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hp fic: Cannons at Dawn
Title: Cannons at Dawn
Pairing: Harry/Viktor
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~4100
A/N: Written for the ficathon at![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88)
triwizard_slash, request #5 -- Harry/Viktor; post-Hogwarts, anything rated PG13 or higher!. Thanks to ![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
darkasphodel and happiestwhen for the beta.
Cannons at Dawn
::
They're arguing again.
Cannons posters watch Harry from the walls, flickering like fire, and Ron's Cannons bedspread is rough against his legs. The orange is constant, encompassing, so bright and sharp it makes Harry's head throb, and it seems to amplify the noise downstairs.
"But why, Hermione?" Ron demands, harsh and rough. He's muffled only slightly by the floor, and Harry knows the vein in Ron's forehead is pulsing. "Why is he writing you?"
"It doesn't mean anything, Ronald Weasley," Hermione replies shrilly. Her voice darts up the stairs, circling Ron's room before ringing in Harry's ears. "We're just friends."
The air ripples with magic, cracking open to dump Fred and George at the foot of Ron's bed. There is a bit of a tussle as the tangle of freckled limbs sorts itself into two separate people, and Harry waits, plucking absently at a loose orange thread.
"Friends, my arse!" Ron shouts. "I don't like it, Hermione. I don't like it at all!"
"Ah, the sweet sounds of young love," Fred says, gesturing grandly.
George snickers and elbows Fred in the ribs. "Warms your heart, doesn't it?"
Sighing, Harry flops back on the bed and puts Ron's Cannons pillow over his head.
--
The sun is large, unyielding, and sweat beads on Harry's forehead, running down his cheeks. Ron is thirsty, Hermione is tired, and Godric's Hollow is larger street to street than it had seemed on the map Remus drew them.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Ron asks. He sounds more than a bit peevish, and Harry can't blame him.
"Yeah, it has to be," Harry murmurs. "It has to be." He scrubs a hand through his damp, sticky hair, and sighs. "We're just not looking in the right place."
"What if we can't see it?" Ron asks. "I mean, your parents had a... Pettrigrew was..." he gnaws at his lower lip and makes a vague gesture with his hand. "What if it's still hidden?"
"Couldn't be," Hermione replies. She shakes her head, and her hair sways heavily. "The spell was broken once Pettigrew told Voldemort where to find them. Their house might still he hidden from Muggles, but it's no longer under a Fidelius."
"Right," Harry says. "That means we can find it." He pulls Remus' map from his pocket, frowning at the mire of twisted lines. A sweaty thumbprint smudges Hollow Crescent into Hollow Drive, and Godric Road ambles off the parchment in an ominous way.
Harry lets his arm fall, the map scraping against his jeans. He shivers, gooseflesh erupting on his arms in spite of the heat, and the map flutters softly to the ground. Harry stoops to retrieve it, crumpling the edge in his fist as he stares at a crack in the pavement.
It scores the square of cement in half, meandering diagonally from corner to corner. It seems out of place in this neat, sleepy little town, seems the kind of thing the residents would have put to rights immediately. He shivers again, stares at it so long Ron nudges him with his elbow.
"You all right, mate?" Ron asks. "Maybe we should come back later, when it's not so hot."
"No," Harry replies, following the crack with his eyes. It veers off the pavement just shy of the upper right corner, pointing between two houses. "Here," Harry says. "Here. It's here."
Ron and Hermione exchange confused looks, but Harry smiles. He takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed, and steps off the pavement, the heel of his trainer squeaking roughly against the edge.
Harry pictures his parents' house as tall and grand, two storeys tall with stone pillars supporting the peaked roof, and he pictures it small and neat, a cosy cottage with faded paint and flowers planted under the windows. He pictures it cold and clean like number four Privet Drive, so uninviting that sourness spreads across his tongue.
He opens his eyes, and cannot breathe. He has never known what he would find, but all the times he has imagined this day, he has never expected to find nothing.
Harry stands in the centre of what's left of the foundation, still and silent. Ron pokes around the rubble, overturning chunks of stone with the toe of his shoe. Hermione curls up against a small, standing section of wall, spreads a piece of parchment across her lap, and begins to write.
--
When she started her House-elf campaign, Hermione had called Hogwarts, A History abridged and edited, and Harry is starting to think this is true. It has a chapter on each of the Founders, outlining their virtues and good deeds for close to four hundred pages combined, but it makes no mention of what they did for a living before they founded Hogwarts, where they grew up, or where they were born.
Slytherin's locket is cold and heavy in Harry's hand. It's round and smooth, a perfect circle, but the edge bites sharply into Harry's palm. He hides it there anyway, because it's easier not to look at it. The gold has tarnished to the color of Firewhisky, and it reminds him of Sirius, reminds him of how he'd hated Regulus just because he'd thought he should.
Harry thinks of Hepzibah Smith, pokes at her house-elf's memory like a sore tooth. Hermione has told him that the memory won't help, that Hepzibah Smith was just an old busybody who liked to collect shiny things, but with nothing else to go on, Harry can't help but pick apart the one thing he has.
"Do you really think he'd have hidden it where she was born?" Ron asks.
"I don't know," Harry admits, closing Hogwarts, A History with a snap. He doesn't mark his place, he knows the chapter on Helga Hufflepuff starts on page CDLVII. "I can't think of anything else."
"Yeah, all right," Ron says. "But we don't know where that is."
"Helga Hufflepuff was born in Germany," Hermione says suddenly. "Near what is now Munich. Her parents moved to Scotland when she was small to escape the witch trials."
