Chapter Text
Nundu
The Nundu is a magnificent magical leopard. It is considered to be the most dangerous animal in existence. The breath of a Nundu brings sickness and death, and its jaws can devour a group of Quidditch players in a single bite.
In her twenty-five years, there had been few moments when Hermione Granger had given free rein to her anger. She had grown up believing that one should confront others with sound arguments, not emotions. After all, anger was irrational and often led to regret. Only a weak mind would indulge in an unbridled outburst.
And Hermione was many things – but weak was not one of them.
Of course, there had been the occasional slip-up. At kindergarten, when Marc Henley threw sand at her and then grinned as he trampled her sandcastle – how could a four-year-old possibly argue with that? So she did the only reasonable thing: she took her bucket and tipped it over his head.
In the second year of primary school, she had lost her temper when David Myers dumped all her notes (yes, even in primary school, exemplary pupils took notes) into the canteen bin. In a fit of rage, she had taken a handful of mashed potatoes and smeared it in his face. Of course, this had led to consequences, but she had no regrets.
And let's not forget the incident when she punched Draco Malfoy. Here, too, the question arose – how else should she have reacted? Well, possibly without the use of physical violence. Whatever.
The common denominator in all these incidents? Men. So it was hardly surprising that on a perfectly normal Wednesday, it was once again a man who had been the last straw.
The day had started innocently enough. As usual, Viktor had already left the house when she woke up. The early hours were his sanctuary, the time he trained on his own. Since Hermione knew exactly what he looked like without clothes, she could confirm that the training was definitely paying off.
For once, she had no outings planned for the day and decided to spend it at home in her office, continuing her study of Thestrals. So far, so good.
At some point later that day, after she had spent several hours in the depths of her notes, it seemed time for a break.
She put the kettle on, made herself a sandwich, and on her way back to her office, she noticed the pile of laundry that had been crying out for attention for several days, staring at her reproachfully from the half-open bathroom door. At that moment, she cursed the fact that she had talked Viktor out of getting a magical washing machine.
She had insisted that some things in her flat should continue to be done the Muggle way, and for some reason, the washing machine had been her hill to die on. Groaning, she began sorting the laundry, most of which was Viktor's training clothes (how many versions of the same outfit could one person own?), when a piece of paper sailed out of one of his trousers.
Annoyed, she unfolded the note – probably a training schedule or an autograph, she thought – until she saw the curly handwriting, which was definitely not Viktor's.
Let's do this again soon. I can hardly stand the long breaks. I can't get enough of my Bulgarian bear.
XOXO, Lucy.
Hermione's eyes scanned the text over and over again. She felt waves of heat and cold wash over her, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst. Only when the ink smudged, did she notice that tears were running down her cheeks.
In the three years she had been with Viktor, there had been moments when she doubted him. Or herself. He was a Quidditch professional, constantly being fawned over by fans, including numerous women. She was a Magizoologist, highly respected and successful in what she did. However, she had no fans. At least not in the conventional sense.
Jealousy was not in her nature, but from time to time doubts crept in.
Had she occasionally caught herself feeling a small spark of mistrust when he returned home very late after one of the countless galas and afterparties that she was unable to attend due to her own work commitments? Maybe. Had she used her research too often as an excuse for not coming along? Probably. But an intelligent woman can only endure so much small talk in her life. To make matters worse, Hermione was anything but a sports fan – Quidditch included.
Additionally, The Daily Prophet had often shown him in photos with other women when he was travelling with his team. But every time it happened, he had sworn that it was a teammate's girlfriend, a fan, or someone from the staff – or, or, or. She, of all people, should have known how dishonest that wretched newspaper was and that it was all lies. And of course she had believed him.
Whenever her self-doubt got the better of her and she confronted Viktor, he just grinned at her. Pulled her into his arms and called her crazy. Crazy! Then came the assurances she had heard hundreds of times before - he would never flirt with other women, let alone think about them. And every time, Hermione had felt stupid. Hysterical, even. Bloody gaslighter.
