1Disclaimer: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.

This was written as a Valentine's Day fic in 2007 for my Livejournal friendslist. Enjoy :)

Frustrated, Hermione shoved through the gaggle of women crowded into the lobby of the Ministry. Honestly! They should be ashamed, acting just like the girls at Hogwarts had over Valentine's Day! And some of them were at least in their fifties! But, here they were, giggling and bragging over the ostentatious flower arrangements, jewelry, or candy boxes their husbands or boyfriends had given them. And--to make matters worse--some of those men had even had the loving forethought to have their gifts delivered, right here, to the Ministry! How kind of them, to keep in mind that, for the very best bragging rights, the lady must have the gift in hand to show it off. Hermione glowered at the sea of pink and red sweaters--like blood and organs pouring out of a wound--and the woman cast disdainful glances her way and made a path for her.

She overheard one of her coworkers mutter to a friend as she passed by, "You'd think Hermione Granger would be happier about Valentine's Day, with what she's got waiting for her!"

The friend giggled back, "Perhaps she just doesn't know how to put him to proper use!"

Hermione considered several hexes before she shrugged it off. Really, she was used to such comments; she garnered them from Viktor's silly fangirls often enough. Shoving through a jungle of funeral-scented Valentine bouquets just put her in a darker mood than usual. She hated Valentine's Day; she always had. Luckily, Viktor knew that, and she was certain that he knew better than to send her a highly impersonal hothouse bouquet of red roses like the ones clasped in the long red claws of the harpy gossiping about her. Oddly enough, Viktor loved Valentine's Day.

Actually, Hermione thought as she stepped into the quiet hallway leading to her corner office, it wasn't that odd. Of the two of them, he was the one with a heart full of romance, a sweet, thoughtful nature, and more passion that she could have thought possible. She was the logical one, the analytical one, the practical one--certainly not the romantic one.

But she loved that about him: they balanced. He could draw her out of a set of neat, orderly thoughts into sweet reverie with a few kisses and a look into those dark, serious eyes. She could bring him back to earth, make him focus, when he was drifting into dreaminess. They fit, and they complemented one another.

Enough thoughts of Viktor, Hermione decided, unlocking her office door. It was time to focus on her job now; she had a huge stack of paperwork to get through today. She would see him after work, like she usually did, and she could think about him then.

Circumstances, however, were against her. Perched on top of her paperwork was a small, fluffy owl--one of Viktor's, his newest one. The little white owl looked up at her hopefully and held out his small leg. She untied the tiny strip of paper and scratched the owl's head with a finger as she unrolled it.

I love you, it read, simply, in Viktor's neat handwriting. She smiled, hearing his voice in her head saying the same words, the way his accent made the 'v' in love soft, like an 'f' instead. She adored the way he said it, gently, almost a whisper even when he didn't mean for it to, a soft caress of words.

The owl hooted and looked at her expectantly, drawing her attention back to him. She smiled at him and spoke. "You did a good job, Mercury. Do you think you can carry a reply back to Viktor for me?" He hopped excitedly, and she scrawled a reply: I love you, too. She tied it to the little bird, and he flew off, out the owl entry in her wall. She watched him go, remembering going with Viktor to buy him.

He had decided he wanted another owl, a smaller one for local deliveries. Mercury was the only one left in his cage; his brothers and sisters had all been purchased. The shopkeeper warned them against him: "He's too small, too excitable. You'll have trouble with that one." But Viktor had bought him anyway. He'd played with him and fed him special treats, making friend with him. Mercury had only been to see her three times--the only three trips he'd been on. But the little bird was eager to please his master and she knew he tried his very best. She had a soft spot for the little guy.

One of the portraits on her wall sneezed, drawing Hermione back to her office. She had been daydreaming for nearly twenty minutes! She pulled the paperwork toward her and started reading, pushing thoughts of Viktor to the back of her mind--again. But she left his note on her desk.

Two hours and a lot of legal language later, Mercury swooped back through her owl entry, proudly carrying another tiny scroll. Two trips in one day? She really must dig out some treats to give him before she sent him back. She untied the scroll, wondering what could have caused Viktor to write twice, and so soon. The first note was probably her Valentine's Day gift, she supposed.

