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Hermione arrived at St. Mungo’s with fifteen minutes to spare. She could go in right away, of course. Trainee healers had been told to be there at eight o’clock, but that didn’t mean the rest of the staff wouldn’t already be there.
Still, Hermione remained outside. There was a line, you see. A line between just eager enough to show you care and so eager you come off as desperate. A firm believer in the scientific method, Hermione had tested different hypotheses through her years as a student and had come to the conclusion that the line was somewhere between five and six minutes before the specified time.
She had high hopes to have it nailed down to the second by the time she finished her training.
As she waited for nine to ten minutes to pass, Hermione took in a deep breath and looked down at her shoes. She shifted her weight just enough for her feet to shuffle the slightest bit to the left, until they were perfectly lined up with a crack on the pavement.
She wasn’t nervous, mind you. Not really. She was excited. She’d spent all summer researching St. Mungo’s. She knew every Quality and Safety recommendation, every rule in the employee handbook, every step in every standarised procedure she’d been able to find. She knew, of course, the names and specialties of all the Healers on staff. So she wasn’t nervous. Why would she be?
She had butterflies in her stomach, like any sensible young woman would in her shoes. First day as trainee healer in Britain’s most prestigious magical hospital. Not feeling a bit of trepidation at the thought would’ve been alarming.
Three minutes now. Hermione took one step to her left, standing perfectly centered in front of the steps to St. Mungo’s. She hoped she’d be assigned to Delphia Hedge’s team. Healer Hedge had a reputation as tough and unyielding, extremely hard to please, and brilliant beyond belief. She was invariably the senior Healer who failed the most trainees every year, but the ones who made it were always outstanding. If you could survive Hedge — as several of the articles Hermione had gathered during the summer said — you were destined for greatness.
Hermione wanted to learn from Healer Hedge like she imagined a man in the dessert would want a drink of water. She wanted it desperately. And that meant she had to go in precisely now — between five and six minutes before the time she’d been told to arrive — so Delphia Hedge would know she was not just another trainee.
***
“Have you heard?”
It was one minute to eight when two young witches she remembered from last year joined Hermione in the staff room. They were nice enough, Hermione supposed. She hadn’t really had the time or the inclination to make friends since starting her healer studies last year. It was a competitive programme, and she had no intention to get distracted from her goal. She had friends already, after all.
“Heard what?”
Hermione didn’t mean to listen in on their conversation, but it was hard to focus on anything else when they were the only three people in the empty room.
“Healer Hedge is gone.”
Hermione’s eyes rounded, every muscle in her body suddenly tense. She wasn’t entirely convinced she wouldn’t fall over like a broomstick if someone were to bump into her right now.
“Gone?”
“Gone,” the witch said, making an sweeping motion with her hand to emphasise her point, “no more Healer Hedge.”
Hermione tried to stop herself. Really, she did. She tried to keep quiet and not let them know she’d been listening. But she simply couldn’t.
“What do you mean, no more Healer Hedge?” She said, unable to stop talking once she’d opened her mouth. “She’s— she’s an institution! Surely she can’t be gone.”
The two witches gave her a look that was somewhere between amused and judgmental. Hermione couldn’t say she cared. She had much more important matters to think about.
“My father works at the Ministry,” the witch said finally, “he said she’s been offered a position there, in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. A very tempting position. She couldn’t say no.”
Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She felt the wrinkle between her eyebrows make an appearance as she tried to wrap her mind around this unforeseen circumstance. How could she not have known? How had they not published this in the papers?
“But—“ Hermione said, ignoring the steady trickle of wizards and witches walking into the room, “but that can’t be right. I specifically requested her as my attending.”
The two witches — and the other twenty or so trainees that had already taking their seats around them — didn’t seem to understand the severity of the situation.
Delphia Hedge, gone. Impossible. She was— well, not the heart, but certainly the brains of St. Mungo’s trainee programme. How could she be gone? Who could possibly be a worthy substitute for someone like Delphia Hed—
“Talpin,” a voice suddenly said, making itself heard over the murmur of the trainees, “Rivers, Moone,” Hermione’s frown deepened as she looked around, trying to find the source of the familiar voice she couldn’t quite pinpoint, “and Granger.”
