Hi everyone! It's been a very long time since I posted something on this website. Since then I've started navigating the world of parenthood, so time isn't really my own anymore. However, this pandemic has given me an opportunity to try and dabble in an old passion.

This story will reflect the burgeoning relationship of two young people, and so will be as awkward and slow as you would expect. While this is rated M, I intend to be respectful of Hermione's young age until the right moment.. I hope you enjoy.

A/N: I know that it's thought the Quidditch World Cup was hosted in Devon, but for the purpose of this story I've set it in the Lake District. Please roll with it. I don't own the characters or JK's plot for chapters late on, and this applies to all chapters henceforth.

It was to be their secret.

Mr Weasley's letter had arrived a few days after her return from Hogwarts and had taken her completely by surprise.

An internship. Something Hermione had never dared to dream of. She knew how tough the application process was to be taken on at the Ministry for a summer, so she'd never believed she had a shot at one, especially not at her age. In her first year she'd come across the details within The British Ministry of Magic: A 21st Century Guide and discovered that only a handful of witches and wizards were taken on each year, more often than not coming about through knowing the right person or having the right blood.

However, somehow, Arthur Weasley had achieved the impossible. Feeling entirely indebted to her for the role she'd played in saving Ginny's life in her second year, Mr Weasley had followed up on an offhand comment she'd made at The Leaky Cauldron the previous summer. Despite all notions that Arthur was a gentle-soul, it turned out he was quite crafty when he wanted to be. He'd pulled a few strings here and there with a Mr L. Bagman, dropped comments about her abilities into conversation with the 'right' people and repeatedly left copies of Hermione's exam transcript lying about in Mr Fudge's in-tray.

After he'd sent over a contract they exchanged a few brief, strictly informative letters before the one from Ludo had arrived. The wizard reminded her of an older Ronald - ninety percent of his scrawl described his eager anticipation of the World Cup, while the remaining ten percent, crammed in small text at the bottom of the parchment as an afterthought, shared practical details on when, where and how she was expected.

She had asked, of course, why her. The opportunity had presented itself via a memo to all staff and she'd been the perfect candidate in his mind. Mr Weasley had replied simply that his children were too invested. Hermione, on the other hand, couldn't care less about Quidditch. For the first time in her life her lack of interest was being viewed as a positive thing in the Wizarding World.

So, it was for that reason that Hermione Granger was hovering uncertainly outside Oxenholme Railway Station with a worn Tripp suitcase and a bulging tote bag containing multiple spell books on Wizarding Event Management. The few Muggles that were travelling to the Lake District on that warm July evening eyed her curiously before hopping into waiting cars, disappearing off into the still English countryside.

A loud crack announced the arrival of one of her own. A balding, ginger wizard had just appeared behind a collection of industrial-sized bins, rubbing his hands together and taking in his surroundings with a slightly bemused expression.

'Mr Weasley!' Hermione called in relief and began to shuffle towards her best friend's father.

'Hermione! Sorry I'm late, there was a small... explosion at The Burrow. Fred and George...' Mr Weasley's wistful voice echoed through the silence of the now empty railway station. 'Anyway, ready to get going?'

Hermione nodded as Mr Weasley bent to take hold of her suitcase handle. His face broke into delight when he saw the little wheels and he crouched to examine them, spinning the dusty axels with his index finger.

'Mr Weasley?'

'Hm? Oh, yes. The matter at hand.' Mr Weasley gesticulated towards the bins and the two disappeared behind the Kendal Council bin where only a crushed Coke can was waiting.

Mr Weasley squeezed her shoulder encouragingly and nodded towards the crumpled can. 'A Portkey to the Organisers' camp.'

Hermione had read about these last summer. A magical invention for discretely transporting individuals between locations - quite ingenious, really. She tugged at the collar of her white blouse, detaching the cotton material from her clammy skin, before shuffling around to position herself before the portkey. Together they knelt beside the inconspicuous object, Hermione hugging her books to her chest and Mr Weasley grappling to maintain hold of her weighty suitcase. She felt a nauseating jerk below her navel and the backdrop of the sleepy Oxenholme station was replaced with a spinning mash of green and blue.

