FIC: "Ode to Broken Things" for comicsbycate

[bethbethbeth]

Recipient: comicsbycate
Author: femmequixotic
Title: Ode to Broken Things
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Millicent Bulstrode/Viktor Krum
Word Count: ~14,200
Warnings: none
Summary: "Krum's in town," Harry says finally. "I just thought you should know."
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my betas bethbethbeth and noeon, and to Pablo Neruda for the title. Massive gratitude to bethbethbeth for her modly patience.

***

i.

Draco gently pries the trembling teacup from my clenched hands. "I rather think this calls for something stronger, Millicent," he murmurs, and I don't bother to point out it's barely half eleven on a Saturday and far too early for a proper drink.

Instead I stare out the tall, paned window in the Manor library. The children are on the impossibly green lawn, brooms in hand, surrounding Harry as he kneels next to the Quidditch trunk. At sixteen, my daughter's the tallest of the lot, her black curls-so like mine-standing out in the sea of redheaded Weasleys.

Only for love would Draco allow that family to descend upon him here, although annoying his father's portrait is an added benefit. I can only imagine Lucius's full outrage if he were still alive. He'd been furious enough that Draco had hied off to Canada and married Harry bloody Potter in the first place instead of settling down with one of the pureblood girls he had shoved towards Draco in vain.

I hear the soft clink of his grandmother's Limoges against the polished wood of the sideboard behind me as he sets the saucer and then the cup down. I don't turn around. I can't. It's all I can do to hold myself together at the moment. I wrap my arms around myself, pulling my cardigan tighter. Pansy would chide me if she saw me at the moment, I'm certain. She despairs of my usual country attire of grey cashmere, frumpy wool trousers, and sensible shoes--entirely opposite to the short, ridiculously expensive skirts and heels high enough to wrench a sane woman's ankle with one tottering step that she favours. Pansy, of course, is mad enough to pull this outrageous attire off with aplomb, no matter how casual the occasion. One never knows who'll show up even in the godforsaken wilds of Wilts, she points out each time she joins us at the Manor, curling her lip at the corduroy and twill Draco and Blaise favour in the countryside. She doesn't even bother to remark on Harry's jeans and Muggle t-shirts, just rolls her eyes and gloomily lights another cigarette.

Outside Harry plucks the Snitch triumphantly from the bottom of the trunk, holding it high, and the children cheer as it flutters vainly against his fingers. Frankie tries to look bored and above it all, but her love for sport quenches that quickly. She's Quidditch-mad, my daughter, and has been obsessed with Muggle football since her godfather's husband took her to a Tottenham-West Ham match last year. Now bright blue Spurs scarves are draped next to Puddlemere United jerseys in her bedroom. Damn Harry. There are moments I wish Draco had never attached himself to the ridiculously meddlesome bastard.

Today would be one of those.

"He didn't have to encourage her," I say. My throat's tight and raw.

Draco snorts. "He's a Gryffindor. It's in his blood." He comes up next to me and presses a cool glass in my hand. It's armagnac, the best in his cellar, I'm certain. "He can't help himself."

The brandy's warm against my throat. Frankie and I have barely exchanged ten words since our row last night at dinner. Over the past four years I've become accustomed to living with a teenager during her school holidays, but it's been difficult at times to watch my adored baby girl turn into a sullen, angry stranger.

Draco and I are silent for a moment, then I turn from the window, dropping into a wide, comfortable leather chair next to the hearth. I cross one leg over the other; my pebbled leather loafer dangles off one foot. It's smudged slightly. A younger Draco smiles at me from a silver-framed family photograph on the coffee table. Harry's next to him, his arm wrapped around Draco's shoulder, and their towheaded son sits in Draco's lap, laughing at the camera. Scorpius must have been four or five at the time.

"I can't believe he's off to Hogwarts in a year," Draco says, watching me.

I nod. It seems like only yesterday Astoria had surrogated for the two of them. She's in Boston now, having married the headmaster of the Salem's Witches' Institute a few years ago, but she still Portkeys gifts back every few months for her son. Harry'd been insistent that Scorpius should know his mother, business arrangement or not.

He'd never approved of my keeping Frankie's father from her.

"What am I going to do?" I ask finally. I twist my glass between my palms.

Draco sighs and settles back in his chair. He watches his armagnac sparkle in the sunlight that spills from the windows. "Tell her."

"I don't want to."

He gives me a sharp look. "She's asking to know, Millie. Harry may have gone about it utterly backwards, like he always does--bloody bull in the proverbial china shop, encouraging her to talk to you about it--but he's right in the fact that she's old enough to want to know whom she comes from. It's not just about you, you know."

I lift my glass to my mouth and glance away. It's always been the two of us, Frankie and me. My parents had been horrified when I'd found myself pregnant at barely nineteen after a summer on the Continent. Father had wanted to marry me off to Theo Nott. Mother had tried to convince me to see a Healer for an abortifacient. I'd been stubborn at the time and refused them both. I was young and foolish and fortunate enough to have a trust fund from my grandmother and a decent flat in Kensington. Aunt Cissy--my godmother--had made certain I found a job with the Wizengamot. I hadn't known it then, but she'd twisted Harry's arm, calling in a debt he owed her from the war.

By the time Frankie had been christened Frances Lillian Victoria Bulstrode in the lichen-covered stone walls of St James' in Avebury with Pansy and Draco as godparents, Mother and Father had come about. Mostly. They have yet to accept that I've no interest in marriage but they stopped mentioning it years ago. I'm happy enough with my daughter and my job. I've worked hard to become a barrister, studying late at night while Frankie slept when she was little and working forty hours a week in the Wizengamot legal library.

"She's my daughter," I say. My stomach twists. I've never wanted her genetic father to know about her. I was always afraid he'd come take her away from me. He could try. I'd kill him before he made it out of the country though.

Draco sips his brandy, just looking at me over the rim of his glass. I hate it when he does that. It always means he thinks I'm wrong. He sets his glass aside, leaning over the arm of the chair to place it on an carved mahogany table that's been in his family since the Hanovers crossed the Channel. "How would you feel if you hadn't known your parents?" He glances out the window and his eyes soften slightly. I know he can see Harry. "It's important to children."

I know he has a point. I just don't want to admit it. It terrifies me. "I'll think about it."

"Fair enough," Draco says, and a wide smile lights his face when his son bursts into the room, pink-cheeked and windblown, smelling of cut grass and little-boy sweat. Scorpius pulls on his father's hand and insists in that utterly unself-concious, imperious Malfoy manner that we come watch them play.

I drain my glass, leaving it on the table next to Draco's as I follow them from the room.

***

My daughter's a natural in the air.

I watch her as she turns suddenly, pushing her broom into an angle that makes my heart catch for a moment until she pulls it up sharply again, her bare feet barely skimming the close-cropped grass. I press my fist to my mouth and force myself to breathe out slowly. She loves Quidditch too much for me to admit my fear for her. I've always promised myself I wouldn't turn into my mother, fretting about ridiculous things, pointing out flaws, making my daughter hate herself before she even left for school so the other children could eviscerate her more.

Frankie's long and lean and curiously pretty in an unusual way. She's never struggled with her weight the way I have since I was eight. I managed not to pass that particular Bulstrode genetic code to her. Instead she's her father's body, firm muscle and long legs. She's also inherited his hooked nose and black eyes. On Frankie's seventh birthday, Pansy'd pulled me aside before the cake was served and told me that if we weren't entirely certain Professor Snape was lying beneath that ridiculously enormous headstone Harry had made the Ministry purchase for him, she'd almost swear Frankie was his. I hadn't known whether to laugh or cry.

Getting pregnant had been a shock for me. I wasn't a fool; spending seven years in Slytherin made one quite aware of the number of contraceptive methods available, from potions to spells. Snape had made certain of that, although not for his own benefit, I assure you. But the last thing he'd wanted were infants in the Common Room--or furious parents swooping down on him, blaming him for their daughter's bastard spawn. From the moment second year began, we'd all been lectured on sexuality and birth control and abortifacients and threatened within an inch of our lives if we buggered up.

None of us ever had.

It'd never been an issue for me. I wasn't one of the pursued girls in school. No one'd wanted a stocky, swotty, plain, utterly ungraceful cow on their arm or under their prick. I'd been fine with that for the most part--or at least that's what I'd told myself when I heard them moo at me as I passed them in the hall. I didn't want them anyway. I wrapped myself in the fat girl's defence: books and sarcasm and the occasional ability to squash some of them flat whenever they stepped across a line, thanks to Vince's teaching me to throw a left hook like a boy.