That accent. That voice. Hermione’s head whipped towards the source of the sound so fast for a second she feared she’d hurt something in her neck.
It couldn’t be. What would Fleur Delacour, of all people, be doing at St. Mungo’s?
“Please, come with me,” Hermione noticed with growing incredulity that Fleur seemed to be wearing the lime green robes of a healer, “I’m Healer Delacour. I will be your attending this year.”
***
“You could have at least warned me, Ginny!”
Ginny shrugged, infuriatingly enough. Although, to her credit, she’d remained remarkably calm in the face of Hermione apparating in her shared flat for the sole purpose of yelling at her.
“I would have, if I’d known.” Ginny’s bulletproof logic and calm tone of voice did nothing to fix Hermione’s mood. “You know we weren’t close even before the divorce. We’re hardly having weekly tea dates to catch up, you know.”
Hermione groaned in despair. How. How could this possibly be happening? She was finally a trainee healer in her dream programme, and instead of getting to train under world-renowned Healer Delphia Hedge she was going to be shadowing Fleur Delacour.
Fleur Delacour, of all people.
“It’s like Divination class all over again,” Hermione said dramatically, pushing flyaway curls out of her face.
“At least you do believe in medicine,” Ginny said, a hint of teasing in her voice, “so unless Fleur starts trying to find diagnoses at the bottom of her tea cup, I don’t think this will be quite as bad as Professor Trelawney’s class.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.”
Hermione sat down with a sigh and drank a gulp of her tea. She had a long, long year ahead of her.
***
Two weeks into her first term as a St. Mungo’s trainee, Hermione was very nearly ready to quit.
She wouldn’t, of course. She would never. But sometimes she really, truly wanted to.
Fleur was every bit as… Fleur-like as she used to be as a teen. She carried herself with poise and confidence in a way that struck Hermione as arrogant. She looked even more infuriatingly beautiful in the St. Mungo’s green robes as she had in Beauxbatons blue. Which, Hermione supposed, wasn’t entirely Fleur’s fault. But still, it was a distraction.
Not for Hermione, of course. But for the others. The male trainees. The male healers. The male patients. Every male in a several-mile radius became next to useless when faced with Fleur Delacour’s disarming smile.
And, truthfully — Hermione told herself as she aimlessly flipped the pages of a book on counter-hexes — while looking like that had been the result of a genetic lottery win and not anything Fleur could be blamed for herself, Fleur made an effort to look her best.
And Fleur’s best, Hermione would have you know, was very nearly excessive. Distracting.
Not for Hermione, of course. She couldn’t stress that enough. But, for everyone else’s sake, she could’ve had the decency to not brush her hair, maybe. At the very least.
Because Hermione, after pouring her heart and soul into her exams and landing a spot in this programme, was here to learn. She was here to be awed by Healer Hedge’s medimagical prowess. Not to watch men leave snail trails of drool behind Fleur Delacour.
So, for the next few weeks, she did everything she could to get transferred to another attending healer’s team. She tried asking politely, she tried nearly begging, she tried strongly worded letters, she even considered making Fleur want her gone from her team, but quickly dismissed that plan as ridiculous. She wasn’t going to risk her place in the programme because Fleur Delacour insisted upon walking around St. Mungo’s like a devastatingly human angel fallen from heaven.
But Hermione remained Fleur’s trainee. And while she did her very best to remain polite and respectful, the fact of the matter was that… well. She had to admit, she took particular delight in correcting Fleur’s mistakes. Especially in front of more senior healers.
Hermione spent every waking moment studying. Going above and beyond even her usual sky-high standards. Chasing the high of catching Fleur in a mistake, however insignificant it might be.
With every passing day, pretending she respected Fleur as a teacher became harder to pull off. And it all came to a head when a young Hogwarts student appeared in one of the beds, ostensibly in need of more advanced medical magic than Madam Pomfrey could provide.
“What happened to him?” Hermione was already examining him, noting signs and symptoms like little breadcrumbs to follow towards a diagnosis.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Healer Delacour?” Her fellow trainee looked positively green as he looked at the oozing wound in the boy’s shin. “Or any other attending?”