Will you stay with me tonight? Once again, she heard the tones of his voice speaking the words, this time gravelly and rough with spent passion. Usually he asked her to stay as they lay together after sweet lovemaking, between the red satin sheets on his big, heavy wooden bed. Oh, she loved that bed. The dark wood gleamed in the candlelight; the satin slid over her bare skin as smoothly as his kisses. . .and oh! Those kisses! The press of his body, the heat of him against her, the burning chocolate of his eyes as he moved inside of her. Her skin shivered with heat and she gasped.

Mercury, once again, brought her back to reality, this time by gently nipping her hand. She opened her eyes, still aroused by her visualizations, and realized that she was gripping the edge of her desk so fiercely that her knuckles were white. It was no wonder Mercury thought something was wrong. Hermione took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and poked around in her bottom desk drawer for some owl treats. Then, while Mercury snacked, she wrote Viktor a reply, saying certainly she'd stay. She often did, anyway; he'd given her a drawer and some bathroom space, so she kept a few things over there for when she did spend the night.

And that big wooden bed was much, much more comfortable than her little wrought-iron twin. Especially with that contrast of hot male body and cool satin sheets. And the things he did to her between those sheets. . .

No, no, no. She really must focus on her paperwork. She tied her note onto Mercury's leg and sent him on his way, worrying briefly about the small owl. He hadn't ever made multiple trips in a day before. But, she realized, Viktor wouldn't send him if he thought he couldn't make it. He loved that bird.

She shook her head and looked down at her paperwork, the words running together. This was so unlike her! Normally Hermione had no problem separating work and home. Today, however, Viktor was haunting her thoughts. Perhaps she was succumbing to that dratted Valentine's Day-silliness. With a new determination, she began wading through her stack again.

An hour later, Hermione stretched back in her chair, glanced at the clock, and decided it was about time for lunch. She briefly considered skipping it, simply to avoid the giggling swarm in the lobby, but she was hungry, and besides, perhaps they'd all have lunch dates and not be there now.

As she passed through the lobby, the receptionist called out to her, "Miss Granger, something was delivered for you."

Hermione stopped, back to the desk, and closed her eyes. Oh, no. He didn't. Surely not. At least only a few gigglers were lingering; she wouldn't be expected to brag, hopefully. She opened her eyes and turned back to the receptionist, who was smiling and holding out. . .an envelope? Hermione grinned and thanked her, relieved not to have to tote a vase of flowers around.

The envelope, of course, was from Viktor, who seemed determined to keep himself foremost in her thoughts today. It contained a gift certificate to their favorite restaurant, one she didn't go to often for lunch, because it was expensive. Perhaps he would meet her there--but no, he wouldn't have sent a gift certificate; he'd have sent a note. A little disappointed, she made her way to the restaurant; she often had lunch out alone, so it didn't bother her, but she would have liked to see Viktor. Perhaps that would allow her to clear her head for the afternoon and get something accomplished on that paperwork.

The waiter--one they'd seen frequently when they'd come together--took her to a table and brought her a drink and, surprisingly, another little scroll, tied with the same royal-blue ribbon as the first two. She placed her order and unrolled it. Remember our first date here?

Yes, she did. Although she had brought along some of her paperwork in her briefcase, Hermione didn't pull it out the way she normally would. Instead, she let her memory carry her back to that date. It had been their first date since he'd gotten the house in England--they had been carrying on long-distance, with trips back and forth at least once a month, and more if they could. They had sat. . .there, at that booth, where that elderly couple was sitting and holding hands. They had sat talking over empty dessert plates, the last tiny vestiges of sweet raspberry cheesecake scraped away and licked off of forks. She remembered watching him lick the creamy white cheesecake from the tongs, watching the pink of his tongue dart out. She was staring, not hearing, not thinking, just staring. The waiter, taking away their plates, had knocked her white wine into her lap, and--for a moment--she hadn't even noticed. They had gone outside and Apparated to his house, where he stripped away her damp dress. It was the first time they'd made love on that big wooden bed, the mattress bare because he hadn't had a chance to buy sheets yet.

The waiter set her plate down in front of her, and, throat dry and knickers moist, Hermione stared at her food. Great Merlin! What was Viktor doing to her today?

When Hermione returned to her office after work, she found a vase sitting on her desk. Instead of the typically dozen-or-more red roses the other women were toting around, though, Viktor had sent her wildflowers. Of course he would send her wildflowers. She was certain of what the card would say before she opened it: Remember that field?