"Germany," Harry repeats dumbly. Hermione nods, and he frowns. "How do you know that?"
"Oh, I read it somewhere," she replies lightly.
--
The pub is small and Muggle, with a sign over the door Harry can't read. It's fairly full; people are gathered around the long, wooden tables, chatting loudly, accompanied by the lilt of unfamiliar music. Harry wishes they could go someplace quieter, but Hermione had insisted on this place as soon as they passed it, and Harry is too tired from the long-distance Apparation to argue.
"Smells wonderful," Hermione says brightly, and Ron grumbles in a way that is vaguely agreeable. A large man with a bald head and a tea towel dangling from his apron pocket smiles at them from the till. Defeated, Harry sinks onto the bench across from Ron and Hermione and leans his chin on the palm of his hand.
Menus are leaning against the wall, heavy, cream-coloured paper with green print and crinkled corners, their edges tucked under a framed photograph of an old man with a monocle and a trumpet. Hermione pulls them free with a soft scrape and hands them around. Ron eyes his warily, and Harry lets his fall to the table.
"Aren't you hungry, Harry?" Hermione asks.
"I--"
"Guten Abend!"
There is a girl about their age hovering at the end of the table. She has hair the colour of straw, and strongly resembles the man at the till.
"Was kann ich ihnen zu trinken bringen?" she asks, and Harry stares at her helplessly. His German phrase-book is deadweight in his hand.
Hermione replies with a canned, tourist phrase that's almost in German. She doesn't stumble over the words, but they sound wrong, the consonants are too soft and the vowels are oddly stretched.
"English?" the girl asks brightly, and Hermione nods. "Will you have drinks? Food?"
--
The straw-haired girl brings them Muggle beer in large ceramic mugs with carved, pewter handles, and it smells the same as it had out of Uncle Vernon's bottles. Harry's never had it before, and after one sip, decides he never will again. It's sour, bitter like it has gone stale, and it's syrupy-thick on his tongue.
"I think we should wait until morning," Ron says. "I know you're in a hurry, mate, but we've no clue where we're going." He takes a pull of his beer, and makes a face like he sucked a lemon. "It'll be better if we can see what we're doing."
Harry mutters in agreement, because it's sound advice, even if he doesn't want to take it. He'd wanted to leave in the morning or early afternoon so it would be daylight when they arrived, but Hermione had delayed, Apparating here and there and sending off owls, and she hadn't been ready to leave until close to dinnertime.
"Does this place have rooms?" Harry asked.
"No, but there is a hostel not too far from here," Hermione replies. "It's a ten minute walk, and I think it's close to where we are going."
"You think?" Ron asks. He sets his mug down heavily, and beer sloshes over the side. "You said you knew where we're going!"
"I'm mostly sure," Hermione says sharply. "I need a map, and -- Viktor!"
Viktor Krum is standing at the end of their table. He's wearing Muggle clothes, jeans and a long-sleeve, and he favours Hermione with a smile that looks strange on his normally surly face.
"Hermy-own-ninny," Viktor says, nodding. "Harry." He walks around and sits on the bench next to Harry. "Veasley."
"What's he doing here?" Ron demands. He frowns at Viktor, and his hand tightens on the handle of his mug, his knuckles blooming white.
"I asked him to meet us," Hermione says simply. "He gave me the information on Hufflepuff."
"How would he know?"
"I haff cousin who married German man," Viktor replies. "It is known here. German Vizarding history." He pauses, fishing a folded parchment out of his pocket. "This is map you asked for, Hermy-own-ninny. The place you are going is short valk from the hostel."
"Thank you," she says. She opens it eagerly, then glances up, pushing her beer across the table to Viktor. "I haven't touched it," she explains, waving it off.
Viktor mumbles thanks and drinks deeply, swallowing nearly half of it down. He sets the mug aside and leans over the table, reaching for the map.
"Ve are here," he explains, pointing. "Hostel is here, and this," he adds, sketching out a small circle with tip of his finger, "this, is vare ve are going."
"We?" Ron asks. "He's coming with us?"
"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione snaps. "If you would just--"
"I vill not, if Veasley prefers," Viktor says, shrugging. "It is easy to find."
"That's not what you said," Hermione accuses. "You said it was well hidden, and that it would be easier if you came with us."
Viktor ducks his head, and takes another pull of Hermione's beer. "Not all true," Viktor admits. "Is vell hidden, but you can find it."
"Why did you insist on meeting us, then?" Hermione asks.
"Harry," Viktor says. "I must speak with him, alone."
--
The alley behind the pub is dark, shadows hanging heavily in the corners, and there is a slight chill to the air. Harry follows Viktor, keeping a few steps behind, rubbing irritably at his arms.
"What's this about, then?" he asks, when Viktor stops and leans against the wall.
"I haff message for you," Viktor replies. "From Karkaroff."
"Karkaroff is dead," Harry says.
"Yes." Viktor stiffens slightly, and Harry wishes he could take it back, wishes hadn't said it so lightly. He wishes he could see Viktor's eyes, wonders if there is sadness there, lurking behind the shadows and under his heavy brows. "He left me letter in his papers."
"Where?" Harry asks. "Let me see."
"Burned," Viktor says. "It vos not safe to keep it."
He pulls his wand from his pocket and casts a spell. The words are strange, foreign, but Harry recognises the soft tingle of a Silencing Charm settling in the air. Viktor hesitates, like he's unsure if he should speak, then leans close.
"He said for you to trust Snape."
The words hit Harry like a fist to the gut, and he stares a Viktor for a moment, speechless, unable to breathe.
