Dear Reader,
Please bear in mind all I mentioned in the prologue. This part deals with several distressing topics which some people may find upsetting. Though, honestly, I don't know anyone who wasn't upset by certain scenes in The Deathly Hallows. This being a story featuring Hermione, these scenes are discussed but never with the intention to disturb or upset. I trust you know yourself better than I do and will proceed accordingly.
Yours sincerely,
J
Part One: And now the Paraclete
Fifteen minutes later, Fleur found herself in the back bedroom with Luna and an unconscious Hermione Granger. The girl was covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Her breathing was quick and sounded reedy, the latter worrying Fleur immensely. She raised her wand and drew the grime and gore from her to get a better view of the extent of her injuries. She watched blood well slowly from a nasty cut in Hermione's neck and she laid a bare hand on it, closing her eyes.
"She is bleeding into her neck," she said, worriedly. She knew the greatest risk in a neck wound (after exsanguination) was that blood would gather beneath the skin and muscle, compressing the wind pipe. Death would quickly follow. She could feel the cut, a nick in a vein that oozed sluggishly into the surrounding tissues. A good volume had already gathered, some escaping through the wound in her skin but more moving down and sideways, pooling in the small spaces there. She closed her eyes and muttered for several minutes until she felt a gout of wetness wash over her hand and heard Luna gasp. She opened her eyes to the sight of blood and clot, a macabre contrast to Hermione's pale skin and her pristine sheets.
"Go and fetch my bag, please. Bill will have it. Tell him to warm Mr Ollivander slowly."
Luna left and Fleur washed the clotted, dark blood from Hermione's neck. She laid her hand on her patient again, closing her eyes and letting herself perceive the wound. After long moments of concentration, she began to whisper, drawing torn flesh and vessel back together. She started at the bottom and worked upwards towards the skin, listening as the flesh cried out in pain. When it was healed, she opened her eyes and regarded it carefully. The wound was still bright red and easily perceived. She decided to leave it for a while; the flesh was thin there and had suffered enough tonight. Cosmesis could wait.
She laid a hand on Hermione's chest, counting her breaths and the rate of her heart beat. The witch was breathing comfortably, with none of the previous reedy quality. Her heart was fast but beating evenly and strongly. Satisfied that her patient was not about to expire, she felt along her limbs and neck for fractures. She was relieved to find none and steeled herself to undertake a thorough inventory of her patient's wounds.
She then stripped the other young woman from her filthy clothes, shaking bits of crystal from them as she went. There were several superficial scrapes from the glass and many long, cruel incisions. There were bite marks and bruises. There were even several shallow stab wounds puncturing her slight frame, though none damaged any vital structures. Her fingers were cut, red and bruised. The backs of her hands and forearms bore yet more wounds. Her ribs were badly bruised and Fleur felt at least two fractures on initial examination. Pity and despair welled in her chest, bringing tears to her eyes. She heard footsteps on the hall and covered her patient with a sheet.
"Bill sent this, but he's kept the Skele-Gro. Griphook needs it."
Fleur nodded, blinking back tears. Now was not the time to go to pieces, she had work to do. "That is fine. We can wait a while."
There was nothing to do but heal her wounds and wait for her to awaken. If Fleur were honest with herself, the thought terrified her. Not because of the remaining injuries, for they were minor, but their pattern hinted at vicious and terrible things.
Several hours passed. The dull thud of Harry's spade sounded beneath the window sill in odd counter point to Luna's soft snores. Fleur had given the girl clean clothes and sent her to shower, healing her (thankfully) minor wounds quickly. She'd also seen to Ollivander and Griphook before returning to her vigil. The old man was weak and terribly malnourished. However, he wasn't grossly injured and she'd left Dean (she was glad to have a name for the lad) to help him with soup, bread and tea. There was little else to do but wait and see if he had the will to recover from his ordeal.
The goblin had suffered awful abuse but she knew well how hardy the little creatures were. She'd often been called on to help her colleagues during her time in Gringott's. Griphook faced several painful days but she was sure that he'd be well soon enough, given rest and good food. He wasn't her favourite person; she'd always found him snide and condescending. She did not particularly want him staying in her home but she was not going to cast out an injured ally, no matter how much she disliked them.
