Sweeter Than Bulgarian Honey
Viktor Krum x English witch reader
Fluff wrapped in pretend relationship and Bulgurian culture and fluffing fluff
⸻
The first time you saw Viktor Krum, he was striding into the Great Hall like someone out of a storybook—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and every bit the Triwizard Champion Hogwarts students whispered about.
You weren’t one of the whisperers. You were far too busy trying not to drop your goblet as Durmstrang’s delegation swept past. Still, you noticed him.
What surprised you wasn’t the fame or the Quidditch glory—it was the way, later that evening, you caught him in the courtyard away from the crowds, looking a little… lost.
You’d been there to avoid the excitement too, hiding with a stolen meat pie from the feast. When you noticed him glancing at you, you’d shrugged and offered half.
“Is… good,” he’d said after the first bite, nodding like you’d given him something priceless. His accent was thick, his words few, but you found him easier to talk to than half the boys in your own House.
From then on, it was small moments—sitting together in the library when his English homework gave him headaches, laughing quietly in the stands before the first task, trading pockets of silence that never felt awkward.
The night after the Third Task, when everything at Hogwarts seemed darker, you’d found him on the same courtyard bench. You didn’t speak much—just sat beside him until the dawn bled through the sky. He’d said goodbye that morning with a rare, almost shy smile.
A week later, a letter arrived by owl.
You are the only person there I miss, it read in careful, deliberate handwriting. If I send a letter each week, you will answer?
You had answered before you even finished reading.
⸻
The letters became habit.
Every Sunday without fail, an envelope with his tidy, slightly slanted script would appear at breakfast. Sometimes they were short—a few lines about his training, the weather in Bulgaria, the antics of his owl. Sometimes they were long, sprawling pages where his formality cracked open into dry humor and unexpected warmth.
You wrote back with your own life: exams, strange Hogwarts gossip, how your new kitten had knocked over an entire stack of textbooks.
He wrote about snow in the mountains and the summer heat along the Black Sea. You wrote about late-night Astronomy lessons and your broom breaking mid-flight.
When you teased him about being the most dedicated pen pal you’d ever had, he’d written back
I am dedicated only to people who are worth it.
⸻
Years passed. You didn’t see him in person again, but you knew the rhythm of his life through paper and ink. His handwriting grew a little steadier. His English grew smoother. Yours grew dotted with little Bulgarian words he’d taught you.
You didn’t realize how much the letters meant until one arrived with three short lines
Y/n. Festival is in July. Come.
You didn’t even think before you wrote your answer.
Of course.
⸻
Bulgaria in July smelled like ripe peaches and sea air.
You stepped off the Portkey into the middle of a bustling cobblestoned square, blinking against the flood of color and noise. Vendors shouted over one another in rapid Bulgarian, ribbons and paper lanterns swayed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a fiddler played a bright, looping tune that made your foot want to tap.
You barely had time to take it in before a familiar shadow blocked the sun.
“Y/N.”
Viktor’s voice was exactly the same as you remembered—low, a little rough, like he’d been speaking to mountains all his life. He looked… the same, too, and somehow different. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, hair a touch longer and brushing his ears. But his eyes lit up the same way they had that first year at Hogwarts when you’d handed him half a stolen pie.
“You cut your hair,” you blurted, because your brain decided that was more urgent than Hello, how are you?
He glanced at the too-short ends, shrugged. “It vas hot.”
You laughed, the awkwardness melting as he pulled you into a surprisingly careful hug, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. The smell of warm wool and faint woodsmoke clung to him.
“I vill take your bag,” he said, already lifting it before you could protest.
You followed him through winding streets toward his family home—a sprawling, sun-bleached house with grapevines curling along the fence and a wooden bench painted bright blue. Before you could even reach the front door, it swung open.
Out poured relatives. So many relatives.
They spoke in a tumble of Bulgarian, voices overlapping as they embraced Viktor, kissed his cheeks, and—oh—looked you up and down like you were an exotic bird that had landed in their garden.
A round, silver-haired woman grabbed your hand, beaming. “You are… Y/N?” she asked in accented English.
“Yes—”
“Very pretty,” she announced, patting your cheek. She turned to Viktor, rattling off something that made the others chuckle knowingly.
You caught exactly one word: nevesta. Bride.
Viktor cleared his throat, glaring at someone over your shoulder. “Inside,” he muttered, steering you toward the door like you were a VIP guest and the press was closing in.