"He killed Dumbledore!" Harry manages finally. "He killed Dumbledore because Malfoy couldn't do it himself!"
"Yes," Viktor agrees, nodding. "But it is not vot you think."
"What do you mean?" Harry demands. "I saw it happen. That's all there is too it."
"Karkaroff said Dumbledore arranged whole thing, with Snape," Viktor explains. He folds his arms across his chest, chews at the side of his thumb. "Vos only vay to save Malfoy's life, and keep Snape's secret."
"That's a crap trade, if you ask me," Harry snaps. Dumbledore had been the only hope the Order had. Without him, the Order is crippled, floundering, all because Malfoy had wanted Voldemort to think he was important.
"Dumbledore vos dying anyway," Viktor pauses, and makes a vague gesture. "This I do not understand -- something about his arm? Hand?"
Harry thinks of Dumbledore's fingers, blackened and burned, and shudders. "His hand," Harry says. "How did Karkaroff know all this?"
"Snape contacted Karkaroff, ven he heard vot Malfoy must do," Viktor explains. "He vanted Karkaroff to take Malfoy vare he vos hiding, vith his mother, but Malfoy refused. He did not trust Karkaroff to keep his mother safe."
--
Harry's head hurts, spins, and for a brief, almost hysterical moment, Harry wonders if he's dreaming, wonders if something went wrong with the Apparation, if he brought himself to some strange place where everything is backward, different. He doubts Viktor lured him all this way just to tell him lies, doesn't think Viktor would've played Hermione false, but what Viktor is saying is too opposite from what Harry saw with his own eyes -- the way Snape had looked when he raised his wand, the way Dumbledore had begged Snape for his life.
"You do not believe me," Viktor says quietly. It's not hurt or disappointed, just a statement of fact.
"I don't know," Harry admits. "Just, I was there. I know what I saw."
"I understand."
There is a silence then, uncomfortable and stretched, and Harry gropes around for something to say, wanting to fill the space with words, with anything. The moon creeps around the pub's roof, peeking out from behind a tree, and in the silver light Viktor's olive skin looks pale, washed out.
"I haff interest in your Order of the Phoenix," Viktor says suddenly. "I think, perhaps, I should join."
Harry's mouth falls open, but no words come out. He stares, floored, because it is the only thing he can do.
"Karkaroff is not the only one to die from my country," Viktor continues. His voice drops low, edged like a knife. "People are scared. There are curfews, patrols. There is talk of closing Durmstrang. No Quidditch in the fall."
"Quidditch," Harry repeats, dumbfounded. Quidditch had been canceled in his second year, because of the Chamber of Secrets, and Harry remembers the empty feeling the announcement had left him with, how it had destroyed an already delicate sense of normalcy.
"I like Quidditch," Viktor goes on. "It is fun, and better money than farming or keeping shop. But it seems..." he pauses, thoughtful, and his teeth crease his lower lip. "It seems unimportant now."
"How do you know about the Order?" Harry asks. He can't imagine Karkaroff would have known, from Snape or anyone else.
"Hermy-own-ninny tells me, in her letters," Viktor replies. "She thinks it vould help to have contacts in other countries."
"Oh!" Harry says, understanding suddenly. "That's what you two have been writing about."
"She wrote, asking if I'd learned of Hufflepuff at my school, anything you did not already know," Viktor says. "From that, ve talk of other things. Karkaroff, the Order." Viktor tilts his head, and the corners of his mouth twitch. "You think we were--"
"Ron did," Harry explains quickly. He's not sure he wants to have this conversation. "I didn't know. I never asked."
"Veasley and Hermy-own-ninny, they are together, yes?" Viktor asks, and his brows knit, which makes them look heavier.
"I'm not sure," Harry admits. "Honestly, I don't think they're sure. They argue a lot."
"About me?"
"About everything," Harry says, but he thinks Viktor is probably right. If he and Hermione have been writing consistently over the last few weeks, then Viktor likely has been the root cause of their arguments, even when they seemed unrelated on the surface.
"Veasley is very lucky," Viktor says.
"Yeah," Harry replies. "I guess."
"If they are together, then you are..." Viktor pauses, as if looking for the words. "You are -- vot is it -- the odd man out?"
"I was dating someone," Harry says. "Ron's sister, but it didn't work out."
"You left?" Viktor asks.
"I was worried," Harry says. "She said I was just being noble, and that, but I didn't think it was safe." He doesn't know why he's telling this to Viktor Krum, of all people, but once he starts, he can't stop. He's wanted to explain it to someone, anyone, wanted to say it out loud so it will make sense in his own head, but Hermione's been busy, and he's not sure it's something Ron wants to hear. "Voldemort's gone after her before, and I didn't want her to get hurt because of me."
"Vartime is bad time for that sort of thing," Viktor says. "For you, it is vorse, I am sure. You did right thing," he adds, nodding. "Veasley, is he angry vith you?"
"No, he's too busy being angry with you."
Viktor laughs quietly, a low rumbling sound that is rich, infectious, and Harry can't help but laugh with him. It feels good to laugh again, even over something completely ridiculous, and Harry welcomes the dull ache that spreads across his side.
"Veasley should not vorry," Viktor says finally. "Hermy-own-ninny is a nice girl, and very special, but she is not for me."
"Right," Harry says breathlessly. The wind whips up, coaxing smells from the pub's kitchen out into the alley, and his stomach growls. "We should go back."
"Hungry now?" Viktor asks, smiling. "I also could eat."
Harry steps forward just as Viktor pushes away from the wall. They collide, shoulders hitting chins hitting noses, and Harry grabs Viktor's arms to keep from falling, his fingers curling in the material of Viktor's shirt. Viktor's hands drop to Harry's waist, grasping, holding, and Viktor is close, too close.