Pansy would have a field day if she found out. She had never really liked Viktor.
Hermione didn't know how much time she had spent on the floor of her bathroom before Crookshanks found her. The kneazle snuggled up to her, gently rubbing his head against her chest, purring.
“Hey Crooks,” she sniffed before scratching him behind his ears. “Did you know that men are the very worst?”
He gave her a look that said, tell me something new, sister. She almost laughed.
As they sat together and more tears ran down her face, she knew she was at a crossroads. She could wait for Viktor to come home, and tell him what she had discovered in a calm, adult conversation. Give him the chance to explain himself, to spin another web of excuses and to lie another time.
Or she could give in to the anger that was burning inside her.
After all, it had been far too long since she had punched Draco Malfoy in the face. She glanced again at the note, which was already half crumpled in her hand. Let's do this again soon. The breaks are too long.
Without a second thought, she buried the rational, calm side of her personality, stood up and set off to the London Lion’s Quidditch Stadium.
By the time she reached it, Hermione felt as if she were moving through a tunnel. A quick glance at her watch told her that practice must have just ended. If she was lucky, she might still catch him on his way to the changing rooms.
Adrenaline rushed through her veins. Her hands were clenched into fists, her pace quickening with every step that brought her closer to her goal. The quiet voice of reason called out from the grave where she had buried it, begging her to turn back, but she ignored it and forced herself to focus solely on her rage.
She reached the corridor leading to the changing rooms and was annoyed to find it completely deserted. Bollocks! That could only mean that either the players were still on the pitch or the entire team was already inside. The closer she got to the door, the more clearly she could hear voices and quiet laughter coming from inside.
Last chance to turn back, the voice in her head screamed, but Hermione was not willing to listen. With a forceful push, she opened the door and was immediately enveloped in a cloud of sweat, deodorant, and fragrant shampoo. The room was buzzing with activity and no one seemed to notice her.
So much for a dramatic entrance.
As she scanned the room for Viktor, George Weasley was the first to spot her, clad only in a towel, which he instinctively wrapped more tightly around himself as his eyes widened in confusion.
“Uhm – hello, Hermione. Are you all right? You know this is the men's changing room, don't you?”
“I'm aware, George. I'm not stupid,” she snapped at him.
“Oh. Right.” The confusion on George's face was obvious, but Hermione's expression must have been so livid that the normally quick-witted wizard just nodded.
“Krum! Your Golden Girl is here!” another teammate shouted. His name was on the tip of Hermione’s tongue, but it just wouldn’t come out. Immediately, all heads in the room turned to her, and amid a chorus of whistles and laughter, Viktor emerged from the shower, butt naked.
For a moment, Hermione was torn between giving him the chance to put something on, but when a smug grin appeared on his face, one she immediately wanted to wipe off, she dismissed the idea.
“Honey, what are you doing here?” Viktor interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh, don't ‘honey’ me, Viktor.” Her voice was low, laced with anger. With every word, she stepped closer. The air in the changing room seemed to be getting thin, and judging by the players' faces, everyone knew that this was not a visit from a doting girlfriend. Viktor himself looked quite bewildered, his forehead creased with wrinkles, his eyes wide with shock or confusion.
“Hermione, what's going on?”
She was now only a few metres away from him. “What's going on? Wait, let me guess...” She paused, pretending to think. “Do you know what I found in the laundry today?”
Viktor seemed completely clueless and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Honey, did I forget a handkerchief again?” Then, with his voice slightly lowered and his cheeks a little reddened, as if her behaviour was more than embarrassing, he continued, “You didn’t have to come here for that, we can sort it out at home.” He laughed briefly, looking around the room with an amused expression that said as much as, Sorry, guys, my girl has no self-control.
“Wrong, Viktor. I found a message. You can tell Lucy that from today onwards, there will be no more ‘breaks’ between your eagerly awaited meetings. From today onwards, her precious Bulgarian bear will have all the time in the world for her. You lousy prick.” Her voice grew louder with every word. She forced her hands to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her shake.
