Dear Viktor

She's using a different owl. He's seen owls from Hogwarts, brisk, brown, and institutional. He's seen owls from Hogsmeade, garishly colored and fast. He's seen Hedwig more than once.

This is a totally different owl. It is not much larger than a golden snitch, high-strung, downy, and gray. It shoots in the window and collapses, trailing damp smelly pinfeathers on the bearskin rug.

Viktor eyes the thing with extreme distaste.

It's nine o'clock at night, and this flea-brained owl is the first, last, and only good thing that has happened to Viktor today. It is the first anniversary of the day Igor Karkaroff's death was confirmed. (No one knows how many days he was dead before they found him.) Karkaroff wasn't a very lovable character, but he wasn't all bad either. He was a Death Eater who hated killing, who ended up regretting the women he widowed, the children he orphaned. He was a Death Eater who ran away and tried to make amends by raising other people's children in a chilly fortress called Durmstrang. He wasn't an awfully nice man, but he wasn't a wholly awful one, and one former student, at least, has been remembering him today.

It rained all morning in Sofia, and Quidditch practice was a muddy bloodbath of broken brooms and broken noses—even though they were playing themselves. Viktor got a dressing down from the captain, which he deserved. He was flying distracted. At nine o'clock this morning, in the changing room, he discovered that Vulchanov, who recruited him for the Bulgarian National Team four years ago, is a Death Eater. He had a feeling there was someone. He's known for a while that there was someone. He was hoping it was Levski, whom he's never liked.

It isn't Levski. It's Vulchanov.

He's in touch with certain people, and the next thing on the agenda tonight, before he goes to bed, is turning Vulchanov in. He isn't looking forward to it. He could use a little distraction, right about now. He could use a little joy.

He tears open Hermione's letter. He unfurls the parchment and he reads, Dear Viktor.

Dear Viktor, this is difficult to write. Dear Viktor, time is short, and I have a lot to say. You've always been so sweet to me, and you've never pinned me down. I guess I've used you badly. I guess I've let this muddle on too long.

No, not long enough.

Remember Ron?

Ron?

He thought it was Harry. He said it wasn't, and she said it wasn't, and he almost believed them, but if it was anyone, anyone, then surely, he thought, surely it must be Harry.

It isn't official and it's all very new. You're the only one I've told. I can't believe I'm writing this, but you see—well, you see, it's been years. And now that at last we're coming together—well, you see how it is. Maybe you won't really mind.

He minds.

It's strange to write this when I don't really know—but time is short, you see. Albus Dumbledore's dead, and I'm going away, away with Harry and Ron. No more classes, no more books, no Head Girl badge for me. I'm going away and I can't tell you why. I'll see you again when the fighting is done. At least, I hope I will.

Oh, God, Hermione.

But do me a favor, won't you please? Remember what I wrote you last, about the O. of P. C.W. will be contacting you, to try to trace some things. You know the Black Sea inside out; there are certain—mysteries—there. Give him a chance and hear him out; it will make a difference back here.

That's the gist of her letter. One, I love another. Two, I'm putting myself in harm's way. Three, I'm asking a favor.

Trust Hermione. She never does things by halves.

By the way, the owl's name is Pigwidgeon. He belongs to Ron. He's inexperienced but very well-intentioned. Be nice to him. Hermione

The rest of the parchment is blank.

The half-witted owl is watching him with an expression of intense curiosity. He hoots a brief and high-pitched question. Viktor turns away and blinks the tears out of his eyes.

He flings the letter down on the beautiful inlaid wood desk that his great-grandfather brought back from India, and he stares at it for a few minutes.

The owl hoots again. Viktor gets up and he bungs him some owl treats. He picks up the letter and he puts it away, away in a file folder in the back of the biggest and most inaccessible drawer. He will never destroy it, and he will never look at it again. He knows what it says.

She's only seventeen, after all. She's only seventeen, and this is obviously just brand-new. It shouldn't seem so final.

He knows it is.

He'll talk to Charlie Weasley, of course. He'll do whatever Charlie asks of him.

He knows what's going on these days. He knows where duty lies.

He will be stolid, smart, athletic, and efficient. He will do everything and ask nothing.

He will even be happy for her someday. He knows he will.

Someday.

Dear Viktor.

Author note: If you're a fan of Viktor, you can see a little more of him in "A Romance, with Dragons."