To be honest, I'm still not certain what her father saw in me that summer. I'd been travelling through Europe on my own; it'd been an escape from my family--perhaps even an expression of my own independence. The war was over. The trials had begun. And I'd desperately needed to get out of England. My parents hadn't been happy: they'd wanted me to take Pansy or Draco with me. I'd refused. This was my chance to be myself. To not be overshadowed by either of them, as much as I loved them both.

It'd been an amazing three months. Paris, Florence, Geneva, Copenhagen. And then I'd found myself in Heidelberg, in a tiny hotel on the banks of the Neckar. I'd been happy for the first time in years. I'd gone down to the restaurant next door one night, book in hand, and found myself seated at a table next to Viktor Krum.

When he'd recognised me from his year at Hogwarts, I'd been stunned enough to put my copy of Marsilio Ficino's De potestate et sapientia Dei aside. He'd noticed what I was reading and we'd gone into a debate about the authenticity of Ficino's translation of the Corpus Hermeticum. Within ten minutes he'd moved to my table. Three hours later we were in my room, naked on my bed, hands and mouths moving across flushed skin.

He'd been in town for possible contract discussions with the Harriers. I'd extended my three-night stay to two weeks and given up my hotel room to move into his. It'd been nothing more than a summer fling, magical and delightful as we spent our days wandering through the Altstadt and our nights sprawling naked and sweaty beneath his sheets.

For the first--and perhaps only--time in my life I'd felt pretty. Wanted.

When he'd left, to go back to Vratsa and his teammates, he'd kissed me in the shadow of the castle ruins and promised to owl. We'd both known he wouldn't. There was no reason to.

Two months later I was sitting on the floor of my parents' bath, desperately clinging to the toilet, as Pansy knelt next to me in shock, a phial in her hand filled with the bright purple potion that screamed I was pregnant.

A hand brushes my arm and I jump slightly. Harry gives me a small smile. "Hey," he says, and I frown at him.

"I'm not speaking to you."

He just laughs, a quiet huff as he scratches his elbow. He's faced down worse than me, even in this mood. "You lot always say that and never mean it." He looks up at the children, flying just above the crest of the horse chestnuts at the edge of the garden. "Frankie's captaining the Slytherins next term, she says."

I nod and watch my daughter on her broom. Harry doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then he sighs. He glances towards Draco who frowns at him from his perch on the stone wall up the hill. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and eyes me. "Millie," he says, with that ridiculously condescending tone in his voice that he tries to use when he knows he's been an utter arse, and I turn on him then.

"Don't start with me." I keep my voice low and even. There's no sense in letting anyone else know I'm still upset. "You had no right to encourage her."

Harry chews on his bottom lip. "She needs to know." His face takes on a familiar mulish cast. "Hell, he needs to know."

"They've both done fine thus far." My stomach flips. I'm terrified, and I hate him for pushing this issue.

"She's curious, Millie. Any kid her age would be." Harry gives me a sympathetic look over the rims of his glasses. The wrinkle in his forehead that's been developing since the end of the war deepens. "Look, she asked me last weekend if I knew who her dad was." Before I can say anything, he holds up one hand. "That's when I told her she should speak with you. It's not my place to talk to her about this, but I'm not going to lie."

I press my lips together and breathe out. "I don't see why not," I mutter. One of the Weasley children brakes her broom sharply to the right, barely missing the boxwood. Her bony knees are clenched around the thin wooden broomstick, and her windblown hair shines bright red in the sunlight. I can hear her joyful whoop from here.

Harry hesitates. "Krum's in town," he says finally. I tense and twist my fingers in the sleeves of my cardigan, stretching the cashmere. "Lee invited him to a conference Magical Games and Sports is hosting for the heads of the various departments across Europe."

I'm silent.

"He's staying at the Savoy." Harry studiously avoids my gaze.

My heart thuds against my chest. I glance back up at my daughter. Frankie's laughing, avoiding a Bludger that Scorpius has half-heartedly knocked her way.

The wind ruffles Harry's hair. "I just thought you should know," he says, voice soft.

When I turn and walk away, he doesn't stop me.

ii.

The Savoy's lobby is slick, smooth marble and thick plush rugs that swallow your steps. In a side alcove, tucked discreetly out of Muggle view are two wide hearths attached to the Floo Network. I'm sitting behind a nearby pillar, my hands clenched tight in my lap.

I'd say I don't even know why I'm here, but that'd be a lie. It'd taken my daughter's silent, sunburnt face over supper the night before. After toying with her potatoes, Frankie'd then pushed her plate away and excused herself to go up to her room. She'd stopped at the door, one hand on the knob and looked back at me. "Everyone else knows who they are, Mum," she'd said quietly, her arched eyebrows flattening as her brow furrowed. "But I only know half of me."

An hour and half a bottle of wine later, I was still sitting at the table, staring out the window into the faint Kensington twilight.

The leather couch creaks beneath me as I shift. It sticks to my thighs through the thin black cotton of my dress. I feel foolish, sitting here on a Sunday afternoon, still in my church clothes, hair twisted up, with my grandmother's double-strand of grey pearls from Tahiti wrapped around my neck. I bite my bottom lip yet again. I'm certain I've chewed off all my lipstick by now.

I don't even know what I expect to do. I glance over at the front desk again. If I'd even the faintest glimmer of Gryffindor recklessness in me, I'd walk over and ask for Krum's room. I can't seem to make myself stand though, and that disgusts me. I'm many things, but not a complete coward. Bulstrodes never have been. We'd saved that for the Nott and Avery sides of the family tree.

The hearth behind me flares into life just as I've managed to push myself off the couch. I half-turn at the sound, startled, and my ankle twists, the heel of my shoe catching on the rug. I grab at the couch arm and steady myself. When I look up, he's there, brushing soot from his jacket and laughing at something the man emerging from the Floo behind him has just said.

My breath catches. He's taller than I remember, though still as whip-thin with the wiry build needed by a Seeker, and his shoulders have broadened over the years. There's the faintest touch of grey at his temples, but his hair is still thick and black, and his jaw is angled and sharp and faintly stubbled.

Like Frankie, he's almost awkward when he moves, as if his body's not accustomed to the ground, and his smile, crooked and wide, is the mirror of my daughter's. I don't know how anyone who's seen them both hasn't realised their connection yet--or perhaps I'm merely fooling myself that my secret's been kept all these years.

They move towards me, and I want to hide but there's no place, no time. Viktor's eyes flick towards me as he walks by. I force myself to meet his gaze and nod slightly. I'm certain he won't recognise me. Why should he? I was just one of many women, I'm certain. He'd never owled, after all. Promise or not.

I close my eyes and breathe out when he passes, a ridiculous relief suddenly coursing through me. I'm safe.

"Millicent?" It's hesitant and thickly accented.

Oh, God. My eyes flutter open. It takes me a moment to turn. He's stopped a few feet away, his face curiously tight. He's not smiling.

I nod. I can't speak. I can't believe that he remembers my name--

"I thought perhaps it was you," he says.

--much less that he remembers me.

"Vitya," the man with him says, obviously impatient. He's carrying a leather satchel and he swings it slightly. He murmurs something in a language I don't understand with a dismissive glance my way. Viktor holds up one hand, shaking his head, and looks back at me.

"It will keep," he says. His gaze slides down me, and I cross my arms in front of me, all too aware of my thick waist and wide hips. In all the photographs I've seen of him over the years, there's been one beautiful, thin woman or another draped over him, whispering into his ear. I, on the other hand, have been with two other men in the past sixteen years, and when one can't even keep the attention of the assistant deputy head of the Pest Advisory Board it does seem to suggest that there's rather little romantic interest to be found for one.

"Viktor," I say finally, when the silence between us grows too uncomfortable.

One corner of his mouth quirks momentarily. "It has years been, yes?"

"Yes." Circe. I sound like a fool. His eyes are fixed on my face, and I feel my cheeks warm. Viktor's friend shifts his satchel from one hand to the other. "You're here on business."

Viktor nods. "Discussions about Britain hosting World Cup next year."

His shirt is open at the collar. I can't stop looking at the long, tan curve of his throat. All I can think of is what it had felt like to press my mouth against his hot skin, to feel the flutter of his pulse against my lips as I had arched into his thrusts. I shiver and swallow, then glance away.

"You stay here?" he asks, and it takes me a moment to realise he's asking if I've a room at the Savoy.

I shake my head. "Just waiting for..." I hesitate, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. "Someone I was supposed to meet."

He looks almost disappointed. "Ah. Date." Somehow he's moved closer to me. I can smell the faint scent of cigarettes on his black wool jacket. It fits his shoulders snugly, tailored perfectly to their faint slope.