"Ve can stay here, if you prefer," Viktor offers quietly.
Harry tries to reply to that, but he only manages a choked, strangled sound, and then there is silence, because Viktor is kissing him.
--
The wall is hard against Harry's back, his shirt snagging on the rough edges of the bricks, and Harry's not sure how Viktor came to be pressing him into it. He's not sure how Viktor's knee got wedged between his legs, but as Viktor's fingers curl tightly in the hair at the nape of his neck, he thinks distractedly that he'll kill him if he moves it.
Viktor's tongue pushes its way into Harry's mouth, hot and slick, with warm lips and the soft scrape of stubble across his jaw, and Harry gasps, his mouth falling open. The few times he'd kissed Ginny were nothing compared to this -- this is like flying blind, like kicking his broomstick straight up into a squall, and he pulls Viktor close, holds onto him like he's afraid he's going to fall.
He can't quite wrap his head around what he's doing, that he's kissing a boy, kissing Viktor Krum, behind a pub in Germany. They are out in the open, and anyone could pass by, anyone could see Viktor's hand curving around his arse, see his tongue flicking over Viktor's lips. It's no stranger than what Viktor had tried to tell him about Snape, but it's still crazy, still too much.
Viktor's fingers tangle in his hair, wrenching his head back against the wall, and then Viktor's mouth is on his neck, licking, sucking, a wet swipe of tongue punctuated by a soft scrape of teeth. Harry moans quietly, heat coursing through him, and he presses himself against Viktor's knee, rubbing his cock against Viktor's leg shamelessly.
Viktor growls low, his breath heavy and warm over Harry's skin, murmuring something rough and foreign, and Harry shivers, sparks curling up his spine. Viktor is hard against his hip, and Harry wants to touch, wants Viktor to touch him, wants to know what Viktor's broad, broom-callused hand would feel like wrapped around his cock.
Harry doesn't think he'll last that long, not with Viktor moving against him, pressure, friction, and heat, not with Viktor's hand dropping down to cover him, rubbing him through the rough material of his jeans. He pulls Viktor's head up for a kiss, their tongues sliding together harsh and fast, and pleasure coils tightly in his belly, his vision sparkling white and grey as he forgets how to breathe.
He doesn't want it to end yet, but he can't catch himself, can't stop himself, and as Viktor's tongue traces the shell of his ear he snaps, his control slipping away like Viktor's hair through his fingers. He comes hard, shuddering, rocking his hips up to push himself against the heel of Viktor's hand.
His release leaves him stripped, empty, and he's suddenly lazy, leaden, held up by Viktor and the wall. His hands are heavy, useless, but he makes them move, one catching Viktor by the hip, pulling him close, and the other dropping to Viktor's flies. Viktor's hand covers his before he can tug them open, pressing it down, and Viktor rubs against it hard and fast, then stills, moaning.
"Vartime is bad time for girls, and love," Viktor says quietly. "But is perfect time for this."
--
The Burrow is a sharp contrast from Germany, from the stark wood of the pub and the dull greys and browns of the hostel, from the quiet dilapidation of Helga Hufflepuff's childhood home. Mrs Weasley pulls Harry into a warm hug, chastising him for disappearing as she strokes a hand through his hair, and Hufflepuff's cup is cold in his hand.
"Honestly, Harry," Mrs Weasley chides. "I know you're old enough to do as you please, but you shouldn't just take off like that." She pulls back to frown evenly at Ron and Hermione. "Two days running, without so much as a note!"
"They're back and in one piece, Molly," Mr Weasley reminds. "That's all that matters."
"And who is this?" Mrs Weasley demands, turning her frown on Viktor.
"Viktor Krum," Harry says.
"Good Lord, are you really?" Mr Weasley asks, his eyes widening.
"Viktor wants to join the Order," Hermione announces. Mr and Mrs Weasley gasp, and next to Hermione, Ron bristles.
"Well, there's a meeting tomorrow, we can sort it out then," Mrs Weasley says. "For now, we need to find Viktor a place to sleep." She pauses thoughtfully, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hermione's in with Ginny, and Bill is here with Fleur, so Charlie will be in with Ron when he gets here tonight."
"What about the twins' old room?" Mr Weasley asks. "They won't be here until morning."
"Harry's in there already," Mrs Weasley says. "Viktor, you don't mind, do you?"
"No," Viktor says, smiling. "I vould be pleased to share with Harry."
--
Morning creeps in through the window, brightness muted by faded, handmade curtains. A small square of sunlight sneaks over the sill to dance on George's bed, flickering over blankets and pillows that are perfect, untouched.
A Cannon's poster watches from the walls, a souvenir from Ron's room, rude things written along the edges, mustaches and beards inked across the players' faces. Viktor sleeps behind Harry, snoring softly, his hand resting lightly on Harry's hip.
"You never told me he was writing you about the Order!" Ron shouts, possibly from the back garden. Harry thinks sleepily that it's too early.
"You never asked!" Hermione counters. Harry knows her hands are on her hips just from the tone of her voice. "You just wanted to make assumptions! Assumptions that were completely false, I might add."
"You can't be angry at me, Hermione!" Ron returns. "You never told me."
"I can be as angry as I want, Ronald Weasley," Hermione says. "And I will be, until you learn to stop and think!"
Viktor makes a sleepy sound against Harry's neck and shifts, pressing closer. His hand tightens on Harry's hip, and his cock is hard against Harry's arse. Yawning, Harry stretches, reaching for his wand, and closes the window with a lazy flick of his wrist.
