Chapter Text
Viktor crouched behind a crate and cast a night vision charm. Not that it was any good, with all the dust from the explosion still thick in the air. He willed his heart to slow down. Just slow down… for fuck’s sake, he could not just pass out. Not here. He waved his hands about, trying to dissipate dust. “You are a wizard, a wizard!” nagged an annoying voice in his head, while his hand cast a Bubble-Head charm of its own accord. He greedily drew a few gulps of pure oxygen. Much better. His heart slowly stilled, though his ear would not stop ringing. Had he punctured an eardrum?
Shit, this really wasn’t going to plan.
He slowly lifted his head from behind the crate where he was hiding, hazarding a look. Nothing. He had no idea what had exploded, how far from him, even less to what end. Before he entered the warehouse, his detection spell had revealed two people. He quickly recast the spell. No one. Were they dead, or had they simply fled before the explosion?
Wait…no one? So, his “partner” had not entered the warehouse with him. Viktor was sure he was long gone, and if he was half as good at hiding as he was at finding people, it was probably going to be awhile till anyone ever saw him again. That bastard. He would bet his wand that he knew something was amiss, but let him enter this hellhole anyway. “Well, Viktor,” he thought, “you put that scorpion in your pocket, so you should not complain now that it stung you”. He drew another long breath and stood up. The dust had settled, so that he could make out the silhouettes of the rubble with his night vision charm. He made a mental note to look into a modification that would allow one to see through fog as well.
He was undecided about what to do next. He had come looking for a man. The warehouse was decidedly empty of living men. He would look for bodies, but yeah, good luck with that. He had been far enough from the epicentre of the explosion that he was relatively unscathed, but all around him lay a chaos of rubble, broken crates, exploded tins, and a sticky, thick liquid that he could not identify. He walked deeper into the warehouse, levitating the rubble and watching his step as not to topple over. Either the warehouse was a lot larger on the inside than what it seemed like on the outside, or the unpleasantness of the whole situation was dragging the minutes out. The whole place was so dark and fucked up that he soon lost his bearings.
He gave up. He should go back to the headquarters, gather a team of real officers and come back for a thorough investigation. If the man he looked for had been here, he wasn’t any more. Looking around was not going to make him reappear. Huh, that did sound like giving up. This was so, so frustrating. He had come so close, and he had fucked up. He should have made a better plan. He should have warded the place before he went in. He should have brought a real team of proper officers, people he could trust, not that shady bloodhound. He had behaved like an amateur. Why? Had his recent successes made him complacent? As he walked on, indulging in some totally unproductive but utterly delicious self-loathing, he stepped on something. Something soft. Something round. He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. Reluctantly, he lowered his head. Under the dust cover lay an arm, severed, broken, almost lonely. In the cold, damp air of the warehouse, Viktor felt the heat that still radiated from it. He looked at the hand, resting there, palm up, fingers curled, daring him to take it in one last friendly gesture before it went cold and stiff. He jerked and swiftly made his way out.
The warehouse was located in an industrial area in the north of Berlin. It was such a beautiful Sunday, even in the grey, concrete-covered landscape, Viktor’s heart was glad as he stepped out and greeted the warm evening sun. He cancelled his Bubble-Head and night vision charms, called in reinforcements, and set about warding the place. The area was non-wizarding and the last thing he needed was the non-wizarding police to be involved. After generously setting the necessary repellent charms, he slowly lowered himself to the concrete ground, drew his knees to his stomach and faced the sun. He tried not to think of the severed arm, and then thought about how hard it is to not think of something. Luckily, not ten minutes later, the thoughts were chased away by successive Apparitions.
Viktor slowly stood up and assessed the newcomers. He didn’t know all International Task Force officers in all headquarters equally well, but he knew the tall witch with a Latvian flag and the surname “Zaleska” on the chest of her ITF uniform, who covered the distance between them in remarkably few strides. “Viktor,” she greeted, not smiling but still cordial.