Hermione huffed as she fought to keep her watering eyes open. It was like no sensation she'd experienced before and it wasn't pleasant at all. Sprawling, empty fields were coming into view... followed by an orderly row of huge grey tents trimmed in gold and purple. The Ministry of Magic seal was visible on each at the section where the tent vestibule opened. It was quite a sight, even from her position sprawled on the ground having landed bum first.

She'd just managed to pull herself to her feet when a rather harassed looking Percy Weasley scuttled in front of the unlikely pair.

'Father, you're late!' Percy snapped. 'We've been waiting for you to arrive so we can start the meeting. Mr Crouch isn't best pleased.'

'Now, now Percy. I got waylaid.. your mother...'

Mr Weasley wasn't allowed to finish. Percy ushered them towards the furthest tent in the long line and began to fuss with his robes before pressing into the doorway with his usual righteous air. Hermione followed nervously.

The tent vestibule opened to reveal an extraordinary sight. A table of nearly equal length to that of the Gryffindor dining table was filled with the strangest group of Wizards and Witches Hermione had ever seen. Ministry officials of every size, shape and nationality were jostling happily, sharing exuberant toasts and exchanging anecdotes from their work on the stadium she'd spotted looming in the distance. Their dress ranged from formal dress robes to faded, home-team Quidditch jerseys to colourful traditional outfits, but they all had an air of belonging. The table was lined with jam jars containing floating flames of deep blue, as well as plates laden with a generous picnic-style spread. Hermione thought that if she were to close her eyes and just listen to the raucous noise she could've easily been at the Hogwarts welcome feast.

Percy resumed his place beside Barty Crouch, the dour looking wizard who had the place of honour beside the Minister for Magic. Mr Weasley and Hermione squeezed in beside the man she quickly realised to be Ludo Bagman before the commotion hushed to a gentle whisper.

Mr Fudge rose to his feet.

'Welcome, welcome all…' He eyed the two rows of officials that were now regarding him with anticipation. 'I'm delighted that we're all here tonight to celebrate a year's worth of hard work… We ought to have some time to recognise all that has got us to this stage. Tomorrow we begin with renewed vigour, bringing the vision of the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee to life…'

Mr Fudge's speech went on… and on. Hermione listened to every word with fervent respect, Mr Weasley and Mr Bagman leaning down to whisper comments and explanations in her ear every now and then. Finally the Minister clapped his hands together and encouraged his friends from near and far to eat, drink and be merry.

The evening was pleasant; Hermione was guided enthusiastically around the room by Mr Weasley, introduced as Ludo Bagman's assistant to every Wizard and Witch who would listen and given the low-down on what to expect by a talkative Peruvian warlock. She joined a heated debate on the regulation of underage wizardry at international events and was even asked for her opinion. She was being treated as an adult, as an equal. It was… wonderful.

As Mr Weasley showed her to her personal tent later that evening she was filled with eager anticipation for the weeks ahead. She unpacked slowly, thinking back to the lengthy list of items Mr Fudge had laid out as being necessary for their success. They had just under a month before the early-bird guests would arrive at the camp, and while the stadium was nearing completion, there was still a lot to be done. There was complex magic to be witnessed, learning to be done, experts to engage with… Hermione's head hit the pillow and she shivered with the prospect of it all. Could it get better than this?

…

The next week flew by in a dizzying haze of information, long hours and intricate new spells. Hermione rose at the crack of dawn with the task-force Mr Crouch and Ludo Bagman had borrowed from the Ministries of the participating nations. She had special privileges, of course, and escaped the majority of the intensive physical work. Monday had seen her shadowing an imposing Ministry Witch who had been charged with matching names and tickets to tent pitching spots, while Hermione had been responsible for ensuring the plot sizes reflected the price each attendee was expected to pay, as well as their team allegiances (if known). It wouldn't bode well to put a Bulgarian family in a patch surrounded by Irish supporters… even Hermione knew that.