Hermione knew he was right. She could recite the trainee’s handbook from cover to cover, and she knew first years were not allowed to perform any procedure without supervision.
And yet… Hermione knew what needed to be done. She’d read about it multiple times. She knew the counter-curse, the precise wand movements, the exact tone of the incantation. She knew the ingredients for the potion he’d have to drink for the next forty-eight hours while his flesh grew back.
If Hermione, a young first year trainee, could pull it off, surely they’d listen to her when she asked once again to be transferred to any other team. She would have proved she didn't need Fleur Delacour's so-called help.
And so, Hermione got to work. She could do this. She just had to focus, which was much easier to do without Fleur’s veela charm around.
Everything was going exactly the way her books had said it would. The boy’s leg turned orange first, and then an alarming greenish-blue that reminded Hermione of Stilton cheese. The wound’s ooze went from liquid to an almost jelly-like texture and then vaporized into a cloud of yellow smoke.
If she hadn’t read all about it, she would be just as horrified as her fellow trainees, who looked at her with a mixture of awe and terror as she worked on the wound.
“Miss Granger,” Fleur sounded more scared than angry as she rushed into the ward, “stop that immediately. You cannot do that without supervision.”
Hermione’s eyes remained on the wound as she muttered the incantation under her breath. She watched the skin turn a shade of pistachio green before finally settling into its usual, healthy warm brown. She listened to the quiet fizz and the final pop as the ooze completely disappeared.
“Well, clearly I can,” Hermione said, perhaps a little more smugly than she should have as she watched the boy’s flesh begin to grow and bridge the open edges of the wound, “and I have.”
It wasn’t until she heard the quiet snickers of the trainees around them that Hermione realized perhaps she’d gone a bit too far. She’d been on the receiving end of those teasing, cruel laughs. And while she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t wanted to upset Fleur when she decided to do this… well. She never meant to humiliate her.
But after only the slightest flash of something close to disappointment going through Fleur’s eyes, Hermione watched the older witch set her jaw and stand up straight.
“I will see you in my office after rounds,” Fleur said, voice sharp around the edges in a way Hermione had never experienced from a teacher.
All she could do was nod.
***
For the rest of her shift, all Hermione could think about was how disastrously this day could end.
Fleur could have her expelled from the programme. She could lose her place. She could be banned from ever becoming a healer.
By the time she knocked on Fleur’s office door, Hermione was ready to apologise and even beg for forgiveness if she must.
“Sit down, Miss Granger.”
There was no trace of the usual melodious tone in Fleur’s voice.
“Thank you, but I’m—“
“Sit down.”
Hermione closed her mouth and did as she was told, too shocked to argue. She’d always seen arrogance in Fleur. Arrogance and excessive self-confidence and even a hint of snobbishness. But this was something else. This was… this was authority. And Hermione, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, felt a shiver run up her spine.
“I have tried— Merlin, I have tried to be very patient with you. Because of our past…” Fleur thought for a moment, like she couldn’t quite find the right word, “acquaintanceship.”
Hermione wondered if she’d hesitated because she couldn’t find the right word in English, or if she just found their tense, barely civil relationship hard to define.
“But this is enough.” Fleur Delacour could never do something as classless as slamming her hand on the desk, but she didn’t need to. Hermione felt the words hit her straight in the chest. “I am your teacher, Miss Granger. Your superior.”
Hermione felt her mouth go dry, heart beating noticeably faster than before. Suddenly Fleur Delacour was no longer an annoyingly beautiful girl she used to know and now had to endure during her time as a trainee.
Now she was… she was her teacher. Her superior. And still just as distractingly (not for Hermione, but still) beautiful.
“I treat you with respect. I have always treated you with respect, non?”
Hermione nodded, perhaps a little dumbly. Her lungs refused to fully fill up with air, and she feared her brain was going hypoxic. It would certainly explain the feeling inside her chest.
“So you treat me with respect. I speak, you listen. I say you cannot perform healing magic without supervision, and you obey.”
Obey.
Hermione shifted on her seat, thighs pressed together as she struggled to make sense of the onslaught of unprecedented feelings this conversation was somehow bringing up.