She turned back to her current charge, fear carving the bottom from her stomach. Such wounds! Thankfully, the only potentially fatal injury inflicted had been quickly repaired. She had suffered a multiplicity of inflicted cuts, at least a couple of dozen. Most made been shallow, though that wouldn't have made them any less painful to bear. Somehow, she had also cracked four ribs and these would need further care once she awoke. Her chest and abdomen was badly bruised but Fleur had detected no sign of internal injury, for which she was immensely grateful for as they would have been far beyond her skills to heal.
Fleur shifted in her seat, willing her panic and exhaustion away. She wiped her eyes and stifled a yawn. Dawn was approaching and with it (she sincerely hoped) answers for those cuts and bites which, taken together, hinted at horrible abuse. A bruise meant nothing but four bruises at the back of her arm with one on the tender part near her armpit suggested a strong, rough grip. Some one had written a gruesome story on the slight woman and it enraged Fleur.
Hermione's breathing changed slightly and quietly, without a sound, her eyes snapped open. Golden in the lamp light and full of fear, they darted around the room, apparently not seeing her companion for many long moments. Fleur leaned forward, her hair catching the light, and Hermione pressed herself backwards, hands going to the mattress to pull herself upright.
"Wait!" Fleur hissed, wincing at the moan of pain Hermione let slip. "Please, you're hurt. Your ribs are cracked."
She quickly summoned several pillows, placing them against the bed board before gently pressing Hermione into them. "It's Fleur," she said attempting to soothe, "you're in Shell Cottage."
Wary, haunted eyes found hers but quickly flicked away. "Shell Cottage," she murmured. "Ron spent Christmas here, with you and Bill."
"Yes."
"He brought us here? Where's Harry? Did he leave Harry!" she asked, frowning. "I don't remember," she trailed off into a whisper. "I couldn't get away. I couldn't Apparate."
"An elf brought you, one named Dobby."
"He saved us all," Luna said, sitting on her bed and sleepily rubbing her eyes. "Good to see you awake, Hermione."
"Luna?" she gasped. "I, I don't understand… where? We, we," she began to tremble and Fleur touched her elbow. Shaking, Hermione grabbed her hand in a weak grasp, surprising the blonde somewhat. "We couldn't get out."
Luna quickly (for her) filled her friend in, Fleur listening eagerly though she didn't take her eyes off her patient. She didn't release Hermione's hand either, not even when she felt hot tears fall on her fingers. Her pyjamas were large on the other woman who seemed lost and childlike in them. There wasn't a scrap of spare flesh on her; the bones of her shoulders were plainly visible beneath the thin cotton. Earlier, Fleur had seen how her ribs stood out in sharp contrast, skin hollow between them. The cords of her wrist were prominent, as were the tendons on the back of her hand. Hermione had always been a slight girl but she appeared undernourished now, thin and weak.
As Luna spoke, the darkness of night lightened to grey and Fleur heard voices beneath the window. Evidently, the other blonde did as well, for she crossed to the glass and pulled back the curtain. She was silent for a long moment.
"I think we should go down now. Harry's almost finished."
Fleur bit her tongue, reluctant to let Hermione leave her bed. But she knew that while the needs of the living outweighed those of the dead, some wounds needed more than dittany and bandages to heal. She fetched Luna one of her warm coats and wrapped Hermione in her warmest jumper and a thick dressing gown. The young woman's eyes were full of tears and her narrow shoulders trembled. Her eyes were haunted in sunken, darkened sockets. She paused at the threshold of the door, shaking slightly.
She does not want her friends to see her like this.
Overcome with pathos, Fleur placed both hands on those shaking shoulders and gently squeezed.
"Come along, Mr Dobby deserves a good send-off."
After the little funeral, Fleur caught Bill's elbow and tugged him aside. His kind eyes were sad but hard with resolve. "Are the girls all right?"
"I hope so," Fleur drew a deep breath. "I need to go into town once the shops open."