“Ieva.” Ieva Zaleska was in her early forties, fierce, proud, and commanding. She looked briefly at her team, scanning the periphery of the warehouse, before turning her piercing gaze to Viktor.
“What a nightmare we have here. At least you are in one piece?”
Viktor briskly patted himself all over with open palms. “Looks like it. There was an explosion in there, I am not sure of what nature. I also don’t know if there are any more explosives. The crime scene investigators should take proper measures”. Now that he thought about it, he should have been more careful and got the hell out as quickly as possible as well. Moron.
“I already briefed them after I received your message. So, you are fine?”
“My ear is ringing.” Viktor pressed his right tragus into the ear canal briefly, which didn’t help. “Other than that, I am fine”.
“We will have someone look at it. What were you doing here anyway?”
Viktor sighed and prepared himself to be heavily judged. “We were after someone. We started tracking him after the incident in Cardiff and ended up here. I detected two people before I went in.”
“We?” Ieva raised a questioning eyebrow. “You are alone.”
“I am now.”
He wasn’t enjoying this… one bit. “Auror Potter gave me a partner who has this strange ability to track people. He was right behind me as I went in. Or I thought so.”
As he braced himself for more interrogation, an ITF officer announced in a strongly German-accented English that the scans were finished, and it was safe to go in. “The crime scene is a mess”, mused Viktor, reluctant to go in so soon after the explosion again.
“Two people, you said?”
“Yes. I am not sure in how many pieces they are”.
Ieva sighed. “I will join the team and oversee the investigation. You stay here. I will send the Healer over.”
“I…”
“Do as I say,” she commanded. “You are shaken, in no fit state to be useful. I do not need your sloppiness.” The concern in her tone didn’t match the harshness of her words. Before she walked away, she drew her wand from its holster and transfigured a broken branch into a small stool. Viktor collapsed onto the way too tiny seat and nursed his hurt pride as he watched the team busy themselves into the crime scene. He had taken a training course with Ieva on crime scene investigation protocols in his first year as an ITF trainee and knew that she was not one to coddle younger officers. If she had told him to remain behind, it was probably for a good reason. Still, the feeling of being useless did nothing to quench the acid of defeat in his belly. He closed his gritty eyes, and the severed arm appeared behind his eyelids.
“Officer Krumov?”
His eyes fluttered open. A wizard in Healer robes stood next to him with a medical kit bag floating beside him. “I am Healer Julian Berg. I heard that you were inside when the explosion happened?”.
“Ja, das stimmt.”[1_1] offered Viktor.
“Ah, Sie sprechen auch Deutsch. Na dann. Haben Sie irgendwelche Beschwerden?”[1_2]
“Mein Ohr. Ich habe Tinnitus am rechten Ohr”.[1_3] Viktor slowly stood up. The Healer waved his wand at him, muttering incantations in sequence. Afterwards, he dug out a tiny self-floating stretcher from his bag, expanded it to full size and gestured to Viktor to lie down. After running a wordless full-body scan, he systematically examined Viktor’s eyes, his ears, his throat and head with wizarding and non-wizarding methods. Viktor could not help but be impressed at his practised efficiency.
“Sie können sich wieder hinsetzen.”[1_4] Viktor slowly raised himself to a sitting position. “Sie haben Glück gehabt, Herr Krumov. Die Schildzauber an Ihrer Kleidung haben den Aufprall großteils absorbiert. Sie werden trotzdem die nächsten Tage steife Muskeln und Schmerzen haben”[1_5]. He handed Viktor three potion vials. “Diese Tränke sollten für Heute und Morgen ausreichen, danach müssen Sie nochmal einen Heiler zur Kontrolle besuchen. Der Tinnitus ist Schalltrauma bedingt, ich kann leider nicht viel dagegen tun. Es sollte in den nächsten Tagen von alleine verschwinden.”[1_6]
Viktor listened carefully and nodded. He saw Ieva walking towards them, radiating frustration.
“You need to go home and rest, Officer Krumov”. The Healer hastily switched back to English. Viktor knew that Ieva enforced a strictly English-speaking environment in her predominantly German team, not wanting any non-German speakers to feel excluded. “Do you require something to help you sleep?
