A/N: Written for a challenge-of-sorts by a few friends, this story features our favourite Ravenclaw twin and a guest appearance by a Bulgarian Seeker. It's not necessarily shippy and fairly open to interpretation ;)

Disclaimer: I got lots of help on the characterizations of the characters from friends, and moreoever, everything technically belongs to Rowling anyway.
Muggles, by the standard definition favoured by various people in the wizarding world, were supposed to be primitive and brutish and uncivilised. He had certainly heard this sort of definition more than once from several of his associates-- some of whom he no longer knew.

People without magic. Without spells and charms and wands. In this, perhaps they were simplistic.

And yet, capable of creating works of great and profound beauty.

It would surprise most that he knew about such things.

He didn't attract attention as he walked down the quiet, white marble halls of the museum, a dark, silent man of indefinite age. Unsmiling face and remote, jaded eyes. He looked out of place, perhaps, shuffling out of a roomful of Impressionist paintings-- pastel-tinted Monet and Renoir and Seurat. Turning a corner without a noise, he entered another gallery in the art museum.

One wall was dominated by a painting of Munch's Madonna, all inky hair and tragic eyes and troubled emotions. In front of the painting, one slim, brown hand resting on the wine-red velvet rope that separated the picture from the public, was a feminine figure.

She turned even as he approached to take a closer look.

Hers was a deceptively blank, tranquil face, he decided. East Indian, all straight black hair and enigmatic eyes and olive skin. "Good afternoon," she enunciated in careful, precise English. Something about her was slightly familiar, but for the moment, he couldn't place her.

"Good afternoon," he returned, his English tinged with a Bulgarian accent. He did not introduce himself... not that most people in a Muggle museum would know his name in any case.

"Viktor Krum, yes?"

He raised a scraggy dark eyebrow. "You know my name?"

The young woman gave a dry laugh. "But of course. International Quidditch star and former Triwizard champion, turned Quidditch recruiter and undercover Light Side agent. You're quite the celebrity, really. I'm sure many children these days want to be just like you."

The last was spoken ironically, and Viktor eyed her strangely. He was either unknown, or lionized... and yet this time it was different. "And vill you tell me YOUR name?"

"Mrs. Theodore Nott," she said curtly.

Viktor frowned slightly as the image of a thin, dark-haired young man who had sat mostly at the edge furthest away from the High Table at Hogwarts when he'd gone with his schoolmates for the tournament ten years ago. Nott had joined the ranks of Death Eaters, like so many people he knew, and perished in one of the Hogsmeade battles three years back. And yet-- Viktor couldn't recall ever having met or known about Mrs. Nott.

Almost as if reading his mind, the young woman shrugged. "We had separate interests in several arenas."

Her voice was devoid of any sentimentality when speaking of her departed husband, and her face remained similarly bland. His curiosity was piqued, but he kept silent as he glanced at the dramatic painting behind her back.

"It's interesting, isn't it?" she remarked.

"Very," he agreed. "One doesn't expect a holy figure like the Madonna to look like she does here."

She chuckled, and in an almost nervous gesture, raked a hand through her raven hair-- hair dark and straight and flowing like the Madonna's. "But that's just the way things are, no? Seeing beyond the obvious. You expect something-- well known and over-simplified-- to be some way. A fact, a person... and it's not really the case at all. YOU'd know, I think."

And apparently, so did she. "Iss that vhy you like painting so much?"

"It's a beautiful work of art," she declared, her tone shifting to a cooler, more impersonal one, "One of the best pieces of the Expressionist movement. Edvard Munch was very skilled in portraying darkness and complexity-- in a not-quite-direct way."

"I agree," he mused, his arms crossed over his chest, fingers resting on forearms. "I haff not seen you around here before."

"It IS rather unexpected," she remarked, her manner matter-of-fact and direct. "But not just for me. But... you are correct, Mr. Krum. I do not come here often."

It was simply an occasional respite. He nodded silently and wondered once again where he could have seen her before.

She picked up a black leather handbag, and pulled the strap over her shoulder. He proffered a hand after a moment's deliberation, and she took it for a brief shake, and he saw golden bangles on her wrist and a sleeve of turquoise silk under the sensible, long black jacket. "Haff a good afternoon, Mrs. Nott."

She nodded and stepped away, but turned her head to look over her shoulder just a moment before she exited.

"Padma. My name is Padma."

Padma... his mind's eye settled on an image from a long-ago ball-- a young girl in turquoise dress robes and bangles... a tall, scowling redheaded boy whose attention was focused upon Hermione-- the intelligent, opinionated young witch that Ron Weasley had never truly appreciated.

It probably wasn't the first or the last time. Viktor had not paid any mind to the Ravenclaw girl all those years ago.

Giving the tragic Madonna a strange, ironic sort of smile, he followed in Padma's footsteps and left the gallery without a word.