The kitchen smelled like heaven—fresh bread, roasted peppers, something sweet cooling on the counter. But before you could even take a seat, another woman in a bright floral scarf appeared with a tall, smiling man.
“This is my neighbor’s niece,” she said brightly. “A very good girl, yes? She—”
“—is not interested,” Viktor interrupted flatly.
The room went very still. The niece’s smile faltered. The older woman’s eyebrows shot up.
You tried not to laugh at the pure, smoldering no in Viktor’s expression.
By the time you were upstairs in the guest room, you’d counted three more introductions to “very good girls” and one pointed comment about how Viktor was “not getting any younger.”
He shut the door behind you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This,” he said, “is vhy I wrote to you.”
You tilted your head. “Because I’m the only one immune to your charm?”
“No.” He dropped into the chair by the window, meeting your eyes. “Because I need a girlfriend.”
“You saw today,” he said at last. After long pause.
“Mm-hm.” You folded your arms. “All the eligible bachelorettes of Bulgaria throwing themselves at your feet. Tragic.”
He shot you a dry look, but didn’t deny it. “It has been this vay for… too long. Every summer festival, every family gathering. If I say no, they think I am shy. If I do not answer, they think I am… mysterious. If I—” He cut himself off, scowling slightly. “It is… exhausting.”
“So what’s your master plan?” you asked, leaning against the railing beside him.
His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it. “If I am… taken… they vill stop.”
It took you a second. “Taken. As in… you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”
“Yes.” He said it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Only for this summer. To make them… leave me alone.”
You widened your eyes in mock horror. “Wait. Is this the only reason you invited me? I am hurt, Viktor.”
“No!” He straightened, suddenly alarmed. “I vanted to see you. This—this is only… a bonus. A necessary—”
“A necessary fake romance to keep Aunt Dobrina from marrying you off to her neighbor’s niece?” you cut in, smirking.
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Hmm. And what’s in it for me? Do I at least get food out of this arrangement? Because your grandmother’s banitsa could make me do questionable things.”
Viktor huffed a laugh, low and warm. “You vill eat until you cannot move. And I vill… owe you.”
“Dangerous words, Krum.” You bumped your shoulder into his. “Alright. I’m in.”
He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thank you.”
You told yourself the sudden flutter in your chest was just from the summer air and the way the fireflies lit the edges of his hair—not from the faint smile he gave you then, the kind that wasn’t for show, the kind you remembered from years ago.
It was pretend. Just for the summer.
You were sure of it.
Almost.
⸻
The next morning began with food.
Viktor’s grandmother insisted.
You were barely seated before she pressed a steaming plate of banitsa in front of you, the flaky pastry stuffed with salty cheese and spinach. Beside it, she poured you a glass of boza—a sweet, thick drink the color of caramel that you’d never tried before.
“It is breakfast,” she declared firmly.
Viktor, seated across from you, smirked over his own glass. “She vill feed you until you cannot move.”
“I’m okay with that,” you said, biting into the banitsa and nearly groaning out loud.
By the time you were finished, you were stuffed but happy, and his grandmother was already fussing with your hair.
“For festival,” she explained, her weathered hands surprisingly gentle as she wove small braids into your hair, pulling them back and fastening them with a bright ribbon the color of pomegranates. “Pretty girl must look like pretty girl.”
She sent you upstairs to change into a dress from her cedar chest—a long, flowing thing of cream cotton embroidered with red and gold flowers. You couldn’t help smoothing your hands over the fabric, wondering how many summers it had danced through before this one.
When you came down the stairs, Viktor looked up from lacing his boots—and stilled.
“It suits you,” he said simply. His voice was calm, but there was a flicker in his eyes that made your stomach feel like it had just missed a step.
⸻
The town square was even livelier than yesterday. Stalls lined the cobblestones, piled high with jewel-bright jars of honey, strings of dried peppers, painted ceramics, and plump peaches still warm from the sun. Folk musicians played on a raised wooden platform, their music weaving through the air like ribbons.
Viktor walked beside you, a steady presence, his hand resting lightly at your back. You told yourself it was part of the act—but he didn’t move it, even when you stopped to admire a display of woven belts.
A group of older women nearby whispered behind their hands, their eyes darting between you and Viktor. You caught the word nevesta again and bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Viktor noticed. “What?”