“No, I’m fine.” Viktor disliked sleeping draughts. The Healer nodded, packed away his supplies and left, acknowledging Ieva on his way.
“So,” she started, standing next to Viktor but looking away from him, to the warehouse entrance. She pinched the bridge of her nose, scrunched her eyes closed and sighed deeply. This isn’t good, thought Viktor. Ieva was not a woman who got easily frustrated. “This, my friend, is a mess. The explosion was not magical, there are also no traces of black powder. We suspect a plastic explosive, but we don’t know yet. The team is still taking samples. Did you notice the liquid?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t see what it was. There were also tins?”
“The warehouse was used to store tinned soup. The entire place is full of tins reduced to shrapnel, and tomato soup. It is a wonder that the building itself is still standing.” She turned to Viktor, blue eyes washing over him. “You were close to the entrance, right?” Viktor nodded in agreement. “You were probably about twenty metres from the bomb. Had you been a bit closer, the shield charms would have not sufficed to save you. Pure dumb luck saved your butt.”
Viktor could not stop thinking of the severed arm. Had they found any more body parts? Was it the man he had been looking for? His thoughts were interrupted by the stern witch. “You probably have a lot of questions, so do I. Our priority however is to pick through the mess as quickly as possible, we can only keep the non-wizarding police away for so long.” In the distance, officers were already levitating containers full of evidence out of the warehouse and preparing inventories. “You will now Portkey to the Berlin Headquarters…" she said, waving away his attempt to interrupt, “...you will Portkey to the Berlin Headquarters and Floo home. No Apparition. As far as I can judge, there is no reason why I should not let the non-wizarding police handle the situation, except your statement. I trust you not to waste my time, and you will trust me to do my job. Go home, wash the debris off of yourself, take your potions, go to sleep. Be happy that you will live to see this case solved. You are done for today. We will meet again tomorrow in my office. I will send you the time for your appointment.”
Damn, since when did he answer to this woman? She was his superior, all right, but not his direct boss. Still, Viktor didn’t object any further as she extended him the brace on her forearm that was the Portkey to the headquarters. He touched the brace with his wand and conjured the image of an Abraxan in his head, which was the password. Within seconds, he was whisked away to the ITF headquarters in Berlin.
Berlin Headquarters Portkey Hall was relatively quiet, it being Sunday. Viktor would normally have taken the time to appreciate the sleek, modern design, beautiful black and white tiles, and voluminous chandeliers, but frustration bent his head down as followed the arrows to the international Floos on the floor. He slowly felt his muscles pull and stiffen, a sensation similar to those he knew from high impact Quidditch injuries. This day could not be over soon enough.
When he arrived at his cottage in Varna, it was already dark, though it had been bright daylight in Berlin a few moments ago. Of course, Berlin was quite a bit more to the north. He cracked his windows open, letting the sea breeze in. His family’s house Elf Tsvete, who took care of his home while he was away, had neatly piled his letters on his desk. As he recognized the handwriting on the topmost envelope, his heart already felt lighter and the frown on his face was replaced with a smile. Feeling hungry for comfort, he almost grabbed the envelope, tore it open and read it right there, sore, standing, still in his dirty clothes and boots. He didn’t, though. He had revered each of those letters in the past thirteen years, and this would be no exception.
As he rid himself of his garments and stepped under the shower, he was already thinking of what to write back. He hadn’t been able to write to her for three days. So much had happened, most of which would worry her sick. Even after many years of Quidditch injuries and some years in the ITF, she had never stopped worrying. “I know what you do is dangerous,” she had told him many years ago before he left Hogwarts in the dark Durmstrang galleon, “Write to me, Viktor, and write everything. I don’t want to learn about your injuries from the newspapers. I want to hear everything from your letters, first hand. Of course, I will worry, but I still need to know.” Just like that, with a few words and one pleading look, she had extracted the promise. She could have extracted any promise she wanted, of course, but even if she knew it back then, she would never abuse it.