"A friend." I look around the nearly empty lobby. "Who doesn't seem to be coming, actually."

"Would you like with us to drink tea?" Viktor asks. His companion frowns and says something again that sounds like a mouthful of consonants. Viktor ignores him. His eyes are dark and bright and remind me so much of Professor Snape's that I'm nearly afraid they can see my secrets. And lies.

"No." I step backward too quickly. I need to be away from him. My thigh hits the arm of the couch, hard enough to bruise, and I wince. "I can't."

Viktor grabs my arm, concern creasing his face. "You are all right?"

His touch burns my skin, and I jerk away with a soft gasp. "I should go."

I don't look back until I reach the doors. He's watching me still, a small frown on his face. He raises one hand, a silent goodbye. I hesitate. I'm a fool, I know. For one mad, ridiculous moment, I consider sharing a pot of tea with him as I tell him about our daughter. The man next to him touches his shoulder, and Viktor glances at him.

Sanity returns.

"Miss," the doorman says, patiently holding the door open for me.

I walk out into the bright afternoon sun and breathe.

iii.

Pansy uncorks another bottle of shiraz. "Really, Millie," she says, filling my glass again, "a pair of bollocks is what you need. Desperately. Draco, darling, do let her borrow yours."

"I rather think Harry would object to that." Draco holds his glass out expectantly. He's stretched out on the sofa, his stockinged feet propped up on a needlepoint pillow. Pansy purses her mouth, but pours him more. "He quite enjoys mine."

"You're both wretched," I say. The wine is peppery-sweet against my tongue. "You're supposed to be sympathetic."

Pansy settles into her chair. Her Mayfair flat is exquisitely decorated in family antiques and expensive reproductions. She and Adrian have been divorced for seven years now, and she'd done quite well in her settlement. It does help to have a family tree filled with solicitors, I suppose. The delicate glass sculpture on the sideboard and the cream brocade on the sofa scream the flat's lack of children. Pansy'd been pregnant twice in her marriage. She'd miscarried both times before her first trimester. After the last one, they'd never tried again.

"I am being sympathetic," she says, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Her fingernails are bright pink against her wineglass. "I entirely agree that telling him is an awful idea. You've done perfectly well without him thus far, and Franks is an absolute dear if I have to admit it so you've obviously done a decent enough job raising her. Better than any of our parents did with us, I'd say--don't give me that look, Draco, or I'll be forced to start listing all the ways Lucius cocked up with you and that'll take until dawn. Anyway. There's no sense in rocking the boat, paternity-wise, and she'll eventually realise that herself. But if you absolutely must venture to the Savoy to see him, it's excruciatingly embarrassing for the rest of us if you then turn tail and run off like a frightened Hufflepuff. Bad form, that." She wrinkles her nose at the two fingers I flip in her direction. "Don't be crass, sweetie."

With a sigh I tuck my bare feet up beneath me. "It's Draco and Harry's fault that I went."

"I didn't force you to go," Draco says, staring pensively into his wineglass. He glances up at our shared silence. "Well, I didn't."

Pansy snorts and sips her wine. She stretches, draping one thin leg over the arm of her chair. "So what are you going to do?"

I set my empty glass aside. "I don't know. I couldn't tell him. I meant to. I wanted to, for Frankie's sake, but then he was there and..." I trail off, running my hands over my face. "I couldn't do it."

"Buck up." Draco glances over at me. "You're going to have to."

"Not if she doesn't want to tell him." Pansy's voice is steely. "Don't push her, Draco. It's her life and her daughter. Not yours, whatever Harry's managed to convince you to think."

Draco gives her a vexed scowl. "I'm merely offering advice."

"I'm sure you are." Pansy turns her glass in her hand, watching the wine slosh up the sides. "Stop."

"What would be the worst that could happen if he knows about Frances?" Draco asks me, pointedly ignoring Pansy. He leans forward on his elbow. "Your absolute nightmare about the whole situation."

"That he takes her from me, I suppose, which isn't very likely now that she's sixteen." I hesitate. "Or that he doesn't want anything at all to do with her." I rub my thumb over the chair arm, tracing a vine curl woven into the upholstery. "I don't want her hurt."

Draco nods. "Fair enough. You're not worried about any gossip?"

"Whatever for?" I shrug. "I went through the worst when I was pregnant and unmarried."

"It couldn't be any more scandalous than Cassandra Avery running off with that centaur," Pansy says dryly.

"Or Lycoris Black and the house elves." Draco shudders. "Father used to remind Mother of that whenever they had a row. Not even Great-Aunt Walpurga could keep that from being whispered about, and Merlin knows she tried."

"Those poor elves," Pansy murmurs after a moment. I have to agree.

Draco sits up. He sets his wineglass on the floor and rests his elbows on his knees. "So your actual fear is that you'll tell him and he'll not give a flying fig if he's a daughter or not, which you think will hurt Frances horribly."

"Of course it would." I pull one knee up to my chest. "She's built her father up into this person, and if he didn't want to know her--"

"But you're not giving him the chance to decide."

I do so hate it when Draco's rational. "I'm trying to protect my daughter."

"Bollocks." Draco frowns at me. "You're trying to protect yourself."

Pansy pours another glass of wine. "Point to Draco."

I glare at them both. "What the hell does that mean?"

"That you've never let go of Krum," Pansy says quietly, and Draco nods at her. "We've all known it for years, darling."

"I've really no idea what you're on about." I can't look at either of them. "That's rubbish."

Pansy touches my hand. "Millie. You don't date."

"That's not true. I went out with William. And Edwin."

"And neither of them lasted six months," Draco says sharply.

"So?"

Pansy sighs. "He's a point. Sixteen years--seventeen really--and you've slept with two men for a handful of months. No one's that celibate without a reason."

"I had a child," I snap. "And a job. I wasn't sitting around pining for Viktor. Good God."

They exchange a knowing glance. I want to hex them both.

"I wasn't." I can't bear the tense whine that's entered my voice. "This is ridiculous."

"Is it?" Pansy asks, leaning forward. She's almost gentle and that unsettles me. Her dark bob gleams in the light from the hearth. "You're far too good at avoiding sex then."

My throat tightens. This isn't a conversation I want to have. "Of course I am. I'm Anglican."

"That's never stopped me," Draco murmurs into his wineglass.

"Pervert," Pansy says lightly. She glances back at me. "It's not healthy, love. Everyone should have sex. Frequently. And loudly."

I stand up. I can't do this any longer. "I need to go."

"Don't," Draco says, sitting up. "Millicent."

I shake my head and reach for my too-large bag. It's ostrich-skin. Blaise had given it to me for Christmas last. "You don't understand--"

Pansy's on her feet. "Then tell us, darling--"

"You never will," I snap. "Look at you, perfect. Pretty. Thin. Not a frumpy bone in your body. As for you--" I turn on Draco. "You married Harry bloody sodding Potter. If that doesn't tell you--" I draw in a ragged breath. "Look at me." Neither do. "Look at me."

"Millie," Pansy says, but Draco touches her arm.

"I'm not pretty," I say, voice clipped. When Pansy starts to protest I cut her off. "I never have been; I never will be, and the number of men who are going to want to shag a plain, fat cow who'd frankly rather be eating a chocolate hazelnut gelato than sucking their flaccid little cocks is rather low and we all bloody well know it so don't you dare act like my celibacy is all my fault and why don't you just go down the pub and pull some chap, Millie, it'll all be fine when it's NOT."

They're both silent.

"I don't need to be fucked." I clutch the strap of my bag. It digs into my shoulder. "I don't need a man, and I don't need Viktor Krum, so both of you can just…" I'm so angry I'm shaking. "…just sod the hell off."

The crack of my Apparation is still echoing in my ears when I land in my kitchen. The only light comes from the hallway. I drop my bag on the table--parchment slides off and lands on the floor. Bills most likely. Frankie always bins the circulars that come in the post.

Somewhere in the refrigerator is two-thirds of a bottle of wine. I push a hunk of Stilton, a mouldy bowl filled with some unidentifiable substance, and two takeaway boxes of leftover curry aside--dear God, I'm a horrible mother--and grab it. I've just wiggled the cork free when I hear Frankie's footsteps on the stairs.

She stops in the doorway, a pale blue dressing gown wrapped around her coltish body. "Mum?" she asks sleepily. Her hair's a tangled mess of dark curls.

"You should be in bed," I say. I run my thumb over the cold rim of the wine bottle. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Frankie just shrugs and rubs at her eyes. "You were with Aunt Pansy." She yawns. "I only worry when Uncle Blaise is there." Another yawn. She doesn't bother to cover it. "Or Uncle Greg. Sometimes I think he's worse."