He sent her back over the years, to an interlude the summer she was seventeen, to the rolling fields of wildflowers for miles around his Bulgarian cottage. The sun on their skin, the grass beneath them. It was the first time she'd seen him nude, and she couldn't help but think of how beautiful he was--were all men that beautiful? Surely it wasn't possible; surely only Viktor could look like that, slender and strong, elegant and graceful, soft and firm. The wind had blown the grasses and the blossoms around them, tickling her skin, while the fluffy white clouds witnessed the brief pain and then the overwhelming pleasure of learning, of knowing Viktor Krum, and all that he--they--could create.

Oh, Viktor, she thought. Today, he wasn't balancing out her logical side with his romantic one. Today he was ridding her of all logic, of all focus on anything but him. How would she ever be able to concentrate with those flowers on her desk? Honestly. . .she did have work to do.

The next three hours passed by uneventfully, but peppered with thought of Viktor, of that first sweet time, of his skin against gleaming red satin in that wooden bed, of that bare mattress, of his gentle "I loff you"s. Her stack of paper shrank very, very slowly as she paused for daydreams. Without thinking, she smiled when she heard someone coming in her owl entry.

Viktor hadn't sent Mercury alone this time; a larger owl accompanied him. Hermione was certain Mercury couldn't have carried the gift bag alone. The larger owl bobbed his head in understanding and politely took a treat as she praised Mercury for his efforts. He strutted and pranced along her paperwork, leaving inky footprints across the parchment she'd just started to fill out. Hermione didn't mind; she could Vanish them, and besides, he looked so happy.

She turned her attention to the gift bag they'd delivered, curious. She pulled out the tissue paper--royal blue like the ribbon had been all day. A sky-blue puddle lay in the bottom of the bag; she tipped it over, and satin slithered out into her hands. Hermione stood up and held the nightgown to her shoulders. It was lovely, with thin straps of ribbon, and simple: it would hit her at mid-thigh, but slits came nearly to her hips on the sides. The color would look nice on her, too.

Mercury hopped off of her desk and swooped to the floor, drawing Hermione's attention to the little scroll that had fallen there. She untied the ribbon and unrolled the note: Wear this for me tonight? Feels nice in my hands.

Merlin, those hands. The rough calluses would catch on the smooth satin as he ran those hands down her sides, over her hips. Then, those calluses would scratch her skin in the way she loved as he slid his hands up, up her thighs, up over her hips, pushing the nightgown over her head. It would drop to the floor, forgotten, as he dipped his lips to nip at her collarbone, as he raised his hands to caress her breasts. The tiny, day-old whiskers on his jaw would make her skin pink as his mouth explored lower, lower, until her legs gave out and he carried her to the bed, to more satin, and his body joined hers.

Damn the paperwork. Hermione released a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. "Mercury?" she said. "I'll race you home."

She let herself in and dropped her briefcase in the entryway. "Viktor?" she called.

She heard his footsteps coming from the kitchen, and then he was there, wearing the soft, faded jeans that she loved. She gazed at them, the way they clung to his thighs from years of wear, at the chocolate stains on them where he'd wiped his hands at some point today.

"Hermy-own-ninny?" he asked, amused, bringing her attention back to his face, where his eyes laughed at her. "You are early. And you forget to bring flowers I send you! Something is wrong?"

Damned tease. He knew exactly why she'd come home early; he'd practically made her do it. "Nothing is wrong," she answered, voice controlled. "I just decided I'd like to spend a little more time with you today."

"Oh," he said. "I vas making snacks to send you in a vhile. Are you hungry now? You haff look like you could eat me alive."

She could. She'd like to jump on him and devour him from the mouth down. "Can I have a kiss first?"

His arms enveloped her, pressing her tightly against him. She bunched the flannel of his shirt in her hands, let her body absorb the feel of his hard lines against it, let her mind get lost in the depth of his kiss, the intensity of his mouth. She hoped that whatever he was cooking wouldn't burn; she had plans to take him upstairs right this minute.

Once again, circumstances--or perhaps Viktor's plotting--were against her. He let her go, and, with a smile, turned back toward the kitchen. Astonished, she watched him walk, noting the shape of his bum, but mostly wondering what was going on. That kiss had left no doubts about her intentions--of that Hermione was certain. With a sigh, she followed him to the kitchen.

He was humming and dipping strawberries into chocolate, placing them neatly on wax paper. She plopped into one of the kitchen chairs and watched him, admiring his broad shoulders as his movements strained the fabric against them. Goodness, but he was a beautiful man. Hermione realized she had sighed when he cast a smile over his shoulder at her, and she grinned back. Despite the ache in her body for him, she decided that--perhaps--she'd be content to just watch him for awhile.

