but not enough to look away.
"Because it is time," he says. "To make things right."
She looks at him for a long moment. The sincerity on his face, the face of a man who has done some work on himself and arrived at a place of hard-won clarity, and something in her chest curdles.
Time to make things right. Right. As in Hermione cried tonight and asked him to sort it out and so here he is, sitting on her bench in his nice henley being sincere at her, and he actually expects her to receive it like a gift.
She picks up the mug and throws the tea on him. Not mature, but that's fine with her.
It's not hot anymore, it's barely warm, but it doesn't matter because it's the principle of the thing. His face is worth it all. He sucks in a sharp breath and goes rigid and she stands up from the bench and her hands are shaking.
"Time to make things right," she repeats, and her voice is very low, totally calm and not at all angry. "That's why. After six years that's why. Not because you actually— not because it actually kept you up at night, not because you owed me that, but because Hermione's upset and you want a clean house and a nice Christmas and so now it's time."
"Ginny, that is not—"
"Don't." She steps forward. "Don't tell me what it is. I know what it is. I know you, Viktor, better than you've ever been comfortable with, and this is you managing a situation. You're tidying up."
He opens his mouth but she doesn't let him get a word out. Red hot rage fills her veins, spills over and blinds her. Without thinking, she shoves him hard against the bench but miscalculates, landing with her knees planted onto the wood on either side of his thighs. She hadn't meant to slip but it's too late to turn back now. And, that's… definitely not a gnome.
No, no, no. She wants to hex him into next week! Every Quaffle she's hit for the past six years was practice for the moment she'd see him face to face and plant one right on his big, stupid nose. Instead, her fingers twist into his collar, tighter and tighter until it strains against his thick neck.
Cold night air burns through her lungs, but she doesn’t care. All she can feel is everything, everything boiling up from years of swallowing it down, years of pretending she was fine while he walked away like she was nothing.
"Remember how you used to say I was the only one, huh?" she hisses right in his face, voice low and venomous, spit flying with every word. "How I was your perfect fucking match? The only woman who ever got under your skin like that, who made you lose control? All that shit about how no one else would ever compare. And now look at you—sitting here feeding me this polished little apology because your perfect Hermione got her feelings hurt. Fuck you."
Viktor's dark eyes lock onto hers, steady as ever. "It is true, myshka," he says, and the old pet name sounds like a caress. "You vere the only one. Only one vho match me every day. Most honest girl, you tell me truth and call me out on bullshit. Fight me in morning but love me harder at night."
His hands settle on her waist, so big and delicious and—oh, fuck no. However… large they may be, they're the only thing holding her back from giving him another reason for an Episkey. He probably knows it, too.
He repeats it back to her, slower. "You vere only one who take everything I give and is not enough. Alvays making me crazy vith dirty mouth, most greedy cunt, and arse, fuck, I never stop thinking of this," he takes a deep inhale, letting his nostrils flare as his hands slide down farther than appropriate, but more possessive than ever. The bastard actually cups her ass, squeezing the soft flesh there like he owns it, so she should be angry, right? "Every vord I say is truth, Ginevra. You are voman vho ruin me forever."
Before she can spit out another taunt, Viktor’s hand slides up into her hair—finally, thank fuck—and grips a thick fistful of red strands right at the root. He yanks her mouth down to his, and the kiss is pure fire. He tastes so damn good. She should bite his fucking tongue off, but ends up sliding hers against his some filthy tangle, and doesn't that just sum up this whole situation?
This is dangerous. Viktor’s kisses have always been some kind of aphrodisiac curse—she ends up boneless every single time, legs shaking, mind blank, wondering how the hell he does it. She's always loved danger, anyways. Her hips are going going going without conscious effort, just endlessly seeking friction in tight, needy circles. There's only two thoughts circling in her head; they're wearing too many layers, and this should still be hers—he should still be hers. The thought of Hermione getting this quells her fire enough for reason to kick in.
Ginny rockets off his lap, leaving him momentarily dazed before his brows set in disappointment. She refuses to let him win this easily—he'll have to work for it just like everything else.
"Vhy you are smirking, smiling like little devil…" he comments, wiping his lips. She didn't think he'd noticed, but that competitive demon won't let her drop it either. He readjusts his trousers and she wraps her robe tighter.