I can't stop my laugh. My daughter's a wise child. I walk over and kiss her forehead, touching her cheek. "Go back to sleep."

She nods, then glances down at the bottle in my hand. "Bad night?"

"Rough day." I lie. Frankie gives me a sharp look. She's always been able to see through me. "One more glass," I say, "and then I'm off to bed myself."

"Just one."

I nod. My father drinks too much. It's always disturbed Frankie. She doesn't like it when I imbibe. I'm not that fond of it myself. "On with you. Best be getting your beauty sleep."

The kitchen's quiet when she goes back upstairs. I can hear the whoosh of black cabs along the wet street and the faint rumble of our neighbour's telly. I lift the bottle of wine to my mouth.

I'm not going to sleep for a while, I think.

iv.

I've been in my office for barely an hour when my assistant sticks her head in my door. "Harry Potter just firecalled," Amelia's still young enough to be awed by a brief conversation with the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

"And?" I snap. I'm tired and still slightly hungover from my rare drinking binge the night before. Not to mention the dreams I'd had. Damn Pansy. I hadn't wanted to remember that vividly what it felt like to have a man inside of me.

It's been too bloody long since I've been shagged.

My irritation doesn't phase Amelia. She's used to my moods. "He has the interrogation transcripts for the Richardson case you requested last week."

I sigh and put down my quill. "And he can't interoffice them?"

Amelia shrugs. The slight movement sends her silver earrings swinging. "He asked if you could come pick them up. Shall I go instead?"

"No." I push my chair back and stand. "The bastard's a reason for summoning me. If I don't go now, he'll just think of something worse than walking up to the MLE."

I take my time, though, stopping by the tea cart near the lifts to get a cup of Earl Grey with two sugars and a dash of milk. When the door to Auror Headquarters flies open, nearly knocking into me, I manage to keep my cup on its practical white pottery saucer, but warm, milky tea splashes over my knuckles.

"Fuck," I say, and I look up into Viktor Krum's flushed face. My heart catches. The saucer tilts just enough for the teacup to slide off, shattering against the polished marble floor.

We both bend down, nearly bumping our heads together. I can feel the heat in my cheeks. "Sorry," I choke out, but he cuts me off.

"No, no. I did not see…" He trails off and gives me a small smile as he sweeps the wet shards of pottery together with a flick of his wand. "All these years and again we run into each other."

Harry's office is visible through the still open door. I swear I see the blinds on his window flutter. "It is odd." I Banish the teacup and stand, still clutching the saucer in numb fingers. "Harry just asked me to pick up some files." I'm babbling and I don't care. It's better than just staring at him like some idiotic cow.

Viktor's smile widens and he's almost handsome for a moment. He pushes himself to his feet. There's a damp patch on the knee of his trousers now. I try not to notice he's in braces and shirt sleeves, the spotless white cotton rolled up to his elbows almost, revealing wiry, muscular forearms. His skin's golden brown and lightly furred. "We had breakfast, he and I," he says.

"Oh." If Harry said anything, I swear to God I will rip his spleen out, Draco be damned.

"Meeting, actually." Viktor almost seems nervous. I tell myself I'm projecting. He crosses his arms over his chest, rubbing one thumb over the black and grey striped weave of one brace. His shirt is bunched slightly beneath it. "About security…"

"The Cup."

He nods. We stand awkwardly for a moment until an Auror brushes between us with a quiet pardon, giving us a curious look as she walks back to her cubicle.

"I should…" I gesture towards Harry's office.

Viktor catches my arm, then drops his hand immediately. "I have no plans for lunch," he says. "You will come with me?" He gives me a hopeful look.

I mean to say no. I ought to say no. I know this. Instead, I hesitate.

"It will be favour to me," Viktor says, leaning closer. I catch a whiff of his aftershave, bergamot and cedarwood. "Too many meals with boring Ministry officials."

I can't stop a small smile. "I've had a few of those at times."

"You will rescue me then." He moves closer to let another Auror pass. I step backwards; my shoulders hit the wall. I don't particularly care for the flutter in my stomach at the moment. It reminds me too much of Heidelberg and how he'd press me into an alley and kiss me in shadows until my toes curled and then we'd stagger off to his bed.

I'm not that girl any longer. And he's certainly not that boy.

"I should work," I say. "I've a hearing before the Wizengamot tomorrow…"

"One hour." His fingers brush my hip. It could have been an accident. Still I shift away. I can't think properly around him. All I want to do is stare at the small dimple just to the left of his mouth. He watches me and smiles faintly. The dimple creases. "Everyone must eat."

After a moment, I nod. His face falls, and I remember then that the Bulgarians are opposite of us. A nod of the head means no, a shake yes. "I mean…" I break off into a sharp, pained laugh. "The Ministry dining hall. Half twelve. I can only take an hour though."

That earns me a flash of bright, white teeth. "Excellent." Viktor steps back and I can breathe again. "I will wait for you."

He steps into the lift, giving me a slight bow. I slump against the wall once the doors close on him.

"Everything all right?" Harry asks quietly, and I turn my head, giving him a baleful glare. He leans against the door to Auror Headquarters, his grey robe neatly buttoned and belted to regulation order. He's a stack of folders under one arm.

"I honestly loathe you," I say, holding out one hand. "Now give me the fucking files."

The bastard's still laughing when I stalk off down the hall.

***

I've stopped by the lav twice to check my hair and make certain my lipstick hasn't worn off. I can't do anything about my frumpy clothes--a long black skirt and a black jacket that I prefer for comfort rather than style. I'm too pale under the lights over the sink and I try to pinch my cheeks a bit, but rather than giving me the semblance of a fresh, dewy English rose, it makes me look like a wasp's stung my cheekbones. I try to ease the redness with a splash of water.

It doesn't work.

"Bollocks," I mutter, and I smooth my jacket down. The one good thing about having an entirely black wardrobe is that at least tea stains don't show.

Viktor has a table already when I finally make it into the dining hall, five minutes late. He stands and pulls out my chair. I ignore the few curious glances I get. "Terribly sorry," I say, sitting. A house elf sets a goblet of water in front of me. "Bit of lemon, please." The elf nods and with a snap of his long fingers a lemon wedge floats in the water. I glance over at Viktor. "Work got away with me."

He smiles. He's pulled on a jacket and straightened his tie. I've been around Draco and Blaise enough years to recognise the cut of a Milanese designer. I prefer him in braces and rolled-up sleeves though. "You are a barrister," he says.

I'm surprised. "With the Wizengamot, yes. A defence barrister. How did you--"

"One asks questions." He lifts his glass of water and takes a sip. The elf waits patiently for us, tugging at the spotlessly white tea towel embroidered with the Ministry crest it's wrapped around itself. Granger's been trying for years to get the Ministry elves a salary. It's got to the point they refuse to serve her when she comes into the dining hall, a fact which amuses Draco greatly, not that he'll ever admit that to Harry. Well. Sober, at least.

"Not too many, I hope." I refuse the daily menu the elf hands me. "The salmon and potatoes," I say and the elf bobs his head and turns to Viktor.

"Same." Viktor leans forward, his elbows on the white damask tablecloth. He rests his chin on his folded hands and studies me. "You look as you did then."

I pluck a crusty roll from the basket that's just appeared on the table. "Liar." I don't look at him as I smear butter thickly across the bread. I'm too nervous to pretend to be watching what I eat. It's not as if I want to impress him anyway.

Viktor laughs softly. "And beautiful still."

The knife slides out of my fingers, hitting the side of my plate with a loud clink. I press my lips together and wipe my fingers on my napkin. "Don't try to flatter me."

He looks taken aback. "Is not flattery; is truth." I don't say anything. Viktor reaches across the table and touches my hand. His fingers are warm and slightly rough against my skin. "You don't know this?"

I pull my hand away. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude--"

Viktor turns his water glass, twisting it between his fingers as he watches me. His eyes are dark and bright, and his hair falls over one eyebrow. It needs a cutting; it curls over the collar of his shirt. "Every time I am in Heidelberg I think of us. There. That summer."

I breathe in sharply and shift in my chair, uncertain as to how to respond to that. My jacket's suddenly constricting. I undo the button, letting it fall open. Viktor's gaze slides down to the pale vee of exposed cleavage, and I feel my cheeks warm. I pull my jacket tighter around me; he looks disappointed. I'm not certain whether to laugh or be appalled. "You never wrote," I say finally. It's all I can think of, and I can't believe how foolish and petulant I sound.

"But I did." He hesitates. "Once."

My temper flares. "Don't lie to me." I can bear excuses. Not lies.