“Am I understood?”
Hermione nodded again, fingers gripping the edge of her chair so hard the knuckles had turned nearly white.
“Miss Granger. Am I understood?”
Fleur’s voice landed right between Hermione’s legs.
“Y— yes.”
Fleur raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow. Hermione swallowed a little louder than she would have liked.
“Yes, Healer Delacour.”
Fleur nodded once.
“Bien.” The succint praise felt like the most delicious pinpricks on Hermione’s skin. “I will see you tomorrow.”
Hermione was surprised her legs were strong enough to hold her up and carry her out of the office without help.
***
The next day, Hermione realized she’d been put on probation.
Not officially, thank goodness. Her record remained pristine. But Fleur made it clear Hermione was on very thin ice. And it would be up to her to regain her attending’s trust.
She couldn’t remember studying this much or with this sense of urgency since her N.E.W.T.s. She no longer studied advanced and uncommon ailments in hopes of catching Fleur unprepared. Instead, Hermione found herself drinking in the very basics, the foundation of it all. She didn’t want to prove Fleur wrong, she just wanted… she didn’t even know what she wanted.
She wanted the thrill of knowing without a shadow of a doubt that she’d have the right answer when Fleur asked her mid-round about something so basic most healers didn’t even bother keeping the exact facts fresh in their brains. She wanted the delicate nod of Fleur’s head when she got the question right.
She wanted — craved, even — the subtlest hint of a smile she sometimes saw on Fleur’s face when Hermione made sure her answer to a question came with an unspoken ‘I do respect you’ wrapped around it like a bow.
There was nothing new about Hermione wanting to please a teacher, as Ginny had so helpfully pointed out during their last chat. But this was different, somehow. She’d never felt—
It had never felt like this.
And it wasn’t only that. It wasn’t only the fact that one day during rounds Fleur had looked Hermione straight in the eye and delivered a “Well done” that had somehow turned into warm golden syrup and pooled at the bottom of Hermione’s stomach for the rest of the day. If it had been just that, it would have been nearly bearable.
But there was also the fact that her current unofficial probation period meant she was made to be with Fleur every minute of every hour she spent at St. Mungo’s. And though a big part of this arrangement was about giving Fleur the chance to keep an eye on her to make sure there were no more rogue procedures underway, there was another side of it: Hermione could also keep an eye on Fleur.
Both eyes, in fact.
Hermione had the chance to see her in action. To observe her. To drink her in. She remembered the dumbstruck looks on the boys’ faces when they watched the veela dance back at Hogwarts, and she wondered what they’d do if they could see the way Fleur talked to her patients. The way she twirled her wand between her fingers when she was deep in thought. She wondered if they’d even notice Fleur always counted in French under her breath when making potions, even if she said the final number in English so her students could write it down.
They wouldn’t notice, Hermione decided. Just like she was sure the drooling trainees staring at Fleur like she was there for their entertainment didn’t notice anything beyond the way her hair shone in the light.
But Hermione noticed it all. She realised what she’d been mistaking for arrogance was actually confidence in her own skills. Fleur stood taller when a patient doubted her. When they called her darling or sweetheart like she was just a dumb little girl and not the Healer in charge. And she relaxed, noticeably, when she felt seen.
When she felt respected, Hermione thought, not without a hint of shame.
Hermione’s studying transformed into something different about a month into her probation. Every night she’d review her notes until she felt confident she was perfectly prepared, and then she’d crack open a more advanced book and looked for something she didn’t know. It took nearly superhuman strength to stop herself from reading further — from finding out more about whatever new concept she'd found.
But she kept it in her pocket, wrapped up almost like a little present to offer to Fleur in between patients. Hermione knew Fleur would see right through her — and feel rightfully offended — if she asked her about things she already knew, so she always made sure her questions were sincere. That she was being honest when she told Fleur she didn’t know.
And Fleur always made the effort more than worth it.
Sometimes Fleur knew the answer right away. She’d deliver it with her usual poise and grace, sometimes pausing to translate something in her head before continuing on. Fleur lit up when she was teaching — really teaching — and Hermione filed the look in deep blue eyes away right next to the new learned concept, knowing she’d always remember it as something Fleur taught her.