She can't stop herself once her mouth opens. "You ever had a Snitch walk right into your palm, huh?" Her smirk grows like Fiendfyre, gods, she probably looks manic now. "I can't believe you really thought it'd be that easy! It's pathetic, really. I mean, what would Harry think?"
Viktor's face scrunches up at the mention. "You do not even like this boy. It is obvious, ve all can see."
A (painfully) forced laugh. "Krum, be serious. He's the Chosen One, and what are you? Just some fat old man who had his chance and blew it." She gives her best look of feigned pity from the top of his buzzed head to those mouthwatering muscles and fuckable thighs. Then, she walks off.
Thankfully, nobody heard the commotion and came to check on them. Downstairs is completely deserted, which is perfect for what she has in mind. She knows he'll follow, of course. They're the same in that aspect, it's not over until they say it over. Besides, the damp situation in her knickers needs to be remedied one way or the other.
It takes about one minute before he takes the same path as her, nearly rattling the hinges off the back door and storming through the house. She's pretending to drink some water when he finds her, and boy oh boy does he look pissed. She blinks and he's in front of her, looming really, and then her toes are hovering off the ground.
"You silly leetle girl, alvays thinking it is so easy. I know your game, Ginevra, that you can say these things and run avay. Now I vill show you, because you test me. "
"I-I have no idea what you're talking about, put me down!" Ginny says, meaning exactly the opposite. Fuck, this is way too exciting. Thrill, arousal, and adrenaline are literally pounding in her ears right now.
He starts reprimanding her again, but the noise goes in one ear and out the other. All her eyes can focus on is how his lips are still swollen from earlier and how badly she wants to feel them again. He shakes her once, twice, three times until she's snapped out of it.
"Bozhe, pay attention vhen I speak! Same shit, alvays." Viktor mutters, and she wants to retort but before she can respond, he puts her down and pushes her onto the long dining table. Ginny’s back hits the wood, robe falling completely open, legs spread more out of shock than any deliberate choice on her part.
He yanks her shorts down her thighs, drags her to the edge, drops to his knees, and says, "Never listen until I make you" before burying his face between her legs without hesitation.
It's like being electrified. It's like time-turning back six years to when this happened at the drop of a dime, wherever and whenever. His mouth is relentless, tongue licking broad, filthy stripes up her dripping cunt before he seals his lips around her clit and sucks hard.
Her first instinct is to sit up, maybe ask what sort of incubus possessed his demonic tongue, but moving has become an insurmountable task. Her back arches like a bow, moans slipping from her lips despite her attempts at muffling them. He must be starving. Weakly, her fingers thread into his short hair as best she can, holding him closer while her legs shake around his head.
Keeping up with him is impossible, but the unpredictability is what makes it feel so damn good. His tongue delves into her hole and then laps back up to her swollen clit in messy, obscene strokes. Short, long, fast, slow. Up, down, a random suck that makes her whine and an occasional nip to her inner thigh that makes her jump. She almost wants to cry with how heavenly it is, even when she bucks up those evil hands hold her open again.
He slows just enough for her to catch her breath, and only then does her brain decide to start sending messages again. Possessive thoughts swirl through the drawn out pleasure. He's mine, he's mine, he's always been mine. And then she remembers Harry, but it's such a vague image that the lascivious sounds of Viktor's mouth against her cunt dissipate it quickly. For some reason the jealousy gets her wetter, and she knows it's fucked up, but she still grinds against his face despite herself.
Still, she hasn't completely forgotten the heartbreak. The betrayal. Messing with her shower. Those fucking noises he'd made just to taunt her.
"I hate you," she tries to spit, but it comes out as a broken, breathy moan instead, her voice cracking into a desperate gasp. "Fuck you—ahh, fuck—" Another wet suck on her clit cuts her off completely, turning the insult into a high-pitched whine she barely manages to stifle.
Viktor pulls back just enough to mock her. "I hate you," he echoes in a breathy, mocking whimper, lips shiny with her juices. "You hating very much, still tasting same." He laughs, and then the torture resumes.
She keeps trying, furious even while she can barely speak. "You stupid old, I fucking hate—mmph—"
Just as she teeters right on the edge, so close to the light and her whole body tightening, Viktor stops. He pulls his mouth away, a cruel chuckle rumbling from his chest as he looks up at her flushed, desperate face.
"Vhy you think orgasm comes so easily, hm?" he taunts, lips glistening, eyes dark with wicked satisfaction. "I know how overstimulated you get, leetle Ginevra. Alvays being sensitive after first one, but I do not plan on stopping soon tonight."
