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His voice was rough around the edges, low and gentle.

And she was staring at his face, for Merlin's sake.

His voice was surprisingly gentle, his strong accent merely a melody for his words. She blushed furiously, her eyes actually closing for a moment as she breathed in the scent of him, attempting to gather her thoughts

The Yule Ball had been like another world, a few hours of bliss so perfect that he hadn't been able to stop himself from wanting – from allowing himself to think that there could be – more.

In Quidditch, there was skill. Though Viktor trained hard, he always understood that his opponent might be stronger or faster, more deserving of the win; and for that reason he had never resented losing, had never let it make him angry or bitter – had never let it make him afraid.

The Golden Snitch was tricky, but always governed by laws Viktor understood: physics, however magically enhanced, was logical enough. But Hermione, as sensible and well-read as she was – he didn't understand her. And he felt sure he'd never be a champion at this – at knowing how to talk to her. At winning her heart.

He had grown accustomed to watching her.

And then the Yule Ball had been announced.

She had popped into his mind instantly, as had a vision of them gliding across an empty dance floor as she stared happily up at him with those sparkling brown eyes . . .