Viktor's silent for a moment, staring down at his water. He sighs finally. "Your father, he wrote back. It would be best if I didn't continue corresponding, he said." He says it quietly, matter-of-factly. I feel as if I've been punched. He looks at me over the rim of his glass.

"I…" My father wouldn't do that, I want to say, except I know he would have if he thought it best for the family. "That's ridiculous," I choke out finally. I'm aware of how weak it sounds.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Viktor sets his glass down. "Yes." He gives me a half-smile. "I was young and your father was, how do you say…intimidating?"

"That's an understatement." Father always had been an utter bastard about what he wanted. And he'd been angry enough that I'd got up the duff with a Slav's bastard. He'd never had a good opinion of anyone born outside the Isles. The house elf arrives with our plates. He sets them in front of us, then disappears. I pick up my fork; it's heavy and thick in my palm. "I didn't know he'd--"

"I thought you agreed." Viktor looks at me evenly. "He'd said you had."

"He lied." I slice into my salmon angrily. We'll have words about this, Father and I.

Viktor skewers a tiny red potato and eyes it curiously. "Yes." He pops the potato into his mouth and chews. "You could make amends for my years of suffering."

My fork and knife hover over the eviscerated fish on my plate. "How?"

He just smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

I've the distinct feeling I've been cornered. I'm not entirely certain I dislike it.

***

"You've got a date?" My daughter gives me an incredulous look, her face reflected in the mirror in front of me. "With the Viktor Krum? Quidditch Hall of Fame Viktor Krum? Four-time World Cup winner Viktor Krum?"


Your father Viktor Krum, I want to say. I don't. I can't believe I've agreed to this in the first place. It's madness, letting him come here to pick me up. It's almost as if I want them to figure it out. I suppose I do.

"It's just the symphony." I hold up an asparagus green dress my mother gave me three years ago in the vain hope I might wear it. It looks awful against my pale skin.

"Since when do Quidditch players know about the symphony?" Frankie wrinkles her nose and takes the dress from my hands. "Not that one. Grandmother's awful at picking out clothes for you." She tosses it onto the bed. "Do you want to shag him?"

I turn, giving her a sharp look. "Frances."

Frankie shrugs. "It's an honest question." She riffles through my wardrobe. "You've never said you knew him anyway."

"We were…friends of sorts, I suppose, a long time ago." I examine myself in the mirror, letting my silk dressing grown fall open a bit. I've my best black bra and knickers on, and Pansy'd insisted that I wear proper black stockings. It'd taken all I had to convince her that she and Draco didn't need to show up at my flat with an entire new wardrobe for me to try on.

It was just the bloody symphony after all.

I sigh at my reflection. I'm not fond of my body on the best of days.

Frankie shoves a black dress at me. "Try this." She turns her back as I slip the dressing gown off and tug the dress over my head. It's one I'd bought ages ago when I was going out with Edwin. I'd forgotten how much of my tits it shows--in an utterly discreet manner, of course. It's a French designer, after all.

"Dear God," I murmur, staring at the folds of soft, bias-cut silk that drape from my hips, flaring out around my calves. There are no sleeves, just narrow straps of braided black georgette.

"You look bloody fantastic." Frankie beams over my shoulder.

"Watch your language," I say absently, and I tug at one of the straps. "I look horrid."

Frankie smoothes my hair back, twisting my curls up. "Stop it, Mum. You look amazing. You just need a little bit of lipstick, that's all."

I sigh and turn slightly. "I don't look like a Plimpy?"

"No." Frankie lets my hair fall down. It brushes my shoulders. "You're actually rattled about this, aren't you? Do you fancy him?" She grins. "Can I start telling everyone Viktor Krum's going to be my step-father? That'll make Victoire shut her stupid fake-Frog mouth for once."

"Don't be ridiculous." I walk over to my vanity and sit, reaching for hairpins. I ought to tell her about Viktor. I know that. But I can't. "And don't tell me you and that Weasley have had another falling out again over Teddy Lupin."

My daughter drops down on my bed with a dramatic sigh. "She's such a cow about it. 'Oh, Teddy kissed me. Oh, Teddy, touched my tit.'" Frankie groans and wrinkles her nose. "It's not like Teddy doesn't go about groping every girl who lets him--"

"Enough, Frankie," I say, hair tangled around my fingers. I slide another hairpin into my curls. "And you know how I feel about your trainers on my coverlet." My throat is tight and I'm far too close to an attack of nerves.

Frankie lets her feet slide off the bed. "It's just not fair, Mum. Veelas should be outlawed."

I turn on my stool, horrified. "Don't let me hear you say that again."

Frankie sits up, scowling. Her hair tumbles over one cheek. "Grandfather would agree."

"And your grandfather's a barmy old bastard who thought You-Know-Who would be a sterling asset to this country." I point a hairpin at her. "You know better."

"Fine." With a put-upon sigh, Frankie tugs her shorts down a bit. "I just don't like her right now." She rests her elbows on her knees, her face pinched. "I'm just always one of the blokes. I don't even think they know I've a fanny."

I bite back a laugh. "Language, Frances." She rolls her eyes, and I reach out and smooth her hair back from her face. "You're beautiful, darling. And Teddy Lupin may not recognise that now--or ever, if he's as foolish as his father was." I brush my knuckles against her cheek. "But one day someone--or many someones, who knows--is going to."

Frankie gives me a faint smile. "I really love you, Mum."

"I love you too, darling." I kiss my daughter's temple, then draw back, looking at her. Even after all these years, the amount of love I have for this child of mine is sometimes overwhelming--not to mention scares the bloody devil himself out of me. I blink back warm tears and swallow, fighting for control. "All right now. I don't need you buzzing around watching me dress, so make yourself useful and pour me a glass of wine."

"May I have one too?"

"Why the hell not." I pat Frankie's cheek. "Water it down." We both know she won't.


She's a blur of long pale legs and Slytherin Quidditch jersey out the door. It slams shut behind her and I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I can't believe I'm doing this. It's utterly mad, and it's going to go pear-shaped. I know that. But I can still feel the warm press of Viktor's fingers across my hand, still see his small smile that reminds me so much of my daughter. Our daughter.

Christ. I've lost my mind. Truly.

With trembling fingers I pick up another hairpin and press it into my curls.

***

When the doorbell rings, I race into the foyer.

Frankie's too fast, though. She comes from the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the marble floor, her hair flying behind her, and she cuts me off at the grandfather clock.

I've got it, she mouths at me, and she stops at the door, tugging her Quidditch jersey down to her hips before throwing it open. "Hullo," she says coolly, looking at Viktor as if she's no idea who he is. My daughter is nothing if not Slytherin.

My heart thuds against my chest as he blinks at her. Please, I pray to whatever Deity might actually be listening. Please don't let them see…. There's nothing more surreal than watching them both together. It seems so horribly obvious to me.

"I am to be picking up Millicent," he says. His brow furrows slightly, but he only seems mildly curious. "You are her sister?"

Frankie laughs. "That was quite smooth of you." She tucks her hair behind one ear, to my horror. Her nose is prominent. "I'm her daughter actually." Her eyes narrow. "Are your intentions honourable?"

Viktor's mouth quirks. "Should they be?"

There's a slight hesitation, then Frankie grins at him. "I like you." She turns. "Mum!" Her shout echoes in the foyer.

"Don't shout, Frances," I say, stepping around the corner. I pull a thin cashmere shawl over my shoulders. Viktor watches me with dark eyes. He's changed into another suit, still bespoke, still dark with a crisp white shirt. I wonder if he owns anything else. He's a far cry from the boy I knew who favoured close-cut robes and Muggle jeans.

He holds his arm out. "Shall we?"

"I won't wait up," Frankie whispers at me, loudly enough that Viktor casts me an amused glance. I frown at her as I step through the doorway, and I curl my hand around Viktor's forearm. It's firm and warm beneath my fingers and I barely hide my shiver.

"She wasn't actually raised by wild Crups," I say.

Viktor laughs.

Frankie's still leaning against the doorjamb, watching us with a small smile on her face as we Apparate away.

***

We've box seats at Linbury Hall for the second of the London Wizarding Symphony's series of Dukas. It's the Malfoy box: quite obviously Harry'd given Viktor the tickets. Probably as a way to get out of going himself. I should be annoyed, perhaps, but I don't want to be.

I want to enjoy tonight. It's the only chance I'll have before he finds out. And he will, there's no doubt in my mind about that. If I don't tell him, Harry will.

"Are you all right?" Viktor asks, concerned. His hand is on the small of my back; he moves it only as I sit. I miss the warm press of his palm.