On Tuesday she flitted between charming campsite maps to organising the Merchandise stand, magically designating queuing areas and ensuring the stands were separated according to team colours. That morning had come to an abrupt end as the latest shipment of Bulgarian scarves she had been assigning to their corresponding hooks had displayed a latent jinx from their origin. It had been a harmless joke no doubt, but Hermione had ended up wrestling with a crate of woollen menaces determined to wind themselves around her extremities. A group of nearby Austrian Wizards had come rushing to her aid and she'd been packed off to the Found and Lost tent while they dealt with the damage.

She'd spent a happy Wednesday afternoon with Mr Ollivander in the Wand Repair tent, earnestly copying down his methodology verbatim as he took her through the complex process of mending a splintered wand while an embarrassed Scottish Wizard looked on shame-faced. Thursday had brought about a stint in the Medical Tent under the supervision of a charismatic young healer by the name of Thomas McCarthy. He was a fierce fan of the Irish side and wasted no time in unabashedly trying to sway Hermione's (undecided) allegiance as she assisted him in stocking shelves, organising medicinal potions and categorising resources. They chatted easily for the whole day, and continued conversing about his Mastery in Healing over dinner.

By the time Mr Weasley tracked her down on Friday lunchtime she'd established a routine for herself. She threw herself into work from six am to the early hours of the evening, taking meals with her colleagues in the Organisers' tent and spending her evenings curled up in a camping chair by the communal fire, writing letters to her parents and keeping a diary of her experiences. For the duration or her internship she was permitted to do magic under the close supervision of Ministry officials and so she had already filled pages and pages of her diary with new spells for all manner of uses. She was noting down a charm for repelling dirt when Mr Weasley came ambling into view.

'Ludo has been looking for you all morning! There's going to be a big announcement outside the Organisers' Tent. Mr Fudge has some exciting news!'

While Hermione doubted that Ludo had made any effort to find her, he had written her schedule after all, she could feel the impatient excitement radiating from Mr Weasley. She had to jog to keep up as they joined the crush of wizards and witches heading for the communal area, many of them speculating aloud about the reason for the disruption. Everyone was crowding around the blackboard that counted down the days until guests arrived, bustling and knocking each other in their hysteria. Mr Fudge's voice boomed out over the crowd, amplified by a Sonorous charm. Silence fell.

'Friends… please. Just a moment of your time. I have just been informed, though it seems many of you already know…' Mr Fudge's face broke into an indulgent smile, 'Over the next few days we can all expect the arrival of our finalists. It has just been confirmed that the Bulgarian and Irish teams will be joining us here to adjust and try out your fantastic stadium ahead of the match.'

Hermione's bubble burst. Over the last week she'd been able to lose herself in the magic surrounding her on a daily basis and worry about little else. Now, it seemed, it was all going to change. While there had always been a persistent hum of excitement about the upcoming final and she'd had to endure prattle about the opposing sides and gossiping about a seeker called Krum, she'd so far managed to focus almost entirely on the job at hand. However, she could already sense the shift in the crowd's mood. Every mind was back on Quidditch and it'd be like being back with Harry and Ron, listening to the endless baloney of broom specs and team formations. Would she be able to speak to anyone without the conversation turning to the sport? She doubted it. She shouldn't be bitter - this was, in part, the reason Mr Weasley had trusted her with this secret. She'd not been able to tell Harry or Ron about her internship and Mr Weasley had had to disappear every evening back to The Burrow, pretending he'd not had a glimpse of their friend. It was silly, really, but she still felt the pangs of bitterness in her chest.

Hermione returned, crestfallen, to the Information Tent and tried to ignore the charged atmosphere around her. The programmes she'd been replicating earlier lay forgotten on the table for a long time.

…

Hermione threw herself into her to-do list over the next few days. She'd been recognised publicly at the previous evening's committee dinner for her accomplished warding spells on the campsite manager's toll office which had worked wonders on her irritable mood. Any muggles other than Mr Roberts or Mr Payne approaching the office, and therefore the entrance to the site, would immediately remember an urgent dentist appointment. That had been Hermione's personal touch and it made her smile to think of how much her parents would enjoy that joke. She was now fast becoming a familiar face on site and felt part of a large family working towards a shared goal. She was greeted genially everywhere she went, and all of the Ministry staff were more than happy to take her under their wing and show her their area of responsibility.