“They’re already planning our wedding,” you teased under your breath.
His lips twitched, but he said nothing, simply bought you a small jar of honey and pressed it into your hands. “For later,” he said.
⸻
Around midday, you were swept—quite literally—into a circle of dancers. A laughing cousin of Viktor’s pulled you into the ring, where people stamped and spun to the bright, fast music.
“Follow me!” the cousin shouted, demonstrating the steps: three to the right, one back, kick, repeat.
You stumbled the first few times, but soon the rhythm caught you. Viktor joined in, his long legs making the steps look effortless, and when his hand found yours in the chain of dancers, his grip was warm and sure.
By the end of the song, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Viktor passed you a chilled clay cup of ayran—cool, salty yogurt drink—and you gulped it down, grateful for the refreshment.
⸻
Lunch happened at long tables set up under the shade of walnut trees. Platters of grilled kebapche and lyutenitsa a thick red pepper spread passed from hand to hand. Someone piled your plate high before you could protest.
Viktor kept refilling your glass with a tart, ruby-red drink called kompot. When you teased him about mothering you, he replied in that steady, unruffled tone, “You vill faint in the heat if you do not drink.”
Halfway through the meal, one of his aunts leaned over and told you—quite sincerely—that you should wear red more often because it “keeps a man’s heart tied to you.” You laughed, but when Viktor’s gaze lingered on the ribbon in your hair, you had to look away.
⸻
In the afternoon, Viktor led you through narrow streets where painted shutters framed every window. You stopped at a small shop selling delicate silver jewelry, and while you examined a pair of earrings shaped like tiny suns, he quietly purchased a matching bracelet.
“For your collection,” he said, fastening it around your wrist. His fingers brushed your skin—too briefly, but enough to send a pulse of heat up your arm.
⸻
By the time evening came, the square transformed into a lantern-lit stage for more dancing. Strings of warm lights hung from tree to tree, and the smell of roasting nuts and cinnamon drifted through the air.
Viktor’s grandmother insisted you two join the horo—a traditional line dance. You protested you’d already embarrassed yourself enough, but she clucked her tongue and nudged you forward.
The steps were faster this time, the music swirling, and you clung to Viktor’s hand as the circle spun. His palm was calloused but gentle, and every time you looked up, he was already watching you.
⸻
When the musicians switched to a slower tune, couples drifted to the center of the square. You hesitated, certain this wasn’t part of the “fake dating” brief, but Viktor’s hand came to rest at the small of your back again.
“It vill look strange if we do not dance,” he said.
“That’s your excuse?” you asked, letting him draw you in.
The dance was simple—just swaying in time with the music—but his arm was solid around you, his chest warm where it brushed yours. Somewhere in the crowd, someone sighed loudly, and you knew the whispering would start all over again.
When the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. Neither did you.
⸻
You walked back to the house under strings of lanterns, carrying a paper-wrapped parcel of sweet kozunak bread for later.
“Your family is going to be relentless now,” you said, glancing sideways at him.
“They already were,” he replied. “Now, at least, they think I am… happy.”
There was something in the way he said it—quiet, almost shy—that made you wonder if this was still just an act for him.
You decided not to ask.
Not yet.
⸻
You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and the faint chatter of voices drifting up from the kitchen. Sunlight spilled across the embroidered curtains, and somewhere outside, a rooster crowed like it was auditioning for an opera.
By the time you came downstairs, Viktor’s grandmother had already pulled you into a chair and placed a steaming clay cup of coffee in your hands. Beside it sat a plate of mekitsi—golden, fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with honey.
“For my girl,” she said, patting your shoulder.
My girl.
The words warmed you almost as much as the coffee.
It wasn’t just her, either. The day passed in a blur of little kindnesses. His uncle brought you wildflowers from the meadow. His cousin insisted on showing you how to weave them into your hair. Neighbors you hadn’t even met yet greeted you with kisses on both cheeks, offering baskets of cherries and slices of cold watermelon.
Everywhere you turned, there was laughter, music, and a sense of belonging that wrapped around you like a soft blanket.
You’d thought you were here for Viktor.
But maybe… you were starting to fall for Bulgaria, too.
Which was the problem.
Because the more you let yourself enjoy this—the braids threaded with ribbons, the smell of fresh bread from the clay oven, the way Viktor’s family treated you like you’d always been one of them—the more dangerous it felt.