This time, she actually winds her fist back—"You bloody bastard, the hell's wrong with you? I ought to call your wonderful girlfriend down– "—he deflects her punch, easily. She's still fuming though, every blood vessel primed and ready for fighting… but preferably fucking.
"All am saying is you must conserve your orgasm, so impatient." he says, still holding her hand and looking like he's holding back a laugh. "Do not vant you crying like baby and vaking everyone, da?"
"I'm not a fucking baby, and you couldn't make me cry even if you tried, which I'm sure you have." She's aware how absurd this looks, her still-heaving chest, pantless and wet in her parent's dining room. "I'm saying that you've gotten so old, your dick might expire before I've got a chance to try the product, da?"
He doesn't dignify that with a response, just shrugs and shoves his trousers down. His thick cock springs free, heavy and rock-hard, curving slightly upward with a bead of precum at the tip. So… good. Her core aches even more than before, a lock reaching out for its lost key.
Her hungry, mesmerized stare is only broken when he strokes himself, but gods, that's a sight too. She already remembers exactly how it feels, and she knows these are going to be her last few moments of sanity before he wrecks her completely.
"Is problem?" he asks, the cheeky fuck.
The rant of the century is poised on her tongue, but he's right in front of her and well, that's quite the package. "Let's get it on with then, not going to wimp out on me are you?"
The head of his cock presses against her, and then he's sliding in. No matter how long it's been, she'll never forget how perfect they fit together. They should not be doing this at all, in any universe, but Harry never makes her legs shake like this, and she's sure as hell Hermione can't get him groaning like that.
The stretch burns so good that she can't take her eyes off it. Her jaw drops once he bottoms out because fuck, they're both surprised at the pure euphoria of it. She's going to die. Pass out, at least. Her body doesn't care though, just sucks him in as deep as possible, bringing him somehow closer with her feet at the small of his back.
"You suffocate me, vitch." Viktor grunts out, forehead vein popping harder than the most intense match, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise as he holds himself buried to the hilt. "Still so tight because leetle Potter is not enough, I see."
Ginny tries so hard to stifle the moan rising in her throat that she cannot even form a rebuttal for poor Harry. He's hardly moving and it already feels like her mind is leaking out her ears. She wants to ruin him for anyone else, wants to make him remember exactly who fucks him better. She still hates him so much it aches, but gods, she needs him to move.
"Hurry it up, you tosser!" she taunts. "Make it worth something, for Merlin's sake."
That does it. He pulls back, then slams into her hard and fast, the table creaking dangerously beneath her. It's like he's trying to punish her for every word at this pace. A traitorous moan rips from her throat before she stuffs a handful of her robe into her mouth to muffle it, biting down hard on the fabric while her eyes roll back.
He fucks her like he hates her too, but that doesn't make it any less hotter. He's groaning above her, sweat glistening on all those delicious muscles, all that anger and pent-up frustration focused on her. Viktor Krum is still one of the most attractive blokes in the Wizarding World no matter what she says, but fuck him. Fuckhis perfect little life with Hermione, she wants him to think about her tight cunt every time he touches his girlfriend.
The sound of wet skin on skin joins the eerie table creaking but she doesn't care. He's hitting every sensitive nerve inside her body, caressing every spot on the outside, too. She hates him. She hates him. She hates him so much she meets every thrust with a roll of her hips. Her nails claw down his chest through the shirt because she's never not been a territorial bitch, but he fights right back with a pinch of her nipple.
It's on.
They're like animals, clawing and grabbing and biting. There's enough swearing between them to make sailors blush. She reaches down and scratches at his ass, urging him deeper. "Harder, you fat bastard! Make me feel it or I'll go wake Harry and finish with someone who actually knows what he's doing."
Suddenly, she's flipped and now bent over the table so her tits press against the wood. He drives back into her like he never left, one massive hand fisting her red hair and yanking her head back. "Such pretty liar," he growls, fucking her so hard the table legs scrape against the floor. "You hate him. You hate that he is not me."
"I–you," she stutters, not even having the ability to try again. At this angle, everything is so much more. Deeper. Harder. Tighter. She has to bite her arm just to stay quiet, but she still pushes back against his thrusts because she's never been a quitter.