"Quite, thank you." I cross my legs with a sweep of silk. Viktor's gaze drifts to my stockinged ankles and my black leather heels. In Heidelberg he'd liked my legs. He'd spent quite a great deal of time sucking lightly at the back of my ankle, running his tongue along the tight tendon there. I draw in a soft breath, lost in memories of being sprawled together across twisted, sweaty white sheets.

Viktor sits next to me. The hall is filling quickly, the sound of whispers and laughs building around us. He folds the programme between his hands. He's almost too big for the seat, his knees press awkwardly against the box railing. He shifts and my foot bumps his calf. "Sorry," he murmurs.

We're silent for a moment, then he glances at me. "I did not know you had a daughter."

"I thought you asked around about me." I keep my gaze fixed on the drawn curtains on the stage. "She's not something I hide."

"Of course." His hand brushes mine. "I did not mean to imply--" He stops. "She looks like you."

I turn my head. "Does she?" My stomach trembles slightly.

Viktor shakes his head. "Yes. Quite a lot. She almost could have been the girl I met in Heidelberg."

"I suppose, yes." I don't pull away when his fingers slip through mine. His hand feels warm. Strong. "Viktor--"

He lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles. His lips are soft. My breath catches. "Shh," he says against my skin, and the lights around us dim.

A shimmer of strings sounds as the curtain parts, and Viktor's thumb traces tiny circles over my palm.

I'm standing precariously on a shifting house of cards. I've no damned idea why I feel so ridiculously safe.

***

It's only a few minutes' walk from Linbury Hall to the Savoy.

"Have drink with me," Viktor says, as we head from our box down the wide carpeted stairs to the lobby, and I know it's madness, but I agree.

We could Apparate, but neither of us wants to. Instead we stroll along the Muggle streets, hand in hand, past stone and brick storefronts. It's a pleasantly warm night, with just a hint of a breeze.

"Almost it feels like Heidelberg," Viktor says finally, as we sidestep a laughing couple outside a brightly lit pub.

I nod and squeeze his hand. He smiles down at me. "You were rather fond of the beer."

"Da, who would have not been?" he asks with a laugh. "You did not mind."

"You were rather charming pissed."

Viktor pulls a pack of Rodopi cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "May I?" At my shrug, he taps one out and lights it with a whispered spell. He takes a long drag, then breathes out a thin stream of pale grey smoke. He gives me an apologetic look. "A terrible habit still."

I don't dare tell him it turns me on. Instead I watch him roll the cigarette between his fingertips, feeling my stomach flutter. For years the acrid smell of cigarettes has reminded me of him.

"I missed you," I say. I'm immediately horrified. I glance away, trying not to hyperventilate.

He's silent, then he catches my chin with two fingers and turns me to look back at him. "Good," he says. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth again. The end flares orange briefly, then he exhales, tapping the ash off the end. "I wanted you to."

His thumb drags across his bottom lip. I look away so I don't I lean in and kiss him. I've lost my damned mind. I know I have.

We pass a club; jazz drifts from the open door, and Viktor pauses for a moment, takes a final drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the pavement and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. "Beautiful," he says softly, and he draws me close. I'm not certain he means the music, and my cheeks warm.

He's the only person who's ever made me feel as if I might possibly be.

"Viktor," I say, but he turns me, one hand on my back, the other curled around my wrist, and I find myself being danced down the pavement for a few steps before we come to a laughing, breathless halt in the shadowed stoop of a closed shop.

He looks at me, and his face softens. "Millicent," he says. My breath catches as his fingertips slide lightly across my cheek, smoothing into my hair. My head falls back. His thumb strokes my temple.

The kiss is hesitant at first--a shy, careful brush of lips--and then I lean against him, my hands catching his arms. I can taste the bitter bite of nicotine on his mouth.

"Viktor," I whisper, and he groans softly, kissing me harder. We stumble backwards; I feel the press of the shop door against my shoulders. "Please," I say, but it's lost in a gasp of mouths and teeth and tongues. The whole world could disappear around us and I wouldn't give a damn.

His mouth drags across my jaw, his teeth nipping against my skin. I can't stop the shudder that courses through me, not when his hand slides up my side to cup my breast. His fingers knead my silk dress, sliding it across the lace of my bra. My nipples are hard. Aching.

I pull his hair, tugging him away from biting at my throat. "Your room," I choke out, and he pulls me closer, Apparating us both with a sharp, stinging crack.

Neither of us cares who sees us.

We land next to the bed, and I've never been so grateful for magic as we tumble onto the thick, soft coverlet. It's been too long since I've been kissed like this: desperate, rough, needy. His stubble scratches my cheek, and when I shift beneath him, opening my legs slightly, he groans and rocks against me, hard and hot against my thigh.

He pulls back, breathing hard. The light from the window casts shadows across his angular face. Somewhere below the Thames curves next to us, and black cabs wind their way through narrow stone streets. Here, though, we're alone for the first time in seventeen years.

I brush my fingertips across his cheek, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He's thirty-eight now, and far from the tall, awkward boy who'd shagged me into the mattress every night. I wonder if it will be the same, but I know it can't be. We're different people now, he and I.

"You're thinking," he says, turning his head to kiss my fingers.

"I always do." I stroke along his throat. His skin is warm and soft. "Something your usual girls don't bother with."

Viktor snorts and nips my wrist. "I never needed them for that."

My fingers tug at the knot in his tie, loosening it. "Does it bother you that I do?"

"No." He pulls his tie off, unbuttoning the first button of his shirt. He sits back, the motion tugging my dress lower. The lacy edges of my bra peek from beneath the draped silk of my dress. Viktor shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it aside. His trousers are tented, and that sends a shudder through me. It's been too long since a man's wanted me unequivocally. He slides his cufflinks off and drops them on the side table before looking down at me. "I want to fuck you," he says.

I sit up slightly and slip a hand up the inside of his thigh. My dress pulls and half of one breast is exposed. "Last time you didn't ask."

"Last time I was a stupid boy." He pushes me back down on the bed, kissing me as he unbuttons his shirt. I help him push it off his wide, muscular shoulders. I gasp softly when my palms slide over his heated skin, and he chuckles, dragging his mouth over the plump curve of my shoulder. "Yes?" he asks, pulling one strap of my dress aside.

"Yes." I lift up enough for him to peel the top of my dress down, over my breasts. I slide my arms out of the straps and reach for him again, drawing him back down to me. Our kisses grow rougher, wetter, more breathless, and when he slides one hand under the lace of my bra, squeezing lightly, I groan and arch against him, pressing the hardened nub of my nipple against his palm. "Please, Viktor--"

He cuts me off with another kiss, and he tugs the cup of my bra down, leaning over to suck the nipple into his mouth. I grab the back of his head, tangling my fingers in his thick hair as I move beneath him.

I'd forgotten how this felt. Forgotten how wanted he could make me feel with one eager look. I'd never understood what he saw in me, how I could make him so hard so quickly. I'd thought it was just the desperation of youth, but with each agonizingly aching scrape of his teeth against my nipple I'm beginning to realise how foolish that was.

I tug at his hair, pulling him up. He looks at me, his eyes glazed, his mouth wet. "Do you want me?" I ask.

Viktor blinks. "Are you tricking me?"

"No." I brush his hair back from his forehead. "I just want to know."

He grabs my hand and pulls it down to the bulge in his trousers. "You see?"

"I see." I can feel the swell of his prick against my palm. He hisses when I press down. "You do."

Viktor catches my mouth with his. "Mad woman," he murmurs. "Want you very much."

I fumble with his belt buckle, then tug at his trouser button. I slide my mouth down Viktor's throat, sucking lightly. "Then fuck me."

He groans and grabs me, pulling me to straddle his thighs as he sits up. His breath is coming in sharp, short gasps. My dress slides down to bunch at my waist, one breast bare and bouncing with each movement we make.

Viktor leans in to suck the soft curve of skin. I steady myself on his shoulders, both hands gripping tightly just before he pulls the other cup of my bra down, exposing both of my breasts. He pinches my nipple, rolling it between his fingers and letting it slide out.

"Oh God," I choke out. "Viktor--"

He shifts slightly, reaching between us, and then I can feel his cock against me, hot, hard sliding over my hip. He pulls back. "You are on a potion?"

It takes a moment for me to realise what he's asking. "Oh. No." I want to tell him that particular horse has already stampeded from the stable, but I'd rather come first, to be bluntly honest. I'd also like to ask why the bloody hell it took him seventeen years to realise that some sort of protection might be a good idea.

Bastard.

Viktor fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a Muggle condom. I raise an eyebrow and he shrugs, giving me a small smile. "Should be prepared when with beautiful woman, yes?"