It was pretend. A favor. An arrangement that would end the moment the summer did. And yet…
Viktor had been quieter than usual today, though not in a bad way. You’d caught him watching you more than once, his expression unreadable. When you laughed with his little cousins over the way they tried to teach you tongue-twisters in Bulgarian, something in his eyes had softened.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what that meant.
By evening, the guilt had settled in your chest like a stone.
You found him on the back porch, sharpening a broom handle with the focus of a man carving marble. The sky was streaked in shades of peach and violet, crickets beginning to hum in the grass.
“Vik,” you said quietly.
He glanced up, setting the broom aside. “You are tired?”
“Not exactly.” You hesitated, then stepped closer. “I just… I think we need to talk. About all this.” You gestured vaguely toward the laughter spilling from the kitchen, the sound of his aunt humming over the clatter of dishes.
His brows knit slightly. “Is something wrong?”
Yes. No. Everything. “I just don’t want to… hurt anyone,” you said, the words catching more than you expected.
His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he spoke, voice low. “Then talk to me. Tell me vhat you feel.”
If I don’t say anything now, I never will right?
“I can’t just… play along anymore,” you said finally, your voice too thin. “When I came here, I thought it was just a bit of fun. A favor for an old friend. But—” You broke off, swallowing hard. “Vik, I’ve fallen for everything here. Your grandmother’s banitsa. The smell of roasted peppers in the evening. The way everyone dances like the music is part of them. The ribbons, the braids, the way your little cousins make me feel like an older sister. I—”
Your voice caught, and you forced yourself to keep going.
“I love it here. All of it. And the more I love it, the more I hate that it’s all built on a lie.”
He was watching you quietly, jaw tight, but you didn’t let yourself stop.
“Because it’s not just the food or the traditions or the summer air,” you said, your voice breaking. “It’s you. It’s the way you always make sure my plate is full before you take your own. The way you stand between me and the crowd without thinking about it. The way you dance like you’re not good at it but you still do because your grandmother asked.”
A shaky breath slipped out. “You asked me to pretend. But I can’t pretend anymore, because it doesn’t feel like pretending, and I hate that I’m the only one in this… this thing feeling like that.”
The last words cracked completely, and before you could stop them, tears burned your eyes. You turned your face away, swiping at them with the heel of your hand.
Viktor didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he stood and crossed the porch, his shadow falling over you.
“You think you are the only one?” His voice was low, almost hoarse.
You blinked up at him, caught between confusion and hope.
“I did not invite you because I needed help,” he said. “I invited you because I vanted to see you. Because every letter you sent made my weeks feel shorter. Because I have not smiled as much in years as I have since you came.”
The tears blurred everything, but you could still see the way his eyes softened.
“It stopped being pretending for me before it even started,” he said simply.
You let out a helpless, choked laugh, covering your face for a moment before his hands gently pulled them away.
The crickets hummed. The scent of grapevines hung heavy in the warm air. And when his thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, you realized you didn’t have to feel guilty anymore.
Not if he’d been falling right alongside you.
⸻
The night had settled around you like a soft blanket, the sky spilling stars in every direction. Lanterns hung from the grapevines above, casting pools of golden light on the porch where you still stood—closer now, the space between you barely a whisper.
Viktor’s hands lingered on your cheeks, warm and steady. His breath hitched just enough to remind you he was as nervous as you felt.
For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the quiet that stretched between words. Then, slowly, his forehead rested against yours.
“I am glad you came,” he murmured, voice low and rough with feeling.
You smiled, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the night sounds. “Me too.”
When he tilted his head, the world narrowed until there was only you, him, and the gentle brush of his lips on yours—soft, questioning, and perfectly sweet.
It wasn’t rushed or messy. It was the kind of kiss that promised something real, something you’d both been waiting for without quite knowing.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him a little closer. His hands cupped your face, grounding you, holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever found.
When you finally pulled back, breath mingling, you both laughed softly—relieved, joyful, a little breathless.
Behind you, the warm glow of the house spilled out, and through the open window came the faint sound of Viktor’s family, still laughing, still living, still loving around you.
You rested your forehead against his again, whispering, “So, I guess this means I’m not just your pretend girlfriend anymore?”
His smile was slow, sure. “No. You are much more than that.”
And with that, the summer night wrapped you both in its magic—no pretending needed.
⸻