Sometimes Fleur didn’t know the answer. The first time it happened Hermione watched her posture stiffen like she was bracing herself whatever Hermione’s next comment might be.
Hermione felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment for her past behavior, and then with something entirely different when Fleur let out an almost imperceptible breath.
“That is a good question,” she said, voice melodic as usual but with a tone to it that Hermione liked to think Fleur reserved for her, “I will do some research and get back to you.”
And she did. Hermione walked into St. Mungo’s the next morning only to find Fleur already there, looking for once like she hadn’t had the time to even think about combing her hair in the last eighteen hours. She had dark circles under her sparkling blue eyes and her hair held up in a makeshift bun by her wand.
(She’d never looked more perfect.)
“It is not a hex,” she told Hermione, “it is not a hex. That’s why I couldn’t find it. Mais then I remembered—“ Fleur showed her an open tome and tapped the word she’d used a spell to highlight, “it is just a jinx. See?”
Hermione nodded, unable to find her voice when her ribcage felt full of Fleur.
“It was such a good question,” Fleur said, eyes shining with the exhilaration of having found an answer after a night spent among books — a feeling Hermione knew well — and smile dancing on her lips, “thank you, Miss Granger.”
It would have been inaccurate to say finding questions for Fleur to answer became a habit for Hermione. It wasn’t a habit. There was no inertia to it. It became… it became something close to an addiction. Hermione spent her days chasing the next proud smile. The next confident answer. The next bit of praise.
She started spending more time in St. Mungo’s library, using her lunch break to try and find an extra question for the afternoon rounds. An extra hit of whatever it was that made Fleur’s approval so addictive to her. And she was in the middle of reading about ancient Egyptian curses when she heard Fleur’s voice behind her.
“Miss Granger.”
She knew Fleur had started calling her that instead of Hermione to put distance between them — to remind her that within the walls of St. Mungo’s Fleur was her superior and Hermione her subordinate. But strangely enough, for reasons Hermione couldn’t quite explain, it had started to sound almost like a term of endearment. It certainly made her feel like she'd heard one.
“You asked about fire rope burns last week.”
Hermione nodded, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the way her heart rate responded to Fleur remembering a past question, all but confirming the little ritual Hermione had become so invested in meant something to Fleur, too.
“Would you like to see one in person?”
Blue eyes sparkled with something that reminded Hermione of the giddy fluttering in her stomach whenever she came up with the perfect question for Fleur. That triumphant little fluttering that felt almost like being hit by the shock waves of someone else’s joy. Like watching someone open a present she knew they’re going to love.
Fleur was giving her a present.
“Yes, please!” Hermione did nothing to hide the excited smile tugging at her lips, figuring Fleur deserved proof of her gifting prowess.
She neatly placed a piece of parchment between the pages of the book to mark her place and stood up, walking towards the door Fleur was holding open. But when she walked past Fleur to go through the door, the blonde’s hand moved, fingertips brushing against Hermione’s curls. And for a second, Hermione felt time freeze around her.
She’d played with time before, mind you, so she knew what it felt like when it wasn’t running as it should. And right then, when Fleur’s fingers touched her hair and they were standing so close Hermione couldn’t take in a breath that didn’t fill her lungs with Fleur’s scent, time froze.
Until Fleur pulled her hand back and showed Hermione a fluffy white barb from the quill she’d been using at her desk.
“This happens to me, too,” Fleur said, gently blowing on her fingertips to make the little barb fly away.
Hermione watched it flutter in the air for a handful of seconds before Fleur’s voice reached her ears once again. It was softer than before. Barely above a whisper.
“On y va, Miss Granger.”
Hermione felt herself blush as she followed Fleur’s brisk steps towards the ward.
***
The burn was worse than Hermione had pictured. Worse than even the most realistic pictures she’d looked at. She was still thinking about the sound of sizzling skin as she watched Fleur gather the supplies she needed for the potion that would help, hopefully, save the witch’s leg.
“Had you ever seen one before? In person?”