FIN
Pairing: Harry/Viktor
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~4100
A/N: Written for the ficathon at
triwizard_slash, request #5 -- Harry/Viktor; post-Hogwarts, anything rated PG13 or higher!. Thanks to darkasphodel and happiestwhen for the beta. ::
They're arguing again.
Cannons posters watch Harry from the walls, flickering like fire, and Ron's Cannons bedspread is rough against his legs. The orange is constant, encompassing, so bright and sharp it makes Harry's head throb, and it seems to amplify the noise downstairs.
"But why, Hermione?" Ron demands, harsh and rough. He's muffled only slightly by the floor, and Harry knows the vein in Ron's forehead is pulsing. "Why is he writing you?"
"It doesn't mean anything, Ronald Weasley," Hermione replies shrilly. Her voice darts up the stairs, circling Ron's room before ringing in Harry's ears. "We're just friends."
The air ripples with magic, cracking open to dump Fred and George at the foot of Ron's bed. There is a bit of a tussle as the tangle of freckled limbs sorts itself into two separate people, and Harry waits, plucking absently at a loose orange thread.
"Friends, my arse!" Ron shouts. "I don't like it, Hermione. I don't like it at all!"
"Ah, the sweet sounds of young love," Fred says, gesturing grandly.
George snickers and elbows Fred in the ribs. "Warms your heart, doesn't it?"
Sighing, Harry flops back on the bed and puts Ron's Cannons pillow over his head.
--
The sun is large, unyielding, and sweat beads on Harry's forehead, running down his cheeks. Ron is thirsty, Hermione is tired, and Godric's Hollow is larger street to street than it had seemed on the map Remus drew them.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Ron asks. He sounds more than a bit peevish, and Harry can't blame him.
"Yeah, it has to be," Harry murmurs. "It has to be." He scrubs a hand through his damp, sticky hair, and sighs. "We're just not looking in the right place."
"What if we can't see it?" Ron asks. "I mean, your parents had a... Pettrigrew was..." he gnaws at his lower lip and makes a vague gesture with his hand. "What if it's still hidden?"
"Couldn't be," Hermione replies. She shakes her head, and her hair sways heavily. "The spell was broken once Pettigrew told Voldemort where to find them. Their house might still he hidden from Muggles, but it's no longer under a Fidelius."
"Right," Harry says. "That means we can find it." He pulls Remus' map from his pocket, frowning at the mire of twisted lines. A sweaty thumbprint smudges Hollow Crescent into Hollow Drive, and Godric Road ambles off the parchment in an ominous way.
Harry lets his arm fall, the map scraping against his jeans. He shivers, gooseflesh erupting on his arms in spite of the heat, and the map flutters softly to the ground. Harry stoops to retrieve it, crumpling the edge in his fist as he stares at a crack in the pavement.
It scores the square of cement in half, meandering diagonally from corner to corner. It seems out of place in this neat, sleepy little town, seems the kind of thing the residents would have put to rights immediately. He shivers again, stares at it so long Ron nudges him with his elbow.
"You all right, mate?" Ron asks. "Maybe we should come back later, when it's not so hot."
"No," Harry replies, following the crack with his eyes. It veers off the pavement just shy of the upper right corner, pointing between two houses. "Here," Harry says. "Here. It's here."
Ron and Hermione exchange confused looks, but Harry smiles. He takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed, and steps off the pavement, the heel of his trainer squeaking roughly against the edge.
Harry pictures his parents' house as tall and grand, two storeys tall with stone pillars supporting the peaked roof, and he pictures it small and neat, a cosy cottage with faded paint and flowers planted under the windows. He pictures it cold and clean like number four Privet Drive, so uninviting that sourness spreads across his tongue.
He opens his eyes, and cannot breathe. He has never known what he would find, but all the times he has imagined this day, he has never expected to find nothing.
Harry stands in the centre of what's left of the foundation, still and silent. Ron pokes around the rubble, overturning chunks of stone with the toe of his shoe. Hermione curls up against a small, standing section of wall, spreads a piece of parchment across her lap, and begins to write.
--
When she started her House-elf campaign, Hermione had called Hogwarts, A History abridged and edited, and Harry is starting to think this is true. It has a chapter on each of the Founders, outlining their virtues and good deeds for close to four hundred pages combined, but it makes no mention of what they did for a living before they founded Hogwarts, where they grew up, or where they were born.
Slytherin's locket is cold and heavy in Harry's hand. It's round and smooth, a perfect circle, but the edge bites sharply into Harry's palm. He hides it there anyway, because it's easier not to look at it. The gold has tarnished to the color of Firewhisky, and it reminds him of Sirius, reminds him of how he'd hated Regulus just because he'd thought he should.
Harry thinks of Hepzibah Smith, pokes at her house-elf's memory like a sore tooth. Hermione has told him that the memory won't help, that Hepzibah Smith was just an old busybody who liked to collect shiny things, but with nothing else to go on, Harry can't help but pick apart the one thing he has.
"Do you really think he'd have hidden it where she was born?" Ron asks.
"I don't know," Harry admits, closing Hogwarts, A History with a snap. He doesn't mark his place, he knows the chapter on Helga Hufflepuff starts on page CDLVII. "I can't think of anything else."
"Yeah, all right," Ron says. "But we don't know where that is."
"Helga Hufflepuff was born in Germany," Hermione says suddenly. "Near what is now Munich. Her parents moved to Scotland when she was small to escape the witch trials."
"Germany," Harry repeats dumbly. Hermione nods, and he frowns. "How do you know that?"