Bill opened his mouth to protest and Fleur raised an eloquent eyebrow, silencing him. Bill looked worried.
"Is that really necessary?"
"I certainly hope not," she replied, "but we don't have much time to decide. I'll go to Redruth."
Bill's frown deepened and he lifted a hand to Fleur's shoulder. "Are you all right? Get any sleep last night?"
She shrugged and shook her head. Bill sighed and pulled her into a quick hug. "Well, you look after yourself, right? I expect we're going to have a full house for a bit."
After Harry, Hermione and Ron had ascended the stairs to see Griphook and Ollivander, against her wishes to her consternation, Fleur left her home and Apparated to a small copse just outside a quiet muggle town. She had to avoid Tinworth; it was full of magical folk and she was currently quite an undesirable person. She concentrated for a moment, running her hands through her long blonde hair. It darkened as she did, taking on a mousy brown hue. She closed her eyes and when she opened them, she knew they'd be a soft grey. She was dressed as a muggle and pulled a hat out of her pocket, pulling it over her ears. She didn't have the skill to change the shape of her face so wrapped a thick scarf around her neck, nestling into it.
She started for the town, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as she went, thoughts drifting as she walked through cool spring air.
She was worried. Deeply worried. The jig was finally up regarding Ron and his illness. The forces of Voldemort finally gained the justification they needed to aggressively pursue one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. Bill and herself had been warned to go to ground and not leave the safety of Shell Cottage. She had already sent word to her mother urging her to take Gabrielle out of school and send her to their grandmother for safe keeping. Part of her longed to go to them, to keep them safe herself and seek comfort from them, but a greater part knew that her duty lay in damp Britain at the front line of battle. She would not abandon Bill or Harry to fight alone. She would not abandon Hermione to whatever horrors she'd endured.
Fleur remembered vividly the night Ron had appeared at her door, face pale and bruised. He told a story of anger, fighting, jealousy and desertion. The boy's grief, guilt and remorse were all too apparent. He'd alluded to some malign influence and told them how he'd chased his friends for several days. After a brief run in with the Snatchers he had made his way to them. Bill had sighed and embraced him, calling him a stupid git softly and without malice. Her gentle, kind Bill had seen his brother's misery and had not added to it.
She however, had been furious with him. His cowardice, his pettiness and his selfishness had disgusted her. So what if Harry and Hermione had fallen in love with one another? As far as she could see, they were far better suited to one another than Hermione and Ron himself. The pair had a bond of love and fondness that anyone with eyes could see, though she perceived no sexual element to it. It was the same closeness that Ginny shared with the twins and Bill or she shared with Gabrielle.
She understood that he was young and had feelings for his friend. In such circumstances, his jealousy was understandable but his abandonment was still unforgivable. She valued loyalty, it was what kept her on these foreign shores. She'd made a promise in her heart, after the Triwizard Tournament, to help Harry and his cause in whatever manner she could. She'd seen poor Cedric dead with a look of utter terror on his handsome face and known then the truth of the Dark Lord's return. She'd seen the sadness and conviction in Harry's eyes and known the poor boy was to be targeted by the same murderous force.
He'd saved her precious sister because the idea of leaving a child alone in the cold green waters of the lake was inconceivable to him. He'd had no way of knowing that she was never in any danger. Fleur herself had not known Gabrielle was even there until Cedric had returned and spoken of a blonde girl. She remembered the horror dawning across his face when he saw her on the pier and not in the lake. They'd both been restrained from diving in as Dumbledore explained that their loved ones were not in, nor had ever been, in danger. She'd been utterly surprised to see threeheads break the surface of the water and her heart had swollen with bittersweet joy. She'd been ashamed by her weakness and failure but the heroic efforts of Harry had delighted her. The fact that Gabrielle would have been all right even if Harry had left her was meaningless; he hadn't known that at the time and had risked his own skin to save her.