Fleur didn’t look up from the vials she was carefully arranging next to the cauldron. “Yes. Not this bad. But I saw two during my training.”
Hermione nodded. She’d seen more shocking injuries since arriving at St. Mungo’s, but there was something about that burn that made her feel queasy in a way no amount of liquefied bones could.
“Don’t think about it,” Fleur said, opening a bright purple bottle and pouring its contents into the cauldron, “think about me.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “A— about—?”
Fleur’s light chuckle reminded Hermione of the sound of wind chimes as she opened the door to her favourite second hand bookshop.
“About what I’m doing,” Fleur clarified, nodding in the direction of the cauldron. Hermione had a feeling the miscommunication hadn’t been as innocent as she was trying to make it seem. “Tell me. What next?”
Hermione took in a deep breath and focused on bringing the recipe to the potion to the forefront of her mind. “Next you take five spoonfuls of dragon blood and reduce them over a low fire for thirteen and a half hours.”
“Yes, but—“
“We've got bottles of the reduction in the reagents cupboard. For convenience.”
Fleur’s eyes finally left the cauldron to give Hermione a look Hermione found hard to read.
“Yes,” she said, “but don’t interrupt your attending healer, Miss Granger.”
Hermione’s cheeks warmed up. Not because she thought Fleur was truly offended — there was a twinkle in her eye that told Hermione she truly wasn’t — but because of the reminder that Fleur was still above her.
“I’m sorry, Healer Delacour.”
Hermione would be lying if she said the tone of her apology was the same she would’ve used to apologise to any other teacher. She’d be lying if she said she was completely unaware of the slight… well, not flirtatiousness, of course. Not that. But playfulness, maybe, that simmered right under the surface of her words.
Fleur acknowledged the words with a nod, and the tone with the slightest, barely visible dusting of pink on the apple of her cheeks.
“Bring me the rest of the ingredients, Miss Granger.”
Hermione waited until her back was turned to let herself smile.
***
The burn was still sizzling with that sickening sound when they made their way back to the ward.
Hermione focused on breathing through an almost overwhelming urge to either leave or find the nearest bin to vomit into.
“Miss Granger,” Fleur said, “come here, please.”
Hermione had been standing at a safe distance, a few steps away from the bed. She could still see everything, but the smell of burning flesh wasn’t too strong where she stood.
“I’d rather watch from over here, for now.” She knew she’d get over the queasy feeling in her stomach eventually. She wasn’t weak. She just needed a bit more time to get used to the sight in front of her.
“It was not a suggestion, Miss Granger. It was an order.”
And Hermione knew, because Fleur herself had told her, what she was supposed to do when an attending gave her an order.
She was supposed to obey.
Hermione took one step forward, and then another, until only the bed where the unconscious witch was laying stood between them.
“Stand next to me. Bouge-toi, the potion will spoil.”
The look of slight exasperation on Fleur’s face was enough to make Hermione rush to the other side of the bed. Whether Fleur was torturing her on purpose or not remained to be seen, but the patient on the bed was very real, and Hermione knew that was their first priority.
“Don’t think about it. Don’t listen to it.” Hermione looked into Fleur’s eyes just to keep herself from looking at the sizzling wound. There was a warmth in them, something safe and solid that made Hermione think of the feeling of sitting next to the fireplace after hours in the snow. “Listen to me.”
Hermione nodded. She could do that. Focus on Fleur’s voice instead of the sound coming from the bed.
“Hold this,” Fleur gave her the small vial containing the potion she’d just brewed, “now your wand.”
Hermione’s eyes rounded in surprise as it dawned on her. Fleur was going to let her perform healing magic. Not just any healing magic — extremely advanced healing magic. Hermione knew the steps, of course. She knew how to heal a fire rope burn. But everything she’d read about it — and she’d read a lot while trying to find a question for Fleur — made her think this was not the kind of thing you were supposed to attempt while you were still a first year trainee.
“I don’t think—“
“Do you not know the steps to healing a fire rope burn, Miss Granger?”
“Yes, of course I do!” Hermione was almost offended. “I just think I should at least see it done once before attempting it myself.”
“I disagree.”