"Oh, I read it somewhere," she replies lightly.
--
The pub is small and Muggle, with a sign over the door Harry can't read. It's fairly full; people are gathered around the long, wooden tables, chatting loudly, accompanied by the lilt of unfamiliar music. Harry wishes they could go someplace quieter, but Hermione had insisted on this place as soon as they passed it, and Harry is too tired from the long-distance Apparation to argue.
"Smells wonderful," Hermione says brightly, and Ron grumbles in a way that is vaguely agreeable. A large man with a bald head and a tea towel dangling from his apron pocket smiles at them from the till. Defeated, Harry sinks onto the bench across from Ron and Hermione and leans his chin on the palm of his hand.
Menus are leaning against the wall, heavy, cream-coloured paper with green print and crinkled corners, their edges tucked under a framed photograph of an old man with a monocle and a trumpet. Hermione pulls them free with a soft scrape and hands them around. Ron eyes his warily, and Harry lets his fall to the table.
"Aren't you hungry, Harry?" Hermione asks.
"I--"
"Guten Abend!"
There is a girl about their age hovering at the end of the table. She has hair the colour of straw, and strongly resembles the man at the till.
"Was kann ich ihnen zu trinken bringen?" she asks, and Harry stares at her helplessly. His German phrase-book is deadweight in his hand.
Hermione replies with a canned, tourist phrase that's almost in German. She doesn't stumble over the words, but they sound wrong, the consonants are too soft and the vowels are oddly stretched.
"English?" the girl asks brightly, and Hermione nods. "Will you have drinks? Food?"
--
The straw-haired girl brings them Muggle beer in large ceramic mugs with carved, pewter handles, and it smells the same as it had out of Uncle Vernon's bottles. Harry's never had it before, and after one sip, decides he never will again. It's sour, bitter like it has gone stale, and it's syrupy-thick on his tongue.
"I think we should wait until morning," Ron says. "I know you're in a hurry, mate, but we've no clue where we're going." He takes a pull of his beer, and makes a face like he sucked a lemon. "It'll be better if we can see what we're doing."
Harry mutters in agreement, because it's sound advice, even if he doesn't want to take it. He'd wanted to leave in the morning or early afternoon so it would be daylight when they arrived, but Hermione had delayed, Apparating here and there and sending off owls, and she hadn't been ready to leave until close to dinnertime.
"Does this place have rooms?" Harry asked.
"No, but there is a hostel not too far from here," Hermione replies. "It's a ten minute walk, and I think it's close to where we are going."
"You think?" Ron asks. He sets his mug down heavily, and beer sloshes over the side. "You said you knew where we're going!"
"I'm mostly sure," Hermione says sharply. "I need a map, and -- Viktor!"
Viktor Krum is standing at the end of their table. He's wearing Muggle clothes, jeans and a long-sleeve, and he favours Hermione with a smile that looks strange on his normally surly face.
"Hermy-own-ninny," Viktor says, nodding. "Harry." He walks around and sits on the bench next to Harry. "Veasley."
"What's he doing here?" Ron demands. He frowns at Viktor, and his hand tightens on the handle of his mug, his knuckles blooming white.
"I asked him to meet us," Hermione says simply. "He gave me the information on Hufflepuff."
"How would he know?"
"I haff cousin who married German man," Viktor replies. "It is known here. German Vizarding history." He pauses, fishing a folded parchment out of his pocket. "This is map you asked for, Hermy-own-ninny. The place you are going is short valk from the hostel."
"Thank you," she says. She opens it eagerly, then glances up, pushing her beer across the table to Viktor. "I haven't touched it," she explains, waving it off.
Viktor mumbles thanks and drinks deeply, swallowing nearly half of it down. He sets the mug aside and leans over the table, reaching for the map.
"Ve are here," he explains, pointing. "Hostel is here, and this," he adds, sketching out a small circle with tip of his finger, "this, is vare ve are going."
"We?" Ron asks. "He's coming with us?"
"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione snaps. "If you would just--"
"I vill not, if Veasley prefers," Viktor says, shrugging. "It is easy to find."
"That's not what you said," Hermione accuses. "You said it was well hidden, and that it would be easier if you came with us."
Viktor ducks his head, and takes another pull of Hermione's beer. "Not all true," Viktor admits. "Is vell hidden, but you can find it."
"Why did you insist on meeting us, then?" Hermione asks.
"Harry," Viktor says. "I must speak with him, alone."
--
The alley behind the pub is dark, shadows hanging heavily in the corners, and there is a slight chill to the air. Harry follows Viktor, keeping a few steps behind, rubbing irritably at his arms.
"What's this about, then?" he asks, when Viktor stops and leans against the wall.
"I haff message for you," Viktor replies. "From Karkaroff."
"Karkaroff is dead," Harry says.
"Yes." Viktor stiffens slightly, and Harry wishes he could take it back, wishes hadn't said it so lightly. He wishes he could see Viktor's eyes, wonders if there is sadness there, lurking behind the shadows and under his heavy brows. "He left me letter in his papers."
"Where?" Harry asks. "Let me see."
"Burned," Viktor says. "It vos not safe to keep it."
He pulls his wand from his pocket and casts a spell. The words are strange, foreign, but Harry recognises the soft tingle of a Silencing Charm settling in the air. Viktor hesitates, like he's unsure if he should speak, then leans close.
"He said for you to trust Snape."
The words hit Harry like a fist to the gut, and he stares a Viktor for a moment, speechless, unable to breathe.
"He killed Dumbledore!" Harry manages finally. "He killed Dumbledore because Malfoy couldn't do it himself!"