She'd never forget that, as long as she lived. She'd do what she could to help him and his mysterious quest, despite having no idea what he was up to. It irritated her but he'd been resolute in his refusal; there was no way he'd tell them. She had to do what she could and for now that involved taking care of them all, Hermione in particular. She reached the chemist's shop and felt pangs of nerves in her chest. She wasn't the best in dealing with muggles but knew that she had an important task to perform. The fact that she'd have to break a few Wizarding and muggle laws to accomplish this didn't concern her in the slightest. But her nerves were still pulled taught, her heart thumping in her chest.
Steeling herself, she walked in.
Hermione lay on her side in her bed, aching. The duvet was snug around her and the little bedroom glowed red as the afternoon sun lit the curtains. She'd been trying to sleep but the pain in her ribs made it difficult. Fleur had examined her ribs after Dobby's funeral and explained to her that several had been broken. She'd said there was little to do; Skele-Gro could be dangerous when dealing with rib fractures. If it closed the break too quickly, the chest wall could be left deformed, which would inevitably lead to problems later on. Pain and recurrent infection would plague her so Fleur was giving her tiny portions. Slow and steady was, apparently, the way to go. Fleur had apologised for her lack of skill, regretting that she couldn't do it as quickly as a proper healer or mediwizard but Hermione was glad to be getting help at all. Fleur was also keeping her dosed with analgesic potions but in the last hour, they'd begun to wear off.
Breathing was starting to hurt so she laid still and took shallow breaths. She tried to doze off but the memory of the Cruciatus curse echoed in her head, bouncing into her conscious mind with great frequency. She had known that it affected both the mind and body, wounding them simultaneously, but in her worst nightmares she'd never come close to imaging it. Her hand went to her throat, touching the raised wound there. She couldn't remember getting it and was grateful for that. She was also grateful she couldn't remember the chandelier. Ron had mentioned it earlier and her blood had frozen.
What if it had hit her head? Her wits were the only thing she had to keep herself, and the boys, alive. What was she without her mind? It had always set her apart from others. She'd been isolated in primary school because so many of the other children found her to be a know-it-all and a teacher's pet. Even some of the teachers had found her irritating, she knew, because she'd always known the answer and had even corrected them if she needed to. Her fourth class teacher, Mrs Kipling, had possessed a very specific eye-roll of utter exasperation that only Hermione had been able to elicit. By the end of the year, she'd stopped answering or speaking in class because it made her feel awful. The following year, her teacher Miss Teller had asked why she never put her hand up in class, though her homework was almost always perfect. Hermione hadn't answered but she saw compassion and understanding in her new teacher's eye.
"Hermione," she said, "the biggest mistake people make is that they don't act when they can. They won't help an old lady struggling with her shopping on the street and they'll step over someone lying passed out just because they happen to be homeless. They won't answer a question when they can because they don't care or because they don't want to look like a clever clogs. Don't be one of them, dear. There's enough of them in the world."
She'd put her hand up in class then and her classmates had sighed in irritation every time she did but Miss Teller had smiled at her gently.
Soon after that, she remembered visiting her grandmother. She hadn't known that the time, but she was dying from a horrible and slowly progressive form of bowel cancer. She'd suffered a series of strokes too, which had affected her memory. Her emaciation and pallor hadn't scared Hermione as much as the fact that her granny hadn't remembered her. The normal vibrant intelligence behind her eyes was gone. She stared blankly at her, no flicker of recognition in her rheumy eyes. She'd died during the summer before her first year in Hogwarts and Hermione had attended the funeral, tiny, sad and confused. Her aunt had tsked and remarked that if her granny had made more of an effort to keep her mind active, she'd never have lost her faculties. Hermione had then made herself a promise that she'd never be like that. She threw herself into her study and decided that she was going to be the best witch she could be. Maybe she'd even discover a magical cure for the things that had killed her granny.
Now an adult in the eyes of magical and muggle Britain, she knew her childish promises had been based on fallacies. Her grandmother hadkept herself mentally active and even if she hadn't it wouldn't have made a difference. The disease plaguing her had thickened her blood and precipitated the formation of clots. These had travelled into her brain and damaged it. The cancer that grew in her had no magical cure, either. Muggle diseases generally didn't and there were those who had actually proposed a causal link between magical healing and the appearance of cancer in some muggles.
