Viktor treats everything like a sport, except her. He treats her like a game, carefully following the rules, step by step, advancing and retreating as the cards dictate, fingers advancing like pieces along her skin, inching closer and closer, higher and higher. He whispers soft words she doesn't understand, thickly accented on her skin.

He passes points and stations, learning his way. She recites rules and guidelines and various interpretations of play, variants on a theme as he licks and kisses and touches and makes his way around her. She whispers his name and he surrenders the lead for a moment, lets her take a turn, and then forges ahead, competition fierce in his eyes as he pushes forward, determined to win.

Hermione gasps and then lets loose a shuddering breath, willingly ceding victory in this, savoring every noise that slips past his lips, her name whispered on his own shaky exhale and knowing she, as always, is the winner.