Fleur’s tone was disarmingly casual, like they were simply agreeing to disagree on whether strawberry or chocolate was the superior ice-cream flavour.
“But I—“
“Miss Granger,” there was that tone again, the one that sent shivers up Hermione’s spine and made warmth pool at the bottom of her stomach — the one that made her want to raise her hand and give Fleur the perfect answer to any question she may ask, “you will do as you’re told, yes?”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Hermione just nodded, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she tried to ignore the flush spreading to her cheeks.
“Don’t worry. I will guide you through it.” Fleur gave a slight nod in the direction of the patient, and Hermione took in a deep breath and turned to look at the burn. “First, you—“
“Cast a protective charm on the healthy skin. So it won’t be damaged by the potion.”
“Good,” Fleur said, and Hermione swore she could hear a proud smile in her voice. “Go on.”
With her brain focused on going through the steps and her senses entirely distracted by Fleur, Hermione quickly stopped seeing the burn as a sizzling open wound to look at it as a problem to be solved instead. And there were very few things Hermione was better at than solving problems.
So she carefully performed every charm, muttering incantations and applying drops of the potion as the skin slowly but surely stopped burning, and then lost its charred black color to turn a slightly discolored pink.
“Almost done.” Fleur’s soft voice felt like finding a spot to rest and take a breath after climbing a mountain for hours.
This was the trickiest bit, according to all the books she’d read. The very last charm — the one that would close the wound and leave only the faintest scar. Or, if done badly, make the flames burn the witch’s leg to a crisp from the inside out.
Hermione frowned in concentration and held her wand over the wound. Her hand trembled slightly, and she closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. "Counter-clockwise first," she muttered under her breath, touching each finger on her free hand to the pad of her thumb as she counted. "Counter-clockwise first, then swipe to the right, then—"
“I don’t think—“ Hermione shook her head. She knew the steps but her hand keep trembling and there was simply too much at stake.
“You can do it.” Fleur was suddenly standing behind Hermione, so close Hermione could feel Fleur’s breath against the back of her neck. Her knees felt even weaker than her hand. “You have done so well so far. You can finish.”
Fleur’s arm moved, slender fingers wrapping around Hermione’s wrist and giving it a gentle squeeze, almost like a reminder that there were bones and muscles in there Hermione could control. The touch along with the praise was almost too much to take.
“Counter-clockwise first,” Fleur echoed Hermione’s previous words, voice soft against Hermione’s ear as Fleur loosened her grip on her wrist to keep only two fingers under it, steadying it, right against her pulse, “when you’re ready.”
Hermione wouldn’t have been surprised if she'd looked down and found herself levitating a few feet off the ground.
“Bien,” Fleur smiled behind her when Hermione’s wand finally moved, “now swipe to the right. Like that. Beautiful, Miss Granger.”
It was like a perfect storm. The sense of accomplishment as she conquered such an advanced procedure when she’d only been training for a few months. The pride as the wound slowly healed. Fleur’s closeness. Her calming presence against Hermione’s back. The words of praise from someone she’d come to respect as a mentor. By the time the wound closed leaving only a pearly white line behind, Hermione felt like a live wire. Like the slightest touch would set off something she wasn’t sure she’d be able to control.
“Perfect,” Fleur said, taking one step back and making Hermione shiver with loss, “you were perfect. Well done.”
Perfect. Perfect.
Hermione had to hold on to the edge of the bed to keep herself safely on her feet.
***
Hermione had rarely used the small room where trainees could spend their breaks. The four beds in it were famously comfortable for naps, but Hermione was usually too busy for that. She’d much rather study or research during her breaks.
But after taking care of the witch’s burn, Hermione found herself stalking towards the room. She wasn’t tired. She just needed— she needed a break. From her thoughts, from Fleur, from the way every cell in her body seemed to stand at attention whenever Fleur was near.
She just needed a break.
So she wasn’t planning on sleeping when she climbed into one of the beds and closed her eyes. Which was a good thing, because her mind was so full of everything — so full of Fleur — that she wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if she’d wanted to.
She’d called her perfect. She’d stood there, calm and steady and trusting her unconditionally. Offering support and guidance but ultimately knowing Hermione would do it — would do it well. Would do it perfectly.
