Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters.

[A/N: Doki is the manga SFX for a heartbeat. I used it in this fic. I contemplated using "ba-dump" instead, but then I thought maybe the meaning would be unclear, so I used doki, which is way more definite, though less well-known.]

NOTE: The author would like to make it clear that she does not, has not, and never will approve of drowning small animals with hand-sweat. Thank you for your time and consideration. :D

SPECIAL THANKS goes to Ninjaladybug (or Stuart, for those of you who find pleasure in reading the reviews page of my DN fanfic Confessions of a Chocoholic) for helping me revise this a little. Thanks, Stu! You helped a lot. :)

SPANISH TRANSLATION: fanfiction(dot)net/s/6675302/1/Three_Two_One Thank you, Smithback!

Do it.

His palms began to sweat profusely as he gingerly closed the book he had pretended to be reading.

Right now.

He glanced over at her, over in the open. Unlike her, he liked to hide in his corner.

Just ask her.

His heart was knocking loudly on the inside of his ribcage. He feared approaching her, in case she could hear it.

You can't wait forever.

He wished he could wait forever. His courage didn't seem to fancy visiting him any time soon.

Someone else will come and claim her, and you'll have missed your chance.

The very thought of another boy asking her unsettled him. He tried not to think about it.

At this rate she'll forget you even exist.

His more logical and composed side found the suggestion highly unlikely, but his less confident, self-conscious side, which now appeared to be dominant, crumpled at the thought.

Your first love will end, unrevealed and unrequited.

Is that what this was? His first love? The thought of an unrequited first love was new to him and not altogether friendly.

She'll never know the real reason why you're here.

True, he had been coming to the library every day since he had first seen her here, in order to possibly talk with her. He had made eye contact twice, but had butchered both opportunities by quickly hiding behind his book, hoping she hadn't seen his blushing face.

Instead she'll simply stay annoyed at you and your fan club, and her opinion of you will remain in the dirt, under her feet…

He wanted to ask her so badly, but so many things hindered him: her sharp gaze, his giggling fan club (which was, thankfully, absent on this particular day), his own pounding heart…

Come on, it's not that hard.

Well, Mr. Inner Pep-Talk Coach, have you ever attempted to ask a girl to a ball?

No, but as of now, neither have you.

At this self-provocation, Viktor Krum stood up abruptly, his courage found finally after weeks and weeks of being lost.

The skidding sound of his chair legs alerted the girl. Her head snapped up, and by the time her eyes met his, his courage had decided to take another vacation.

Oh, Merlin. His hands were sweating more than ever, and his heart was beating more loudly than it had in any Quidditch game. He gulped. The Wronski Feint seemed like a walk in the park compared to the determination (or stupidity) required to attempt what he was about to do.

Krum clenched his fists, unclenched them. Took a deep breath. One, two, three. Three, two, one. Go. Now.

He took a highly indirect route to her table, making a maze of the tables and shelves of the Hogwarts library (he was too faint of heart to go right to her). Finally he stopped behind the seat in front of her.

She didn't look up. (Was she doing this on purpose?)

Shit. This meant he had to say something.

In a barely audible and thickly accented voice, he asked, "May I sit here?"

This time she did look up, and Krum's heart skipped a beat (or two).

Her eyes were dark brown, which is a statement that does not capture even a tiny percentage of their beauty. He could feel his face go red as he struggled to maintain eye contact.

She blinked after a few seconds and replied quietly, "Yes, yes of course."

He was starting to feel a little better, until, of course, his self-bashing voice began to mouth off.

Your English is awful.

You'd better not let her see those sweaty sponges you call hands; she'd think you were positively disgusting.

Your great big ugly nose is such a turn-off. She even whispered to the Potter boy the other day that you're "not even good-looking."

You nervous wreck; you're not going to be able to do much apart from stuttering like the idiot you are.

She already thinks you're annoying. Don't screw things up worse by asking her to the ball.

Quit blushing, it makes you look stupid.