She closed her eyes, wondering why she was revisiting such old pains, especially when she had more immediate ones to worry about. She felt lonely and miserable but didn't want any company. Ron had sat with her earlier and clumsily held her hand. He hadn't said anything and couldn't meet her eyes. He was attentive but she wondered how much of that was guilt over his earlier actions. She didn't blame him for anything that had happened in Malfoy Manor, she was actually quite proud of him for his courage, but she still couldn't forget watching him storm out of the tent and pop out of the air despite the fact that she'd beggedhim not to.
Hermione knew him well enough to know why he'd gone. He resented the closeness between Harry and herself and had done since the Triwizard Tournament. She knew he'd been jealous of Victor too and had accused her of lacking loyalty then, something that still angered her to remember. She'd been so frustrated with his insecurities too, his constant feelings of inadequacy. He drew often from this well of self-pity and she was sick of it. It was one thing to feel sorry for himself at school, when a silly dance had been the most important thing they had to worry about but to let his childish fears consume him now and cause him to abandon them was unacceptable. The future of their world rested on Harry's shoulders and it was their job to help him.
She'd felt her feelings for him deepen as they grew, as they had for Harry, but where she felt that she and Harry understood one another she found herself constantly struggling with Ron. He didn't just accept that she cared for him, he suspected her friendship and love almost constantly and it made things incredibly awkward between them sometimes. The fact that he wanted more from her, physically speaking, but had been so reticent emotionally had left her wary of moving beyond strict friendship. His affection felt cloying and intrusive too, as if he did it because he felt it was expected. She tried to imagine kissing him or holding him intimately and found she couldn't. She'd tried, though.
She felt it was her own fault; that she was too harsh on him and unforgiving of his trespasses. She never let him get away with very much and often found herself badgering him about something. She squeezed her eyes shut and banished those thoughts. She needed to focus on Horcruxes, on Harry's quest. Not her own stupid problems and insecurities. It was difficult though, the curse had delved into the deepest parts of her and dragged to the fore every horrible feeling, every nasty part of her and every spiteful thought. She still felt naked; exposed entirely for harsh scrutiny.
A gull called mournfully on the wind and she stiffly brought her elbow under her and sat up, biting back a groan. She longed for something to do but there was nothing. She longed to read but her head ached. She was reduced to lying in bed and trying not to jostle her ribs. She felt useless and helpless, as if she were back lying on the cold floor beneath Bellatrix Lestrange. Her hissed, hateful words still sounded in her head and she felt tears welling in her eyes again. What chance had they against people like that? They hadto try but in that moment, hearing the uncaring surf pound against the sand, she saw no chance of success.
She felt, in her heart, that they were walking a dark, dim road. The chances of her living to see peaceful times again were slim. She thought about her poor mother and father, uprooted and sent across the world. She'd die and they'd never even know they had a daughter. She longed for them, then. Her father had always understood how lonely she felt, even before she could articulate it properly. He'd been like her when he was a child; awkward and friendless. He'd been isolated until he moved school when he was fourteen and met a jovial, friendly and exuberant boy named Robert. They'd become friends and Graham Granger had never looked back. When she'd been little and felt like the only child in the world, he'd told her that story and she'd taken heart.
Lost in thought, she didn't hear the door open. A handsome, though scarred, face peeked in.
"'Lo Hermione," Bill said, smiling kindly. "You all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, forcing a weak smile.
"Hmm," he hummed, stepping into the room. "You sure you're not sore? Fleur left me instructions to give you a potion for your pain around now, if she wasn't back from the shops," he smiled and his eyes twinkled. "You can't be tempted?"
Hermione sighed and ran her hand through her messy hair, suddenly embarrassed by the stuffy, dim room and the fact that she was sitting in one of Fleur's fine woollen jumpers, probably ruining it by sleeping in it.
"Um, well, if she thinks it would be best…" she mumbled, dipping her head. Bill set a steaming mug on the bedside locker and sat himself in a chair beside her, cocking his head to one side.