"Yes," Viktor agrees, nodding. "But it is not vot you think."
"What do you mean?" Harry demands. "I saw it happen. That's all there is too it."
"Karkaroff said Dumbledore arranged whole thing, with Snape," Viktor explains. He folds his arms across his chest, chews at the side of his thumb. "Vos only vay to save Malfoy's life, and keep Snape's secret."
"That's a crap trade, if you ask me," Harry snaps. Dumbledore had been the only hope the Order had. Without him, the Order is crippled, floundering, all because Malfoy had wanted Voldemort to think he was important.
"Dumbledore vos dying anyway," Viktor pauses, and makes a vague gesture. "This I do not understand -- something about his arm? Hand?"
Harry thinks of Dumbledore's fingers, blackened and burned, and shudders. "His hand," Harry says. "How did Karkaroff know all this?"
"Snape contacted Karkaroff, ven he heard vot Malfoy must do," Viktor explains. "He vanted Karkaroff to take Malfoy vare he vos hiding, vith his mother, but Malfoy refused. He did not trust Karkaroff to keep his mother safe."
--
Harry's head hurts, spins, and for a brief, almost hysterical moment, Harry wonders if he's dreaming, wonders if something went wrong with the Apparation, if he brought himself to some strange place where everything is backward, different. He doubts Viktor lured him all this way just to tell him lies, doesn't think Viktor would've played Hermione false, but what Viktor is saying is too opposite from what Harry saw with his own eyes -- the way Snape had looked when he raised his wand, the way Dumbledore had begged Snape for his life.
"You do not believe me," Viktor says quietly. It's not hurt or disappointed, just a statement of fact.
"I don't know," Harry admits. "Just, I was there. I know what I saw."
"I understand."
There is a silence then, uncomfortable and stretched, and Harry gropes around for something to say, wanting to fill the space with words, with anything. The moon creeps around the pub's roof, peeking out from behind a tree, and in the silver light Viktor's olive skin looks pale, washed out.
"I haff interest in your Order of the Phoenix," Viktor says suddenly. "I think, perhaps, I should join."
Harry's mouth falls open, but no words come out. He stares, floored, because it is the only thing he can do.
"Karkaroff is not the only one to die from my country," Viktor continues. His voice drops low, edged like a knife. "People are scared. There are curfews, patrols. There is talk of closing Durmstrang. No Quidditch in the fall."
"Quidditch," Harry repeats, dumbfounded. Quidditch had been canceled in his second year, because of the Chamber of Secrets, and Harry remembers the empty feeling the announcement had left him with, how it had destroyed an already delicate sense of normalcy.
"I like Quidditch," Viktor goes on. "It is fun, and better money than farming or keeping shop. But it seems..." he pauses, thoughtful, and his teeth crease his lower lip. "It seems unimportant now."
"How do you know about the Order?" Harry asks. He can't imagine Karkaroff would have known, from Snape or anyone else.
"Hermy-own-ninny tells me, in her letters," Viktor replies. "She thinks it vould help to have contacts in other countries."
"Oh!" Harry says, understanding suddenly. "That's what you two have been writing about."
"She wrote, asking if I'd learned of Hufflepuff at my school, anything you did not already know," Viktor says. "From that, ve talk of other things. Karkaroff, the Order." Viktor tilts his head, and the corners of his mouth twitch. "You think we were--"
"Ron did," Harry explains quickly. He's not sure he wants to have this conversation. "I didn't know. I never asked."
"Veasley and Hermy-own-ninny, they are together, yes?" Viktor asks, and his brows knit, which makes them look heavier.
"I'm not sure," Harry admits. "Honestly, I don't think they're sure. They argue a lot."
"About me?"
"About everything," Harry says, but he thinks Viktor is probably right. If he and Hermione have been writing consistently over the last few weeks, then Viktor likely has been the root cause of their arguments, even when they seemed unrelated on the surface.
"Veasley is very lucky," Viktor says.
"Yeah," Harry replies. "I guess."
"If they are together, then you are..." Viktor pauses, as if looking for the words. "You are -- vot is it -- the odd man out?"
"I was dating someone," Harry says. "Ron's sister, but it didn't work out."
"You left?" Viktor asks.
"I was worried," Harry says. "She said I was just being noble, and that, but I didn't think it was safe." He doesn't know why he's telling this to Viktor Krum, of all people, but once he starts, he can't stop. He's wanted to explain it to someone, anyone, wanted to say it out loud so it will make sense in his own head, but Hermione's been busy, and he's not sure it's something Ron wants to hear. "Voldemort's gone after her before, and I didn't want her to get hurt because of me."
"Vartime is bad time for that sort of thing," Viktor says. "For you, it is vorse, I am sure. You did right thing," he adds, nodding. "Veasley, is he angry vith you?"
"No, he's too busy being angry with you."
Viktor laughs quietly, a low rumbling sound that is rich, infectious, and Harry can't help but laugh with him. It feels good to laugh again, even over something completely ridiculous, and Harry welcomes the dull ache that spreads across his side.
"Veasley should not vorry," Viktor says finally. "Hermy-own-ninny is a nice girl, and very special, but she is not for me."
"Right," Harry says breathlessly. The wind whips up, coaxing smells from the pub's kitchen out into the alley, and his stomach growls. "We should go back."
"Hungry now?" Viktor asks, smiling. "I also could eat."
Harry steps forward just as Viktor pushes away from the wall. They collide, shoulders hitting chins hitting noses, and Harry grabs Viktor's arms to keep from falling, his fingers curling in the material of Viktor's shirt. Viktor's hands drop to Harry's waist, grasping, holding, and Viktor is close, too close.