Meanwhile, realisation slowly dawned on Viktor. For a millisecond, his facial features slipped before he pulled himself together, ever the professional liar that he was. He exhaled deeply, as if preparing himself for a conversation with a toddler.
“This is all a misunderstanding. I don't know any Lucy. Honestly, Hermione, you're overreacting again,” he said in a gentle voice. A crooked smile appeared on his face, the one that used to make her melt, but now had her wanting to tear something apart.
“Again? Oh, stop your bullshit right now. I'm not listening to this anymore. I'm so done with you.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to suppress the rising tears. Unfortunately, Hermione was one of those people who started crying when they got angry. A trait that was absolutely useless and often made one look weak in an argument.
“You can collect your things today. I will leave them outside the flat.”
“I don't think this is the right place to discuss this. Please, you're upset, I understand that, but you've really misunderstood. Lucy is nothing more than a friend of...” He looked around the room searchingly before his gaze landed on the guy whose name Hermione still couldn't remember. “Jack, right?”
Hermione turned to Jack, her expression so fierce it made him flinch.
“Yes, Lucy is my-”
“Don't you dare, Jack. It doesn't matter what lie you come up with now, because I’m not buying it.” Then her eyes shot back to Viktor. “I'm not going to let you lead me on anymore. A minute ago, you didn't even know who Lucy was. Viktor, your lies are really pathetic, and I'm pathetic for believing you for so long. But that's over now. Tonight, when I get back to my flat, everything that reminds me of you will be gone. You will be gone. Do you understand?” She emphasized the last three words, narrowing her eyes.
For a moment, she thanked her past self for insisting that Viktor moved in with her before they started looking for something bigger. Viktor's mind seemed to be racing, because after a brief moment, he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Wonderful.” She turned on her heel and walked out, head held high, even though anger and heartbreak were driving her every step.
As soon as the changing room door closed behind her, Hermione took a deep shuddering breath before pulling out her mobile phone. She would prepare everything at home and then she would need one large glass of wine, or twelve, and someone to keep her company.
As she walked, she began typing a message to Rolf, her head buzzing with anger and exhaustion, barely noticing her surroundings... until she bumped into something solid.
Not a wall. A body.
Her mobile phone fell out of her hand and before she could regain her composure, strong hands grabbed her shoulders. “Sorry,” said a deep voice, before the hands released her and the man bent down to pick up her phone.
He handed it back to her, and Hermione snatched it with a hint of annoyance. He was tall, obviously another Quidditch player. Muscular, broad-shouldered, brown curls framed striking dark blue eyes, and although his guilty smile seemed sincere, she'd had enough.
“Can't you be more careful?” she snapped at him. “You Quidditch players are all the same - conceited, reckless beefcakes. Now get out of my way.”
“Muggle Jesus,” he said, laughing softly, his hands raised. “You don't have to jump down my throat. It's all right, no harm done, right?”
Hermione shot him a deadly look. His face seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. Just another one of them. Because at the end of the day, she couldn't care less who was standing in front of her. “I hope you have the day you deserve.”
With that, she slipped past him, ignoring his grin, while he muttered, “that's one way to start the day.”
As soon as she left the stadium behind her, she apparated back to her flat as quickly as she could. She knew that the weekly team meeting always took place on Wednesdays after training. So there was still enough time to gather Viktor's things and follow through on her words.
As she entered the living room, Crookshanks was waiting on the sofa, tail flicking.
“It’s done,” she whispered. He blinked once, as if approving.
For a moment, she closed her eyes trying to collect herself. She couldn't let her thoughts and doubts get the better of her, because that would inevitably lead to an exhumation of her reason. So she swallowed her grief. There would be plenty of time for that later. It was important to focus on her anger. She took another deep breath before connecting her mobile phone to the stereo and turning up Miley Cyrus' ‘Flowers’ playing loudly throughout the flat.
Hold back the tears. Pull yourself together. Those were the two mantras she kept repeating to herself. Listen to Miley. Screw him.