"Exactly like I thought." he says, never letting go of her hair or her ass. He never forgot how to take her apart—a great player knows their opponent's weaknesses and takes advantage of them. The leak starts slowly and never stops, just a steady trail of arousal that she's too dazed to notice, let alone control. Viktor seems to love it, though.
His voice fades in and out of her blissed-out mind. Things like, "come on, myshka" and "I dream to see you fall apart for me again" are on loop over and over in her brain.
It all feels so good, too good for her poor little body to handle and it needs an outlet. She breaks. Her legs flail wildly beneath her, knees buckling as sharp, uncontrollable twitches seize random muscles in her face, her thighs, her belly. Then the strength drains out of her completely and she goes limp, hanging there like a ragdoll with drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.
Viktor laughs, still buried inside her. "Thought you say you vere tougher than this, Ginevra. One good fuck and you already falling apart like virgin."
"I just… need a break, Vitya… fuck…"
Instead, he pulls her hair harder until her ear is right against his hot mouth. His free hand roams possessively—squeezing and kneading her tits, pinching her nipples until she whimpers, then sliding down to grab big handfuls of her ass, spreading her open wider for his cock. He kisses and bites along the side of her neck, sucking marks into her skin like he owns her. "Look how you filled out, da? Grown so much since had you last. These tits heavier, this arse so juicy and soft… make me so jealous, seeing you at breakfast, knowing other man gets to touch vhat used to be mine."
By now she's completely limp, but his arm stays locked around her middle like a steel band, holding her exactly where he wants her while he keeps fucking her slow and deep.
"You ruin Christmas, being such pouty crazy leetle bitch instead of just asking for dick like good, honest girl," he scolds, voice strained as he starts moving faster again. "All the fighting, all this jealousy, this loud fucking with Potter just to spite me—when you can come to me and said 'Vitya, please fuck this needy cunt' and vould give to you easy. Stupid girl. My stupid, greedy Ginevra."
Oh gods, it is true. She did mess up their holiday. But she wanted him so bad, and she's never been good with taking no for an answer. She's so oversensitive it hurts in the best way, she wants him to come already but also never stop. She does deserve it, doesn't she? One of the most important steps in emotional maturity is admitting what you want, only most people don't have the determination (or scheming) to get it.
A few more tortuous, leg shaking strokes, and he groans so loud she's worried he woke someone. He holds her tighter than rope against him, hips grinding as he pumps her full, breathing ragged against her neck while his cock twitches and spills everything he's got. Ginny stays limp in his arms, dripping with a combination of his mess and her own, heart pounding with hate, satisfaction, and that same stupid ache that never really went away.
They stay like that for a long moment, and it almost feels like before. If she had the energy, she'd turn around and kiss his stupid face, pull his barely-there hair and make him go for round two. But all she's feeling right now are aftershocks that get amplified when he pulls out, so sensitive that she jerks when he wipes her clean.
Endorphins and oxytocin, all those stupid chemicals that Hermione probably knows, are making everything feel… fuzzy. He presses a glass of water to her lips, and she drinks it greedily. She can't look at him. Really. The kitchen counters are much more interesting and… would never disappoint her. Viktor tugs her robe closed around her body, ties the belt like he's sweet or nice or anything.
"We shouldn't have done that." Ginny says, still looking elsewhere. When she does look at him, she immediately regrets it. He's staring at her, all dark and intense, taking in her flushed face and messy hair like he wants to devour her all over again. She stares right back.
"Much things vishing I did not do, that is not one of them," Viktor says, holding her jaw in his hand. "Only can make decisions for future. But cannot changing vhat is done, Ginechka."
Well, that's the truth. The fury is still simmering beneath the surface, and she's trying not to think of the past and the potential or what could have been but then he's getting closer and they're kissing.
This one is slower, lazier, but not any less passionate. She grabs his neck and pulls him closer, he responds by tilting her head and deepening the kiss. It's like coming home.
Someone clears their throat in the hallway. They both freeze and Viktor does that big protective thing, trying to block her from view. Ginny peeks over his big shoulder to see Arthur Weasley, holding a night light and donning his finest dressing gown. Shit shit shit shit. If it isn't the consequences of her own actions.
"Well," Arthur begins, sounding exhausted. His hair is sticking up in each and every direction. "I always figured you two would find your way back to one another. Shouting is the classic Weasley courtship, my girl. But… do try and keep it down next time."