"Drink up, love," he said, nodding to it, "smells lovely."
"They taste nice," Hermione agreed, sipping it slowly. The warm liquid flowed into her and began to chase away the lingering chill she'd been feeling. "Thank you, Bill." He waved his hand and shook his head.
"No bother. Glad to be able to do something," he said wryly. "All this sitting around at home, waiting for something to happen… it's not good. I mean, I won't lie to you. The Order's in bad shape. No one knows what to do anymore. Well, we know we have to help Harry and you but," he blew out a great sigh, "it's hard. If it were up to me, I'd take you to the rest and call a meeting, get everyone together and damn well insistyou tell us what's going on."
Hermione was indeed sympathetic, she knew what it was like to be kept in the dark about plans like this. She took another sip of tea and regarded Bill cautiously. She didn't speak, though, waiting for Bill.
"Well," he continued, grinning sheepishly, "if you wouldn't tell Lupin, you're not going to tell me, eh? Or the rest. Fleur reckons Harry said all that to Remus because you knew he'd dog you, pardon the expression, if he didn't. He'd follow and get caught up in it too. Get himself killed like Sirius did."
Hermione decided that it was as good an explanation as any, and much better than the real one. She nodded and sipped. "How is Tonks?"
Bill laughed. "Big as a house! You wouldn't believe it. And you wouldn't think she could get any moreclumsy but she's managed it. But happy. Remus and her both."
The witch smiled. "I'm pleased to hear that. They deserve some happiness."
Bill watched her place her empty mug on the locker and nodded happily. His blue eyes were gentle and understanding. "We all do, pet. And we'll have it, you know. Don't lose hope for that."
He reached out and patted her arm, looking into her eyes. "You have something big to do but let us help. Fleur and me, we'll do what you need us to. We'll hunt Death Eaters. We'll go track down Fenrir bloody Greyback and skin him for you," he said, fiercely. "Or we'll feed you and give you somewhere safe and warm to sleep. Just ask us, all right? We're on the same side."
Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes and took her arm back, swiping at them. "Thank you," she whispered. She heard the chair creak and Bill put a warm hand on her shoulder.
"No point in calling yourself the good guys if you don't actually act like it, right?" he said. "You're all so young but you've been through utter shit. Remember that you're not alone."
She nodded and he rubbed her back affectionately before quietly leaving. The ache in her head was gone and her ribs weren't quite so sore. She lay back down and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. Perhaps there was some hope, she mused, as long as people like Bill were still on their side.
Fleur was furious and Apparated herself several feet above her back door step in her anger. She regained her balance and landed on her feet, though barely. She shook her head and silvery hair whipped around her, lightening and lengthening. When she opened her eyes, she knew they'd be back to normal.
She stomped in the back door and encountered Bill, wide eyed and blinking. He saw her fury and froze.
"Uh, is everything all right, love?"
"C'est vraiment des conneries!" she bit, tugging her outdoor clothes off. She rattled through a string of French invectives, eventually trailing off into quiet grumbles. Bill brewed tea and set a mug before her.
"Did Hermione have her potion?" she asked after thanking him.
"About half an hour ago," he said, sighing. "She's upset, though I can't blame her. Can you tell me what's going on now? Why you're so annoyed?"
"No," she answered, but not unkindly. "I have work to do, mon loup. I must go."
"Have your cuppa first," he suggested, standing to get the biscuits. They sat in silence for a long while, Fleur grateful for his care but unwilling to break a confidence. She ate a ginger nut thoughtfully.
The old muggle in the chemist had been utterly awful to her. She'd been made to feel like nothing by him. As if she were entirely beneath contempt. He'd asked her if her husband knew what she was doing and what he'd think. He asked her a dozen invasive and horrible questions, none of which seemed very relevant to the issue at hand. Eventually, she'd been able to make her purchase and had left him behind his counter, shaking his white head at her.
"Have I told you I'm very glad I'm not a muggle?" she asked Bill, apparently out of the blue. He blinked and shook his head. "Well, I'm delighted, I feel you should know. I'm going up to Hermione."
