Well, she says she makes the trip out for his heating charms, but Ron calls her on it with a snort and a, "Yeah, heating charms, sure."
Hermione doesn't blush. Ron has been known to travel to far parts of the eastern hemisphere because Luna drops suggestions that she doesn't wish to go alone.
Harry buys her several scarfs and a few hats and an extra set of robes. She says, "I'm going for a long weekend, dear."
Harry says, "Just in case the heating charms fail."
Hermione is never, never going to hear the end of it.
Viktor greets her at Durmstrang's gates and immediately hits her with one of the charms. It helps, but she says, "Please tell me you weren't being literal."
Viktor grabs her up and kisses her, glove-covered fingers burying themselves in her hair, his lips chapped but warm, so very warm. "What does this mean, literal? My English is not so good."
Hermione has taught him considerable chunks of his English. She knows precisely how accomplished it is. "Excellent. I wouldn't say no to a hot cocoa, though."
He presses her to his side, shielding her from the worst of the swirling snow as they make their way inside the school.
In her second day there, snow begins to fall in earnest. It begins with big, wet, lacy flakes, but they sharpen, consolidate by midday, and it is painful just to look at, let alone imagine being out in.
Hermione asks, "How good are the wards on your rooms?"
Viktor asks, "Why?"
"Because it's the middle of the day and I plan on having long, slow carnal relations with you, but I'm going to need to make sure we can be neither interrupted nor seen."
"My warding has never been as good as yours."
This is true, but he can fly and she can't, so she figures it all evens out.
Also, he often makes such statements with a quiet appreciation that Hermione has never learned to get over, not in all the years since she came back to him and decided not to go away again.
"I'll see what I can do."
By early afternoon Hermione has made sure that half the students in the school won't remember where Viktor's rooms are, and the other half probably won't even remember he's their professor. She's also made the full length window in his main room one way.
He brings her tea and she sips it naked. He says, "I really can't allow you to finish that in that state."
So he presses her up, arching over the sofa and touches his tongue--still warm from the tea--to her breast. She says, "About time," even though they spent most of the night before getting past the part where they'd really, really missed each other, so that today could be slow, if they wanted.
Only if they wanted.
Viktor draws his tongue up to her mouth, and right before he takes it she says, "I want to watch the storm."
Viktor smiles against her lips, "Did you put a heating charm on the window while you were being industrious?"
"I believe that's your job, Mr. I-Have-Good-Heating-Charms."
Viktor's smile widens. "Weasley and Potter have been giving you grief?"
"Luckily, neither of them can talk much."
"I'd prefer we weren't talking just now, either."
Hermione's good for that. "Charm the window."
Viktor waves his wand lazily in the correct direction. Hermione rolls off the back of the couch and saunters over. He's at her back within moments. The area is warm, but when Hermione puts her hands to the glass, there's nothing, nothing that can completely take the chill from it.
She laughs a little breathlessly, presses more of herself to the barrier, watches as nothing but white fills her vision. Viktor brings his hands up, his thumbs rubbing at the nipples hardening in the cold. He pushes into her, slow and easy, the two of them rocking further into the glass.
Viktor asks, "Warm enough?" and she shivers again as she says, "More than."
He kisses at the back of her neck and the difference in temperature, the solid, searing heat of him at her back, the whispy heat of the charm at her sides, the calm, cruel cold of the window at her front makes every nerve in her body stand on end, pay attention.
Viktor pulls back, slow, too slow, but she gets that it's his challenge, that he's waiting for her to beg.
Hermione tosses her head back, asking for a kiss, and Viktor grants it to her. She doesn't beg. That's not her style.
Viktor slows things down.
Hermione presses her lips to the glass. She can almost taste the snow.
In the end it is Viktor who gives. It generally is. There have been notable exceptions. Hermione can remember every single one.
He comes whispering, "Gorgeous, gorgeous," and Hermione knows he's talking about her because she knows him, but she agrees, looking out at the purest moment of winter's ferocity swirling in front of her.
He swipes his fingers against the glass, leaving marks, and touches them to her clitoris. Hermione gasps, falling back into him at her climax.
He says, "Told you I wouldn't let the weather stand in our way."
"Mm," she says.
"Want to settle in front of the fire, wait a bit?"
"Just so we can cover all the clichés?"
Hermione says, "All right, but the fire charm is entirely up to you."