Having scrubbed himself raw, he jumped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He headed to the kitchen next, grateful to find a meal of stuffed bell peppers and yoghurt under a stasis charm. He made a mental note to collect seashells for the little Elf the next time he went running on the beach. His dinner on the dining table, glass of water on the side, the breeze from the windows just cool enough to take the edge off the unusually balmy June night… perfect. He sank into the chair, still clad in his wet towel, and, finally, opened the first of the three letters. He was back home.
Dear Viktor,
Remember I had told you that I had given an assignment to my third-year students to invent a domestic charm in groups of two, as a final project? Today, the groups presented their inventions, and what a selection it was! If this is the future of the wizarding society in England, we are all in safe hands. Children, Viktor, are so amazing (when they are not being little shits, of course). It wasn’t my intention to begin with, but they insisted on taking a vote for the best invention. Unsurprisingly, the group that had invented the ice-cream machine won. It is such a fantastic implementation of the muggle ice cream machine -the milk, cream, eggs, sugar and flavourings are added to a cauldron with a stirring rod that is charmed to stir at a certain rate (which is apparently slower for gelato than it is for normal ice cream, as gelato is supposed to be denser). The second part is a sequence of heating and cooling charms with a thermostat component: The ingredients are then heated up to 80 °C for 15 minutes till the custard thickens, and then cooled to -13 °C (why 13? It gives the best consistency, they said. I don’t know how many batches of ice cream they tried before they reached this conclusion, or if I would be able to taste the difference between -13 and -15. I was mostly impressed by their use of SI units for the experiments.). The vote was well-deserved, without a shadow of a doubt, especially considering that adding adjustable components such as rounds per minute for stirring and the thermostat is quite advanced for their skill level. I, however, am still convinced that serving ice cream to the entire classroom after their presentation tipped the scales in their favour. It was delicious, though. They do need to work on their prototype for more even stirring (the ice cream at the sides of the cauldron tended to freeze solid). I am also convinced that quicker freezing would yield a smoother ice cream, due to the formation of smaller ice crystals. Maybe I can convince them to take this up for an extra credit project next year, and we will have ice cream for dessert more often.
I never asked you what your favourite ice cream flavour is. Do you even have one? No, no, don’t tell me, let me take a guess. You would prefer the fruitier ones. Is it mango sorbet?
I miss you,
h.
Viktor put his fork down and wiped his place clean with a slice of bread. He sent the dirty plate and cutlery to the kitchen with a flick of his wand, settled in his armchair with the glass of water and read the letter once more, basking in the sunshine that oozed between each line. He had wanted to save the next two letters for breakfast, but, what the hell, it had been a tough day.
Dear Viktor,
The old man Malfoy is driving me batty! I thought that it was harmless enough to let him teach History of Magic when Binns suddenly disappeared shortly before the beginning of the term (although it is an act of cronyism from the Headmaster if ever I saw one). In the end, it was basically replacing one ghost with the other. The sly Slytherin serpent was indeed harmless enough in the beginning, keeping his much-unneeded opinions to himself. Then it started with a little remark here, a small act there (I won’t rehash all the annoying incidents from the last term, you already know about most of them). Today, he said in the staff meeting that he wants his pupils to revert to using quills and parchment rather than pen and paper. I told him that the students petitioned to reduce the use of animal products where possible. Then he started his rant about “preserving our wizarding traditions''. He even asked if we also want to ban animal products from potions. I would have accused him of whataboutism, but I doubt that he knows what it is. I did argue that animal-based potion ingredients should be replaced by plant-based counterparts where possible, which made the Headmaster cringe a little (if only for that, it was totally worth it). In the end, we agreed that he can not enforce the use of quills and parchment, but he may encourage the students. Reformed Death Eater, my arse. If his muggle-hating ways mean that the school is lagging in its modernization efforts, I swear I will cut his hair in his sleep.
I am guessing you are still away on your hunt. I hope you are safe, dear Viktor. I think of you every night before I sleep.
I miss you,
h.