Stepping into the kitchen, she opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a generous glass. She wasn't the type to drink alone, but desperate times called for desperate measures. As the first sip slid down her throat, she welcomed the fruity acidity. At that moment, she remembered that she had never sent her message to Rolf. Hastily, she rummaged for her mobile phone.
Hermione: SOS, I need you tonight to accompany me in drinking myself into oblivion.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the three dots appeared immediately.
Rolf: Hey Mi, let me guess, it's about Mr Broomstick? Drinking until we pass out – sure thing. But Bear arrived today, so... he'll be there too, if that's okay? He's sooo cool and won't bother us. I can't wait for you to finally meet him.
Hermione read his message and sighed immediately. As if she hadn't had enough ‘bear’ stuff already. Due to the events, she had completely forgotten about Rolf's BFF. He'd allegedly attended Hogwarts but moved to the States after their second or third year. Rolf had met him while researching the North American Chupacabra, and they had become very close friends.
She had never met Bear, but she had heard countless stories about him. For example, that the two had given each other animal names, Rolf called him Bear and he was Fox? Or something like that, well...
When Rolf told her that his friend was finally returning to England to take up a new position, Hermione was curious to finally meet him, but not today.
Today was the worst possible time to be friendly and cheerful. She just wanted to sit on Rolf's sofa, drink more wine, cry and be angry. But unfortunately that wasn't happening tonight.
Hermione: Oh great. I'll come over when I'm done with work here, is that okay?
Rolf: Fantastic. I can't wait, and chin up, I don't know what that bastard did, but I hate him. I said what I said ;)
She took another big gulp before putting her mobile away and turning her attention to the big kick-out. What followed was a combination of various spells that collected Viktor's belongings from the flat and neatly stacked them into piles. Since he wasn't the type to hang on to knick-knacks (or, God forbid, read books), most of it was his clothing.
When everything was perfectly arranged in front of her, she nodded in satisfaction and, with another wave of her wand, transported everything to the front door. Next, she renewed the protective spells around the flat and excluded Viktor from the Floo network. Yes, it was radical. But she knew that now was the only time she could muster the courage to do it.
The next time she would see him and his guilty, remorseful eyes, she might lose her cool and fold like a lawn chair, and she had to avoid that at all costs.
When she was finally happy with her work, dusk had already fallen. She made a quick stop in the bathroom to make herself feel at least a little presentable before meeting the infamous Bear today.
After a few quick adjustments, she decided that would have to suffice. She considered her outfit, leggings and an oversized jumper, to be appropriate. After all, she had found out today that she had been cheated on and had broken up with her partner. They needed to cut her some slack. Armed with two bottles of red wine, she gave Crooks one last quick cuddle, went to the fireplace and set off for Rolf's flat.
She stumbled out of the fireplace, clearly already feeling the effects of the two glasses of wine, and was immediately supported by two warm hands.
“Twice in one day?”
Hermione was just about to apologise when she recognised the voice. It was the one she had heard earlier that day. Dark, slightly amused, belonging to the bloke she had snapped at a few hours ago. Bloody hell.
Slowly, she looked up and found herself staring into the deep brown eyes of – Bear? Of course. The universe had a wicked sense of humor.
“I really did get the day I deserved,” he said with a grin.
“Um, hi, so-”
“Mi, darling, there you are,” Rolf interrupted her stammering as he marched into the living room beaming with a tray full of food and drinks. “And you've already met Bear.”
“Theodore Nott,” he said, still grinning as he held out his hand to her, “or Theo, to anyone who isn't Rolf.”
Hermione blinked, unable to hide her shock. “Why Bear?”
“Theodore, Teddy – Teddy Bear, Mi, isn’t that obvious?” Rolf chimed in.
Frantically, Hermione tried to remember exactly what Rolf had told her about him. To be honest, she had assumed that Bear was just a quirky researcher, or something like that – but most certainly not this.
Theodore Nott. Of course she’d heard of him. He was the American Quidditch superstar. Absolutely fucking brilliant.