Hermione could still feel the warmth of Fleur’s body against her back. The light floral scent of her perfume (was it perfume, or was that just how she smelled?) filling her lungs. Soft fingers against her pulse and words of praise reaching her ear along with warm puffs of air.
She opened one eye to check that she was still alone in the small room. It was the middle of the day, so most trainees would be too busy to take a nap. She was alone and it was dark in the room and she was under the covers anyway. And her brain wouldn’t stop cycling through every word of praise — every proud look, every gentle touch, the way Fleur blew away that stupid quill barb she’d found in Hermione’s hair.
She pressed her thighs together in a desperate attempt to make the throbbing need between her legs go away, but all it did was make it worse. Make her even more aware of it.
Her hand traveled down under the covers, cheeks flushed with a mixture of bashfulness and something else entirely. Something like a thrill, because Fleur was to blame for all this, and she was somewhere outside that door right now. Teaching the rest of the trainees something, but not like she’d taught Hermione.
Fingertips reached the damp cotton of her knickers, and Hermione bit her lip to keep herself from making even the slightest sound.
She’d never felt this way about a woman before. She’d never felt this way about anyone before, but especially not a woman. Would she even know what to do? Would Fleur teach her?
Hermione’s hand clamped over her mouth to keep in a whimper that caught her entirely by surprise. She’d heard rumours about the dormitories at Beauxbatons. The very close friendships within. Would Fleur hold her hand and guide it like she had before? Would she whisper instructions in her ear?
Would she tell her she was perfect as she ca—
A knock on the door made her gasp, thighs clamping together around her hand.
“Miss Granger, there you are.”
Fleur walked into the mostly dark room and Hermione panicked for a second, wondering whether jerking her hand out from under the covers or leaving it where it was would make her… predicament, more obvious to her attending.
The warm wetness coating her fingers was the deciding factor to keep them hidden from view.
“I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”
Even in the barely lit room, Hermione blushed at the sight of a teasing glint in deep blue eyes.
“No.” Her voice came out low and a little breathless. “No, it’s okay. Just— I was just resting.”
Fleur let a beat pass. “I see.”
Was she smirking? If she hadn’t left her wand on the coffee table, just out of reach, Hermione would have made herself invisible right then and there.
“You are not on call tomorrow night, are you?”
Hermione struggled to make her brain focus on her weekly schedule and not on the situation under the covers or the fact that Fleur seemed to be keenly aware of it.
“No. No, I don’t think I am, Healer Delacour.”
Fleur let out an approving little hum.
“Bien. Would you like to have dinner with me, then?”
Hermione opened her mouth. And then closed it again. She frowned, more out of confusion than anything else, and then sat up with the covers still around her just because there seemed to be more dignity in a sitting position than in laying there while Fleur looked at her with that infuriatingly attractive spark of amusement in her eyes.
“Hermione.” She remembered thinking the way Fleur pronounced her name was irritating, but it must have been in a different lifetime because hearing it after being Miss Granger for so long made Hermione’s heart trip over itself. “Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?”
She nodded. It took another second for her to fully regain the power of speech.
“Y— yes. Yes. I would.”
“Good.” Fleur looked down, tucking a strand of shiny blond hair behind her ear. The room was too dark to see clearly, but Hermione could just imagine the exact shade of pink that was probably on Fleur’s cheeks. “Perfect.”
Perfect.
Hermione did her best to keep the images of Fleur saying just that while she whispered how she liked to be touched in Hermione’s ear far, far away from the forefront of her mind.
“Oh, and Hermione?” Fleur’s hand was already on the doorknob, getting ready to open it, when she turned around once again. “Tomorrow at dinner, when we’re out of the hospital. You may call me Fleur.”
Hermione swallowed. Hard. She’d called Fleur Fleur a million times before, of course. But there was something about being given explicit permission. Something that turned it into a privilege instead of just an everyday thing.
“Fleur.” Hermione swore it had a taste. Something sweet and light and floral, like she imagined a lavender macaron might taste like.
“Good girl,” Fleur whispered with a wink as she finally left the room.
Hermione was definitely not going to be able to sleep.