"There are charms," I say as he pushes me back against the mattress. He tears the silver packet open and a small circle of rubber falls into his hand. It's not the first I've seen. William was Muggle-born and disliked the idea of a charm being cast on his prick.

"I never am good at them," Viktor says, wincing slightly as he rolls the condom on his cock. His trouser and pants are shoved down his thighs. I can't believe we're still dressed. I reach for him again, but he pulls away with a laugh. "Moment."

I rise up on my elbows, looking at him. "What--" I break off into a gasp as he leans down, pressing his mouth against my damp knickers. "Oh--"

His tongue slides through my folds, pressing the scrap of silk into it with each long, slow lick. I can't breathe. I can't think. I just want him, the way I did when I was young and foolish and desperate for his touch.

My thighs are wet down to the edges of my stockings; my legs are shaking; my heels press into the mattress. I kick one foot and my shoe goes flying off. I don't care where it lands. I groan and push my hips up, sliding one hand over my breast. "Viktor--"

He pulls back, and my knickers go with him. He tosses them aside. "I want inside you," he says, looming over me, his chin damp. He presses my thighs apart, his fingers stroking softly across my slick skin. I tug him down, kissing him, and I can taste myself on his tongue.

"Now." I kick off my other shoe and wrap my stockinged legs around his waist. "Please--"

Viktor presses into me with a groan. It hurts at first--it's been too long since I've had a cock inside of me--and I gasp.

He looks down at me, his eyes wide. "You…" A slow roll of his hips and he slides further into me. "Oh, fuck. Millicent."

I grab his shoulders and arch up against him. "More."

Viktor laughs, a rough, raw bark of amusement. "Forget mad. You are demanding woman." He presses into me again, his balls slapping against my wet skin. His shoulders tense beneath my hands and I bite back a groan. I love the feel of him against my palms, his muscles hard and tight, his skin hot and smooth.

My body is tight. Aching. I move against him, biting my lip. He feels incredible inside of me, sliding into my wet cunt, our gasps echoing in the room, the bed shifting and creaking beneath us. I slide my hands down his back, rocking my hips up, pressing my breasts against his chest. I kiss his throat. He runs one hand down my side, over the entirety of my dress bunched around my waist to my bare hip.

When his fingers brush my swollen clit I cry out.

I'm so close. I can't stop shaking. I've never come this easily with anyone else. Only Viktor. I bite his jaw and thrust up against his hand and cock. "Please," I say, my voice catching in the back of my throat. My hair's come loose from the hairpins. Curls tumble across my damp cheek. I grab a breast, pinching my nipple hard as I look up at him. "Please, Viktor."

He groans and his hips slam into mine, his fingers move in tight, quick circles. I grab at the coverlet beneath us, twisting it in my fingers as I writhe against him. He grabs me, jerks me up in one swift, effortless tug as he rocks back onto his knees again. "Fuck me," he whispers, and then he bites my earlobe, licking away the sharp sting.

I slam down onto his prick, taking him into me entirely. My breasts bounce almost painfully against his chest, our nipples rubbing together. I'm covered in sweat; my skin is flushed. His trousers zip scrapes the back of my thigh. I don't care. I dig my fingernails into his shoulders and kiss him roughly, our teeth clacking together as we desperately nip at each other's lips and tongues.

Viktor falls backwards, pulling me over him. I keep rocking my hips back, meeting each quick thrust of his cock. My whole body is tight and tense and trembling. I pull back, looking down at him with wide eyes. "Viktor--I--oh--"

I come hard and fast, falling forward, shuddering. Viktor rolls me onto my back, his mouth on my breast. He sucks and bites as he thrusts into me. My legs are limp and loose, and my breath is ragged. Nothing's felt this good in years, and when Viktor arches into me with a sharp cry, shaking, I pull him down into a long slow kiss.

We lie silent for a while, our breath slowing, his face pressed against the curve of my throat.

He moves finally, sliding out of me. I feel oddly empty. The mattress shifts as he slides to the side, and I can hear him pull off the condom and bin it. I roll over and look at him. He's kicking his trousers and pants off and when he turns back to me, he smiles.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, running a knuckle across my cheek.

I kiss his hand. "I almost believe it when you tell me."

He sits back on the bed and rests his hand just beneath my breast. "You are." His thumb traces a circle around my nipple. "I want to see you again. You will let me?"

My breath catches. I can't say anything.

"Millicent?" His brow furrows. "You will not?"

I sit up, pulling my bra back over my breasts. "I want to." I hesitate. He just looks at me. His skin is faintly brown against the white coverlet. The light from the window glints in his hair. "But my daughter…"

"She does not want you to see men?" Viktor moves closer. His fingers brush my shoulder, trail down my arm. I shiver. "Your life is not hers."

"No." I catch his hand and hold it. "It's about her." I have to tell him. I know I do. I can't see him again, not after this, if he doesn't know. My heart pounds. I sigh. "And it's about you."

Viktor just looks at me and pulls his hand away.

I wrap my arms around myself. I'm suddenly cold. "My daughter. She's sixteen. Her name's Frances Lillian Victoria." I meet his gaze. "She's a brilliant Quidditch player. The best that's ever been in the Bulstrode family. She…" I rub my arms, trying not to notice how still he is. "She takes after her father. Who she's never known."

"Victoria," he says. His voice is dull.

I nod.

"Heidelberg."

I nod again. Neither of us move. Neither of us speak. I hold my breath. He stands and walks to the window, staring out at London below.

When he throws the lamp from the side table with a loud curse, I flinch. It shatters against the wall, the shade bent and broken. I swallow. "Viktor--"

"Don't," he snaps, turning on me. "You could lie for money."

I push myself off the bed. "You aren't seriously suggesting--"

His mouth is twisted in cruel scowl. "It happens. Usually with babies."

"Well, then perhaps you ought to keep your trousers done," I say, jaw tight. "If this is such a common occurrence--"

For a moment, I'm afraid he's going to hit me. Instead he turns away.

"You've seen her." I pull the straps of my dress up over my shoulders and tug the skirt down. "She looks like you, Viktor--"

"Stop."

I fall silent. "She wants to meet her father," I say finally.

"Well, she won't." He looks back at me then. "You had no right."

"To what? Have your daughter?" I'm getting angry now. If not for my sake, then for Frankie's.

"To not tell me about her!" He's next to me in two strides, and I stumble back. "Why? Why?"

I lift my chin. "What good would it have done? You never wrote me--"

"Your father--"

"How was I to know?" I raise my voice. "I was nineteen and pregnant and terrified and the man that I thought I might be falling in love with didn't even owl me. I don't care what my father did, Viktor. If you'd wanted to be with me, you would have. You didn't even wait three months before the papers were filled with pictures of you and that Svetlana--"

Viktor clenches his fists. "Don't justify you didn't tell me."

"You didn't seem to care--"

"I would have married you!"

We're inches from each other, trembling. I breathe out. "Liar," I say quietly. "You didn't even try. My father threw up one bloody block, and you took another road. You didn't want me. Not like I wanted you."

He looks away. I know it's true. My heart sinks.

I walk over and pick up my shoes and my shawl. "I don't want anything from you," I say without looking up. "I just wanted my daughter to be happy."

He doesn't stop me as I close the door behind me.

***

I Apparate directly into my bedroom. I'm shaking and fighting back tears, which only infuriates me more. I sit on the edge of my bed, my face buried in my hands, trying to just breathe slowly.

It doesn't work.

Headlamps sweep against the sheer curtain at my window. For a moment I can see the reflection of myself in the mirror across from me. My hair's a snarled mess; my mouth's swollen. I look horrid, like the town slag just dragged in from the street, a wide swathe of pale, trembling flesh on display.

"Stupid cunt." I grab one of my shoes and throw it across the room at the mirror. It shatters in a shower of silvered glass. For the briefest moment, I feel satisfied before the self-hatred swamps me again.

"Mum?" Frankie's at my door. "Mum, are you all right?"

I rub my hands over my damp face. "I'm fine. Go back to bed."

The door opens. I should know by now that Frankie's never going to listen to me when I want her to. I ignored my mother, after all. I still do.

"I'm fine, love." I wipe the back of my wrist over my eyes. "Go on."

"You don't look fine to me." Frankie walks across my bedroom. The mattress creaks as she sits next to me. She flicks the lamp on. "Did he hurt you?" Her voice is cold, tense.

I touch her face. "No. It's nothing like that." I give her a small smile. "You've just a mad mum is all."

She pulls me up against her. She smells like almond soap and talcum powder. Not so very different from when she was a baby. "You're not mad. Just a bit barmy."