When he finished dipping all of his strawberries, he stuck a finger in the leftover chocolate and held it out to her. She sucked it off, watching him, and saw his eyes darken, just a hint, and knew that she was affecting him, too. Viktor, however, didn't say a word; instead, he dipped his finger back into the warm chocolate and sucked it off himself. She gazed at his beautifully-shaped lips locked around his finger and felt her body burn.

He began arranging--or rather, attempting to arrange--the strawberries on a silver tray; they were a little messy and disarrayed, and she giggled. He gave her a playful glare. "Go, if you vill be picky. Take your shower and get comfortable; I know you like that after vorking all day."

Finally! She hurried upstairs, certain that he'd join her before too much longer, and he'd fulfill that need that had been building all day. Oh, she loved shower sex. Another memory popped into her mind--this seemed to be the day for them--and Hermione laughed. It must have been the fourth or fifth time they'd showered together. Viktor was holding her; she was bucking against him, legs around his waist, hands gripping the shower curtain rod. Apparently, she had put too much weight on it, because it bent and came down, taking both of them with it. They had lain on the floor, wet and tangled in the shower curtain and each other, and laughed until neither of them could breathe.

This time, however, when she was as clean as she could possibly be, and the water was beginning to get cold, Hermione realized that Viktor had no intention of joining her. What on earth was going on?

She dried off and combed her hair, and slipped into the blue satin nightgown. She wiped the mirror on the back of the door with a towel so she could see it. It fit perfectly, clinging to her body in all of the right places, and the color suited her. She wondered if Viktor always had fabulous taste in lingerie. Perhaps he just knew what he'd like to see her in. Perhaps he had pictured her in it when he saw it, imagined touching her and undressing her the way she had.

When she opened the door, she heard soft music coming from his bedroom, and, smiling, looked in the doorway.

The first thing she noticed was that he'd changed the sheets. Now, they were the same royal-blue as the ribbon he'd been tying on the scrolls all day. The color flashed her back to the notes, to the memories that rushed into her mind when she'd read them. Viktor lay stretched out against the sheets, in satin shorts in the same color. He held out a hand to her and spoke softly, just one word, "Come." Hermione didn't have to be asked twice.

He sat up and helped her onto the bed, then produced two wineglasses from the bedside table and a bottle from a bucket by the bed. He fed her the chocolate-dipped strawberries as she sipped the decadent wine, until finally she placed her glass on the table and pushed a strawberry away.

"Viktor, this is wonderful," she said, "but it's like you're teasing me. Everything you do is making me want you more. Every time you sip that wine, or pick up a strawberry, I'm picturing your lips and hands on me."

He let out a shuddering sigh met her gaze with eyes gone dark as night, sizzling with passion. He reached for her, pulling her against him, almost roughly. He captured her lips and she could taste wine--chocolate--but underneath she tasted pure, utter desire. He broke the kiss and breathed against her lips, murmuring, "Vas vhat I vas aiming for. Seduction begins first thing in morning, they say."

"Well," she breathed back, "it worked; I've been craving you all day."

Suddenly, his hands were on her, pushing the nightgown up and over her head, the calluses scratching her skin as he caressed her. She pushed against him, moving him onto his back, and straddled him. With a sigh of relief, of longing, of fulfillment and desire, Hermione began to move against him. His big hands cradled her hips, rocking her, as he moved, his chest shaking with carefully controlled breaths. When she felt her body tightening so soon, she knew that his carefully-planned temptation had served as foreplay. Gasping for air, moving roughly--erratically--over his cock, Hermione lost control, adrift in a desperate need. She saw Viktor's head thrown back, his eyes closed, the cords in his neck straining, and she felt his fingers digging into her hips, and her heart, her body, opened up and rushed over him with a fierce passion.

Later, she lay in the circle of his arm, with her cheek against his damp skin. "Vell," he asked softly, "You haff a nice Valentine's Day?"

Yesterday, if he had asked her that, she would have bopped him with one of the blue-clad pillows. Today, she laughed softly, and kissed his nipple. "Damn you," she answered, "You've made a believer out of me. But I refuse to giggle and brag."

"Vould do you no good. Those vomen already know how good you haff it. Are already jealous, that they cannot get some of this."

Then Hermione bopped him with the pillow.