Look, you're disturbing her. She was trying to study, retard, she doesn't need some Bulgarian Quidditch hotshot coming and flirting with her. She's only tolerating you out of politeness.

Speaking of flirting, you don't even have the guts to!

She's probably already got a boyfriend. Isn't she usually with that Potter boy? They probably like each other.

Ha! Like she'd think twice about you. She doesn't even care about Quidditch.

Krum shook his head vigorously, trying to expel those horrible thoughts.

Unfortunately, this alerted the girl. "What's wrong?" she asked, sounding only somewhat worried.

He fought back the approaching blush tooth and nail. "Nothing." Deep breath. "V-Vot is your name?"

"Hermione Granger. I know what yours is, of course. You're Viktor Krum, am I correct?"

She knows my name. She knows my name. She knows my name.

Of course she does, you idiot.

"Yes," he replied, then stopped. Compliment. Girls like compliments. "Your name. Is very nice." Yes, and now you have to figure out how to say it.

She smiled (doki!) and blushed slightly, looking back down at her parchment. Her quill began scribbling again.

A couple of minutes, silent save for the sound of Hermione's quill scratching the parchment, passed by. He breathed in and restarted.

"Vot are you writing?" He was painfully aware of his accent.

Without looking up, she replied, "A report on witches and wizards in medieval England. You know, they never could burn the real ones. It's quite amusing, really." Now she did look up and make eye contact with him, and his stomach did something like a back flip.

"Ah, I know vot you are talking about. They burn vizards and vitches in old times. Happened vhere I live too."

There was a pause. Then ―

"I saw you in the Quidditch World Cup. You were brilliant."

He could feel a goofy grin spreading itself across his face. He might have been a lighted strip of tungsten, he was glowing that much.

"You really think so?"

Hermione nodded. "Of course. And that… what was it called? Wrons… Wons…"

"Wronski Feint?"

"Yes, yes, that. It was quite fascinating."

Krum felt like he was flying just talking to her. It was his favorite feeling in the world; and this girl, this girl who was at least three years younger than himself, this girl he didn't even really know was making him feel like this.

They talked about useless things for another minute or so. Then after a few moments of silence, Hermione looked back down at her parchment and continued her essay.

He watched her flip through her textbook and occasionally scribble down notes. She really was quite pretty…

Then he remembered why he was here in the first place. "Um…" And he asked very quickly and quietly, "…Do you haff escort to ball?"

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

His hands seemed to remember how to sweat. "Do you haff an escort to the Yule Ball?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I don't." She went red. "Actually, I was thinking of not going. I'm not very pretty, anyway, and I doubt anyone would want to ―"

"Vould you go if somevun asked you?" Krum asked faintly. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest. He was sure everyone within a ten-mile radius could hear it.

She shrugged. "I suppose so."

He took a deep breath. Three, two, one ―

"Vill you go vith me?"

Her head snapped up. She was giving him a painfully unreadable look, and Viktor agonized through five excruciating seconds.

Suddenly, trying not to cringe under her disbelieving stare, he felt more self-conscious than he'd ever felt before in his entire life. Was his nose really that ugly? And maybe he should have put an extra layer of deodorant on this morning; what if he smelled? And how come she couldn't hear his heart beating? And he felt like his face was on fire, he was blushing so furiously. And he was sure he could have drowned a small animal with the amount of sweat pouring from his large palms.

Then she said quietly, blushing nearly as deeply as he was, "Oh… I… well…"

His heart was sinking fast. Oh no, oh no, oh no, she was going to reject him. She was going to say no, and he was never going to be able to look at her again, he was going to be condemned to going red and avoiding eye contact every time they saw each other.

He tensed as Hermione opened her mouth again, and he was clutching the sides of his chair so fiercely his knuckles were stark white. The dread was already settling in his stomach, she was going to ―

"I'd love to go to the ball with you."

Oh.

Well.

Everything was okay again. Actually, it was twenty million times better than okay; it was fantastic.

The stupid smile was coming back to his face.

He didn't really care.