Viktor brushed his thumb over the last three words, folded the letter, and neatly placed it back into the envelope. He saved the last one for tomorrow, already knowing that he would reread the other two as well. He closed his eyes slowly, fatigue overtaking him.
There it was, the severed arm, still warm, possibly of the man he should have caught alive, floating right behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes, as fast as his pride would allow him. He longed for his bed, if he could just find some rest, surely things would look brighter in the morning. He hadn’t told Hermione when to expect a letter, so another night would not make too much of a difference. Would it? If he wrote now, his letter would be dark, grim, and weary. Why unnecessarily burden her? Having made up his mind, he headed to the bathroom, shucked the towel off, and cleaned his teeth thoroughly. As he headed to bed and crawled under the thin blanket, for the first time in twenty-odd years, he considered leaving the lights on. He turned them off with a silent spell and closed his eyes once again.
A few seconds later, his eyelids flew open, and the lights turned on.
Viktor could not quite understand why this was happening to him now. Surely he had seen many bodies, old, young, cursed, maimed, broken. He was not squeamish. Why did this one arm not let him go? Whether it was the three-day-long chase with little sleep, the shock of the explosion, or the urgency of the situation they were in, Viktor knew that sleep would not find him. Not unless...
Admitting defeat, he headed to his desk, still naked. This was so fucking selfish, and yet… hadn’t she told him? “We share everything, Viktor. I want all of you, I will not settle for any less.” He grabbed his pen and notepad and began to scribble.
Dear Hermione,
It has been a long three days. I will tell you all about it, you know I will. I am just dead tired. I am dead tired, but I can’t sleep. I saw a severed arm today. It lay on the ground, palm pointing towards me. There are probably worse things than seeing a severed arm. Like having a severed arm, for example. Still, the image of it won’t leave me. Isn’t it sad that a person is alive just seconds before he is dead?
I miss you,
Viktor
He slid the piece of paper into a small envelope and called his small owl, Lev Davidovich Bronstein. In the three days the tiny owl had been spared the trip from Bulgaria to Scotland, it had gone from well-rested to restless. Grabbing the envelope eagerly, he flew on his way. Viktor closed the window, went back to bed and closed his eyes. The arm appeared briefly but quickly vanished, giving way to a pleasant dream where he slowly rode his broom low over the Black Sea at night in the moonlight, his heels occasionally grazing the surface of the water. He smiled in his sleep, rolled over his stomach and fell into deep, forgiving oblivion.
When Viktor woke up the next morning, he felt like he had spent the night on a torture rack. There wasn’t a part of his body that did not ache, his neck and shoulders were stiff and joints creaking. The warnings of the Healer and experience of soft tissue trauma after falling off brooms one or fifty times had given him the foresight to place the pain potion vial on his bedside table so that he could knock it back without having to get up. He stared at the ceiling while the potion worked its magic and tried to remember what he dreamed. Before he was completely pain-free and mobile, he was prompted to leave his bed by Lev Davidovich incessantly tapping on the window. He drew the curtain and saw that the warm, humid weather from the day before had been the predecessor of a summer storm. He opened the window and let the sodden bird in.
“Hey, hey, little guy, my ear is not an owl treat” he admonished the small bird with a giant ego, who had an unhealthy attraction to the shell of his ear. The bird was finally persuaded to yield him the envelope he had been carrying in exchange for a strip of dried duck breast. Viktor remembered his haphazard, confused, dark note to Hermione the night before and braced himself for the scolding he had invited in exchange for a night’s comfortable sleep. He was surprised as he saw lines of a poem instead of hastily scribbled prose.
“ This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it towards you. ”
He read the unfamiliar poem three times, astonished by how well it fit his experience. If it weren’t for the archaic language and the fact that Hermione had written zero poems in their nearly fifteen years of acquaintance, he would have thought that she had written the poem especially for him after his letter last night. “So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights, that thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood,” read he aloud. Just as he was starting to relive the events of the day before, Lev Davidovich landed on his shoulder and started nibbling his ear again with relish, having made short work of the duck strip. “Bronstein!” roared Viktor, trying to shoo the persistent bird away. The bird was right, though, it was a new day, and he had a duty to perform. Trauma had to wait.