The Tuesday following Mr Fudge's dramatic announcement Hermione stood, once again, in the Information Tent, hands on each hip, determinedly attempting to charm a large display board into dynamically presenting FAQs.

Someone behind her cleared their throat and drew her from her thoughts. She jumped and spun round on a heel to face the intruder, a squeak escaping her lips. A boy of roughly seventeen or eighteen was watching her curiously. He looked… familiar.

'Sorry…' He took a step towards her and put his hands up in a shy apology.

Hermione's heart was pounding and her ears were beginning to burn as a deep blush spread across her features.

'Ah, I scare you.' Amusement sparked in the boy's dark eyes but he didn't lower his hands. His voice was heavily accented. 'I vos not meaning to.'

Hermione didn't know what to say. This boy was the first person remotely near her age that she'd seen since her arrival at the campsite. He was tall, fairly thin and very broad shouldered. His skin was a pale, sallow colour, though he was sporting the rich tan of someone who had spent the last few months almost exclusively outdoors. She thought she might have even spotted a few freckles on his curved nose - it looked like it had been broken a fair few times. He wasn't traditionally handsome, but there was something alluring in his stark, strong features. A pair of ebony eyes flittered across her face as she openly appraised him.

'Can I help you?' Hermione broke the silence that was now threatening to become uncomfortable. Maybe he was the son of one of the foreign officials helping with the set up? She certainly hadn't seen him before.

The boy returned his hands to his side and approached the desk she had fast claimed as her own. He lumbered towards her in a manner that suggested he still hadn't grown into his post-pubescent body, but his eyes followed her with an intelligent intensity.

'My father is vanting programme. I vos told I could get one here.' Her European guest gestured to the towering pile of programmes Hermione had only finished producing earlier that morning. Hermione blinked stupidly and willed her mind to keep up... what was that he'd just said? She reached over and handed one to him without ceremony.

A large hand extended to accept it and their fingers lightly brushed. Hermione bit down the small gasp that had almost escaped and glanced down at the spot where they'd touched, noticing that her skin was now covered in goosebumps. The ultimate betrayal.

'Vot is your name?' The boy had tucked the programme into the back pocket of his soft, red shorts. They were baggy, similar to those Hermione had seen basketball players wearing on TV.

'Hermione.'

'Pretty.' The boy reached for her hand confidently, but, sensing her hesitancy, left his own hanging in the air. 'I am Viktor.' He seemed to mull over her name, but made no attempt to say it out loud. She longed to hear how it would sound in his rich timbre.

Hermione glanced at his proffered hand warily, then back at her own smaller one. Oh! Aware she was coming across as quite rude she stretched out a shaking palm as if to shake his hand, but Viktor turned it over with a delicate movement and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of it. She froze. This wasn't the usual behaviour of teenagers, especially not the ones of male persuasion at Hogwarts. These were practiced manners… Pureblood manners.

'Lovely to meet you, Viktor.' She croaked. She couldn't have hid her smile even if she wanted to.

It was a few moments before he spoke again. Apparently small talk wasn't his strength either.

'You are fan?' He eventually asked, gesturing to the programmes by way of explanation.

Hermione laughed. 'No, actually. I don't care for Quidditch.'

He gave the frown she had been expecting. The irony wasn't lost on her.

'But, you are…' He nodded in frustration towards the display board she'd been working on. Clearly the words he wanted were evading him.

'Yes. I am, aren't I? I'm doing an internship here. I've been helping out the organising committee… wherever and however I can. I've only been here for a week and a half, but I've learnt so much. Everything from fixing wands to fixing tent posts…' She laughed again, but this time it was from discomfort. Viktor was watching her again with that intense gaze.

'You are British Ministry person.' He concluded.

'No, just an eager helper.' Hermione said and pointed to her FAQs which were flickering in and out of focus. 'I've got a long way to go before I can work at the Ministry of Magic. In spell work at least!'