"Ve can stay here, if you prefer," Viktor offers quietly.
Harry tries to reply to that, but he only manages a choked, strangled sound, and then there is silence, because Viktor is kissing him.
--
The wall is hard against Harry's back, his shirt snagging on the rough edges of the bricks, and Harry's not sure how Viktor came to be pressing him into it. He's not sure how Viktor's knee got wedged between his legs, but as Viktor's fingers curl tightly in the hair at the nape of his neck, he thinks distractedly that he'll kill him if he moves it.
Viktor's tongue pushes its way into Harry's mouth, hot and slick, with warm lips and the soft scrape of stubble across his jaw, and Harry gasps, his mouth falling open. The few times he'd kissed Ginny were nothing compared to this -- this is like flying blind, like kicking his broomstick straight up into a squall, and he pulls Viktor close, holds onto him like he's afraid he's going to fall.
He can't quite wrap his head around what he's doing, that he's kissing a boy, kissing Viktor Krum, behind a pub in Germany. They are out in the open, and anyone could pass by, anyone could see Viktor's hand curving around his arse, see his tongue flicking over Viktor's lips. It's no stranger than what Viktor had tried to tell him about Snape, but it's still crazy, still too much.
Viktor's fingers tangle in his hair, wrenching his head back against the wall, and then Viktor's mouth is on his neck, licking, sucking, a wet swipe of tongue punctuated by a soft scrape of teeth. Harry moans quietly, heat coursing through him, and he presses himself against Viktor's knee, rubbing his cock against Viktor's leg shamelessly.
Viktor growls low, his breath heavy and warm over Harry's skin, murmuring something rough and foreign, and Harry shivers, sparks curling up his spine. Viktor is hard against his hip, and Harry wants to touch, wants Viktor to touch him, wants to know what Viktor's broad, broom-callused hand would feel like wrapped around his cock.
Harry doesn't think he'll last that long, not with Viktor moving against him, pressure, friction, and heat, not with Viktor's hand dropping down to cover him, rubbing him through the rough material of his jeans. He pulls Viktor's head up for a kiss, their tongues sliding together harsh and fast, and pleasure coils tightly in his belly, his vision sparkling white and grey as he forgets how to breathe.
He doesn't want it to end yet, but he can't catch himself, can't stop himself, and as Viktor's tongue traces the shell of his ear he snaps, his control slipping away like Viktor's hair through his fingers. He comes hard, shuddering, rocking his hips up to push himself against the heel of Viktor's hand.
His release leaves him stripped, empty, and he's suddenly lazy, leaden, held up by Viktor and the wall. His hands are heavy, useless, but he makes them move, one catching Viktor by the hip, pulling him close, and the other dropping to Viktor's flies. Viktor's hand covers his before he can tug them open, pressing it down, and Viktor rubs against it hard and fast, then stills, moaning.
"Vartime is bad time for girls, and love," Viktor says quietly. "But is perfect time for this."
--
The Burrow is a sharp contrast from Germany, from the stark wood of the pub and the dull greys and browns of the hostel, from the quiet dilapidation of Helga Hufflepuff's childhood home. Mrs Weasley pulls Harry into a warm hug, chastising him for disappearing as she strokes a hand through his hair, and Hufflepuff's cup is cold in his hand.
"Honestly, Harry," Mrs Weasley chides. "I know you're old enough to do as you please, but you shouldn't just take off like that." She pulls back to frown evenly at Ron and Hermione. "Two days running, without so much as a note!"
"They're back and in one piece, Molly," Mr Weasley reminds. "That's all that matters."
"And who is this?" Mrs Weasley demands, turning her frown on Viktor.
"Viktor Krum," Harry says.
"Good Lord, are you really?" Mr Weasley asks, his eyes widening.
"Viktor wants to join the Order," Hermione announces. Mr and Mrs Weasley gasp, and next to Hermione, Ron bristles.
"Well, there's a meeting tomorrow, we can sort it out then," Mrs Weasley says. "For now, we need to find Viktor a place to sleep." She pauses thoughtfully, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hermione's in with Ginny, and Bill is here with Fleur, so Charlie will be in with Ron when he gets here tonight."
"What about the twins' old room?" Mr Weasley asks. "They won't be here until morning."
"Harry's in there already," Mrs Weasley says. "Viktor, you don't mind, do you?"
"No," Viktor says, smiling. "I vould be pleased to share with Harry."
--
Morning creeps in through the window, brightness muted by faded, handmade curtains. A small square of sunlight sneaks over the sill to dance on George's bed, flickering over blankets and pillows that are perfect, untouched.
A Cannon's poster watches from the walls, a souvenir from Ron's room, rude things written along the edges, mustaches and beards inked across the players' faces. Viktor sleeps behind Harry, snoring softly, his hand resting lightly on Harry's hip.
"You never told me he was writing you about the Order!" Ron shouts, possibly from the back garden. Harry thinks sleepily that it's too early.
"You never asked!" Hermione counters. Harry knows her hands are on her hips just from the tone of her voice. "You just wanted to make assumptions! Assumptions that were completely false, I might add."
"You can't be angry at me, Hermione!" Ron returns. "You never told me."
"I can be as angry as I want, Ronald Weasley," Hermione says. "And I will be, until you learn to stop and think!"
Viktor makes a sleepy sound against Harry's neck and shifts, pressing closer. His hand tightens on Harry's hip, and his cock is hard against Harry's arse. Yawning, Harry stretches, reaching for his wand, and closes the window with a lazy flick of his wrist.