Or maybe the bird was just hungry.
Having fed both the owl and himself, Viktor quickly reread the two letters he had opened the previous night. Hermione’s rant about Malfoy made him chuckle. This was certainly a woman who needed something to fight against at all times. Before he went to work, he opened the third letter. This one was not that funny.
Dear Viktor,
Today, one of the sixth year pupils had a nervous breakdown after receiving very distressing news during breakfast. Her parents had been in Cardiff during the attack. They were taken to St. Mungo’s along with the other victims, with the hope that they had been far enough from the explosion and there was still a chance of recovery for them. Unfortunately, this was not the case. They are still alive and healthy, like the other victims, but they will not easily find a place in the society where they were born and raised so easily any more. They will have to relearn how to live, so to say.
I am getting really scared. People are panicking. As the end of the term draws near, parents are already drowning Hogwarts in letters, pleading that their children be allowed to remain in the school during the summer holidays, where they are safe. At least, we hope they are.
Who would do such a thing, Viktor? The people behind this crime are also wizards and witches, surely. What vile terrorism is this?
I hope you are safe. The time between your letters has never seemed this long. Please, be safe.
I miss you,
h.
Who would do such a thing, indeed? As an MLE officer, Viktor tried to keep an open mind and not let prejudices from the war cloud his judgment. Not all bad witches and wizards were dark witches and wizards. Not everyone who did very bad things was necessarily even a bad person with bad intentions. Sometimes all it took was a person who was convinced that what he was doing was right. There had been occasions during interrogations where the suspect would speak so passionately of his cause that even Viktor had been moved. His instinct told him that in this blood-churning case, they would first have to find out how, before they found out who.
A large, silver goose that penetrated the living room wall pulled him out of his thoughts before he drowned in them. It was the unmistakable majestic Patronus of Ieva, telling him that their meeting was set up for three o’clock in the afternoon. Shortly after, a phone call from his supervisor told him that he was not expected to report for duty, but was to recuperate until his meeting in the afternoon. Considering his options and his injury, Viktor decided to forego his customary morning run and also decided against the yoga routine that he had learned from Hermione. For almost three months, this was the first half a day he had to rest, and he would make good use of it. He moved to his desk and finished the letters to Hermione and his parents. He could not bring himself to tell his parents about the explosion. They were proud of Viktor’s career choice beyond measure, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be worried to death if they knew that he had nearly been blown into pieces. He wrote to Hermione, omitting many details about the investigation as was required of an MLE officer, and tried to make it as light-hearted as possible. “ Your old friend is a relentless tracker, ” he wrote, “ He has only ever seen the guy we were after from the memories of the victims, and that for just a few seconds, but I swear he was sniffing him like a tracker dog. I tried to understand the magic he was using, but I gave up after the third Apparition stop. I am not even sure how much of it was magic and how much of it was instinct. I have never met anyone like him. He is also quite funny; his hair is almost as crazy as yours, he wears an old pink scarf like a girl, and he talks in such a way that I was never quite sure if he was serious or joking. I wonder if I will ever see him again. He probably thinks I am dead.”
After finishing his letters, Viktor called Tsvete to deliver the one for his family and gave Hermione’s to Lev Davidovich, who disappeared into the rain that was still falling in sheets. The Black Sea was its usual grey, stormy, murky self with an odd, barely visible cargo ship far away. Piles and piles of seaweed had been washed up by the waves, the sand looked damp, sticky and unappealing. The roses in his garden were illuminated by an eerie light that deprived them of their colour nuances, rendering them either dark or light grey. Viktor considered his options. He had been longing for some free time to go flying, he still had a racing broom in his workshop to finish that he hadn’t touched for months, and despite having just had breakfast, he craved something sweet. He sighed, set the alarm on his Casio F-91W wristwatch to 14:00, crawled into bed, and fell asleep.