I laugh. "I suppose I am." Pulling back, I sigh. "I need to talk to you about something. About Viktor."

We're both silent a moment, then Frankie says softly, "He's my dad, isn't he?"


I nod.

"Right." Frankie picks up my hand. "I thought maybe I looked like him a bit." She hesitates. "That sort of thing."

"Did Harry say something?" I have to know.

She shakes her head. "I may not be a swot, but I'm not an idiot, Mum." She pulls her feet up to the mattress, wrapping her arms around her knees as she turns towards me. "And I found a photograph."

"What?" I just look at her.

With a sigh, Frankie slides one hand into her dressing gown pocket. She pulls out an old photograph, edges crumpled. "I found it in one of your old books at Grandmother's at Easter. It wasn't hard to figure things out from there." She hands it to me. "It's why I wanted to know."

I stare down at the photograph. I'd forgotten it existed. Forgotten that I'd tucked it away one afternoon when Father'd come into the library. I hadn't wanted him to see it. I'd never gone back for it.

We look so young in the picture. The castle's behind us, and Viktor stands as close to me as he can, one arm wrapped around me. We're both laughing, the wind blowing our hair, and then I turn my head and look at him, and the expression on my face makes me catch my breath.

"You really cared about him, didn't you?" Frankie's looking at me, her dark eyes soft. In the lamplight.

I touch the photograph, tracing the sharp angle of Viktor's jaw. "I always thought I was stupid to."

Frankie squeezes my hand. "He's the stupid one." She rubs her thumb over my knuckle. "He didn't take the idea of me too well, I suppose?" Her voice is too light, and I realize I'm not the only one who's lost something tonight.

"Oh, love." I wrap my arms around her. "It's not you. It would never be you." I kiss the top of her head. "He just wasn't particularly happy I didn't tell him all these years."

Frankie's silent for a long moment, then she buries her face against my shoulder and breathes out. "Well." Her voice is muffled. "I don't particularly want to know him if he's going to be a tit to you." She looks up at me then. "You come first, Mum. I don't need a stupid father. All I need is you."

My eyes prickle hotly. "And you're all I need." I smile down at her. "I think there's some pumpkin ginger ice cream from Fortescue's and two spoons downstairs. What do you say?"

Frankie scrambles off the bed, pulling me after her. "I say there better be some caramel in the kitchen too."

Her laugh makes me feel better already.

v.

The last Saturday of summer hols finds me sitting in the garden of the Manor, watching my daughter and her Slytherin friends take on half the Weasley clan in the final pick-up match before the lot of them head back to Scotland on Thursday.

I'm going to miss Frankie this term, rather a lot. We've spent the past three weeks together, talking about my past--and hers--and discovering that we quite like each other as adults, not just mother and daughter.

She swoops above the boxwood, twisting her broom so that she's flying upside down, her t-shirt hanging loose enough to give everyone below a flash of pale skin and black bra strap. I smile and shake my head. "Incorrigible."

"Rather like her mother." Draco drops onto the bench next to me and pushes a pair of black sunglasses up onto his head. His hair shines silver-gilt in the sunlight. "How are you holding up?"

I shade my eyes with my hand, squinting up into the cloudless, impossibly blue sky. "About as well as when you asked me yesterday."

He gives me a slightly exasperated look. "I'm trying to be supportive."

I sigh and drop my hand. "It's been over a month and all he's done is send bloody flowers after he's gone back to Bulgaria." My mouth twists to the side. I'd incinerated the horrible things as soon as I'd read the card. "As far as I'm concerned he can sod off."

"Right." Draco chews his bottom lip. "So if Harry did something a little rash, you would probably be upset, yes?"

My stomach twists. That particular look on Draco's face is never good. "What did he do?"

Draco nods behind me, his eyebrows furrowed. "Well…"

I turn. Harry's striding across the lawn, barefoot, the ragged hem of his jeans dragging in the grass. Behind him is Viktor, in a Bulgarian National Team jumper and brown Quidditch jodhpurs. They're both carrying brooms. "I'm going to kill him, Draco," I say.

"He's only trying to help." Draco crosses his arms over his chest with a huff. "You're both too damned stubborn--" He breaks off as they walk up, and he stretches out one perfectly manicured hand. "Krum. So good to see you again."

Viktor nods at him as he shakes his hand, but he's looking at me. "Hello," he says quietly.

I ignore him and glare at Harry who has the grace to look uncomfortable at least. He pokes his husband. "Where's Scorpius?"

Draco shrugs and waves towards the sky. "Somewhere." He's looking between Viktor and myself with great interest.

"Come on, baby." Harry tugs him away, cutting off Draco's protest with a quick kiss. I sit back on the bench and cross my legs, hoping Viktor will follow them.

He doesn't.

The bench creaks softly as he sits, not bothering to ask my permission. He drops the broom on the grass at his feet. We're both silent for a long minute, staring up at the children flying above us.

Frankie does a lazy loop, easily catching the Quaffle Antigone Goyle tosses towards her before she dives towards the lawn, barely missing Scorpius hovering on his child's broom.

"She's good," Viktor says.

I nod. "The Harpies are already scouting her, but she wants to finish her NEWTs."

"For how many is she going?" He doesn't look away from Frankie.


"Seven." I glance over at him. His fingers are tight on the edge of the bench, his knuckles white. "Are you all right?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and then he looks at me. There are dark circles under his eyes. "No," he says finally.

"Oh." A ladybird crawls across the edge of my shoe. I watch her slow progress.

"I made mistake." Viktor's voice is quiet. "I was angry--"

"Really?" I ask dryly.

Viktor huffs a laugh. "My temper is…" He purses his mouth and exhales slowly. "Like my father's." He gives me a small, bitter smile. "I apologise."

I shake my head. "You weren't entirely wrong. I should have told you about her. I was just frightened, I suppose. I had to fight for her and I was afraid you might take her from me."

"Never." Viktor touches my hand, his fingertips skimming my knuckles. A shiver goes through me. "I just would liked to know her as a little one." His fingers settle over mine. I don't pull away.

"I think she'd like to know you now too." I let his hand curl around mine--its weight is comforting.

He slides closer. Our knees press together. "And you?" I can feel his breath against my cheek. "Would you like to know me now?"

I turn my head. His eyes are dark and bright. "Are you going to be an arse again?"

"Probably." His smile widens, crooking one side of his mouth. "I'm Bulgarian."

"I'm English." He's so close. I can smell him. Sandalwood and cigarettes and just the faintest trace of sweat. I want to lick the stretch of skin beneath his jaw, to taste him on my tongue.

"Good match, yes?" He brushes my hair back from my face.

I lean into his touch. "Yes," I whisper just before I kiss him.

It's gentle. Slow. And it holds a promise I never thought I'd be given.

When I pull away finally, a whoop from across the lawn startles me. I look over. Frankie's landed on the grass and tossed her broom aside. The other children are watching, laughing even, as she hurries towards us. Their parents are gathered a few feet away. Granger and Draco have the manners to pretend not to be looking. Pansy pokes Harry in the side, a smug smile on her face. He just grins and holds up a thumb.

I laugh and bury my face against Viktor's shoulder. "One day I'm going to kill him."

Viktor rubs my back. "He told me to come today. Said I might be able to apologise for being arse."

Frankie stops in front of us, a few feet away. She's suddenly shy, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. I hold out my arm; she steps closer, and I lean my head against her hip. She can't tear her gaze from Viktor's.

He can't look away from her either.

"Frances," I say with a small smile, "this is your father." She draws in a ragged breath and I squeeze her tight. "Viktor. Our daughter."

"Hi," Frankie says quietly. She brushes her hair back from her face.

Viktor takes a deep breath and leans forward. " Zdrasti, Frances." He reaches for her; with a muffled cry she throws herself at him, pressing her face against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight, stroking his palm along her back.

It takes me a moment to realise my face is wet. Tears drop from my chin onto my hands; I wipe them away. Thank you, I mouth towards Harry. He nods and smiles, pulling Draco closer to him and kissing his shoulder. Draco turns and touches his husband's cheek. Scorpius is beside them, watching us curiously. I glance over at Viktor and Frankie, who are staring at each other curiously now, like mirrored variations of the same face.


Viktor beams at me over the top of Frankie's head. He holds a hand out, and I take it, letting him draw me to embrace both of them. The other children take to the air again, shouting and laughing. I press my mouth to Frankie's hair.

"I love you," I whisper. She grins up at me, a perfect imitation of her father's. Our fingers curl together. Viktor's lips brush my temple.

Whatever happens next, for now, we're complete.

I smile.


***

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