Viktor's frown vanished and was replaced by a thoughtful look. He produced a thick wand from the inside of his sleeve, light in colour and of near comparable length to the one that was stowed in Hermione's pocket. He pointed it at the board, mumbled, and a flash of yellow light was emitted from the rounded end. The letters on her board stopped flickering immediately, straightened themselves and waited expectantly for further instruction.

Hermione's jaw dropped. She turned back to Viktor and beamed at him, all embarrassment gone. 'That was fantastic! Could you teach me the incantation? I've been trying to fix that for an hour.'

This seemed to please Viktor. He spoke the incantation louder this time, as clearly as he could apparently muster through his thick accent. It was one to add to her diary.

'I am not just Quidditch player.' Viktor teased.

'Oh, you play Quidditch? My best friends love it…' Hermione trailed off as Viktor's expressive face again revealed what he was thinking. He clearly hadn't been expecting that reaction.

'Yes. I am Seeker.'

'Like Harry! My best friend, that is.' She said quickly. 'I'm sorry, I wasn't joking earlier. I really don't know anything about Quidditch other than the basics. I find it a bit… barbaric.'

'So you support not Bulgaria or Ireland, no?' Viktor was evidently amused by this interaction - he was leaning into her, subconsciously it seemed, and his presence in such close proximity made it difficult to think.

'Well… Who are you supporting then?' Hermione replied in a rush of breath, willing her eyes not to stray from his face and over the unblemished skin that was exposed at the neck of his plain t-shirt.

'Bulgaria.' A warm laugh rumbled from within Viktor as if he was sharing in his own private joke. It was Hermione's turn to frown politely.

'Oh! That's where your accent is from. I couldn't place it.' Two warm spots bloomed on her cheeks.

He nodded. So, that was the joke. Of course he'd find it funny that she questioned who he was supporting when he was Bulgarian… Ron would've never let her live that one down if he'd been there.

'Yes. You are not meeting with many Bulgarians?'

Hermione shook her head. 'Not really. I've met a lot of different nationalities this week, while I've been working, you see. I think most of the Bulgarian volunteers have been assigning themselves to jobs up at the stadium in hopes of getting a look at their team when they arrive.'

To her surprise Viktor sniggered and she couldn't help but laugh with him. Feeling some of the awkwardness dissipate she offered him a shy smile and felt a renewed wave of heat cover her cheeks as he returned it. She'd never taken such pleasure in speaking about… sport, especially not with a boy.

Suddenly, a sharp voice coming from outside the tent interrupted them. The tension returned as Viktor grudgingly turned to the source of the noise, breaking their eye contact. Someone was shouting his name.

'I haff to go now…' Viktor didn't move.

Hermione nodded, but felt a curious sense of pleasure when Viktor made no move to leave immediately. In fact, he looked very unwilling to leave her at all.

'They sound quite insistent. You shouldn't keep them waiting.' She said.

The voice calling Viktor's name sounded again, this time much closer to the tent's entrance, and it had an edge of worry. She didn't want to be 'caught' standing so close to the boy, even if they had only been chatting.

'Bye, Viktor.' Hermione stepped back and stared the grass under her feet. She was still blushing.

'Bye, Hermy-own.'

She felt his hand brush her chin. With a practiced flick of his thumb he tipped her face up to meet his gaze - the pad of his thumb was rough, but she didn't care. Her hands tingled as he pressed a sweet kiss to her palm and she was suddenly very aware of the temperature in the tent rising. Viktor bowed to her and slipped out of the tent. It was only then that Hermione allowed herself to squeal. What on earth had just happened? Who was Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome and where had he come from? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried her hardest to recall where she'd seen him. Surely she would have noticed someone like him sat around the staff fire. He was unforgettable.

The tent vestibule swished as someone entered. Her eyes flew open, hoping, that her Bulgarian mystery man was back. It wasn't him.

A chipper Ludo Bagman was standing in the entrance, a lopsided grin on his face.

'Ready for lunch, Hermione? I've got a real treat for you.'

…

Voila. Viktor will be back, I'm sure. I know we're all waiting for the big reveal.