"all right, my lady of mystery and cryptic phrases," he said, teasingly. He caught her glare and held up his hand. "Listen, you don't need to tell me, all right? I trust you. Just," he stared solemnly at her, "if it's too much, let me help."
Fleur was overcome with fondness and kissed his forehead. She was quite sure that he knew, or could guess, what was going on but was sensitive enough to leave it to her, to respect Hermione's privacy. "You're a fantastic husband, you know that?"
Bill smiled proudly. "I do try."
Fleur left him and walked upstairs. She knocked and waited a moment, hearing a sleepily mumbled invitation and entered. Hermione was rubbing her eyes and blinking. She was pale and her features were pinched, tightened with pain and exhaustion.
"Good afternoon," she greeted. "I hear you had your potion. Has it helped?"
Hermione nodded and Fleur sat on the bed beside her. She leaned the younger witch forwards and lifted her jumper. She pressed gently on Hermione's ribs at the back, over her cotton pyjamas, waiting for a response. The brunette hissed with pain once or twice but Fleur was satisfied that she was improving.
"You're on the mend. Can you take a deep breath without pain, yet?"
Hermione shook her head and regarded Fleur curiously. "How do you know so much about healing? I thought you worked in a bank?"
Fleur smiled. "Well, as you may know, Gringott's is a very dangerous place. Bill worked as a curse breaker and he is by no means the only one. Even the goblins who go down to the deep vaults can be injured if the old spells have become unstable. The bank noticed that I had a knack for healing and decided to train me up. I also learnt from my grandmother, she believes I would make a good healer."
Hermione smiled weakly. "I agree with her. You've really helped us, Fleur. Thank you."
Fleur did not often blush but felt her cheeks flare. She dipped her head in thanks before clearing her throat, wishing to chance the subject.
"How do you feel?" Fleur asked quietly. "Did you manage to rest for a while?"
"Not really, but I'm all right," Hermione replied, folding her arms around herself. She sat on her bed, picking at bobbles on the duvet. Fleur sat beside her and lifted the young woman's sleeve, running a critical eye over the hateful marks there. Of all the injuries, this one had refused to heal; defying ever attempt she'd made to erase it.
"It is fading but I believe it was hexed. There are things we may try to remove it."
"We've got more important things to worry about, you know," Hermione said in a tight voice, stiffly taking her arm back and sliding her sleeve down.
"Ah, yes, we do," Fleur agreed, in what seemed to strike Hermione as a strange tone of voice. She drew a paper bag out of her pocket and smoothed the edges. "Hermione, I treated your wounds. Some were serious because they posed a threat to your life and some were serious because of the implication behind them. Do you know what this is?"
Hermione took the nondescript bag and removed a small white box containing a blister packet. She stared at it, frowning with an utter lack of comprehension. Fleur knew how disconcerting it could be to have no idea about what was happening and suspected that Hermione was wholly unfamiliar with the feeling. "It's muggle medicine, but I don't know what it does."
"Have you heard of emergency contraception? The morning after pill?" Fleur asked, dipping her face to a level with the younger woman's.
The blood drained from Hermione's face before rushing back to it. Fleur shook her head, anxious to cut off any potential anger or insult. "Please, do not be annoyed. There were bruises on your legs and, and I was worried. Should I be?" she asked, her voice low and tremulous.
Hermione's face was ashen, her eyes wide and beginning to fill with tears. She didn't look at Fleur for a long time, staring at the box in her trembling hands. She was quiet for a long time before she spoke.
"It was Bellatrix," Hermione replied after a long, terrifying moment. "She knocked me to the ground and kicked me. She was on top of me for a long time. She bit me. She used the Cruciatus curse. She," her voice cracked, "she cut me but that was it. Nothing like that happened."
Fleur felt weak with relief and sagged against the wall behind the single bed. "Oh, thank goodness."
"I think Greyback had it in mind, though," her companion said slowly. "I think she said something about him having me but I must have passed out. I don't remember anything after it."
"Ron heard that too," Fleur said, quickly as to allay worry, "he meant to eat you, I imagine. Besides, Ron and Harry were there immediately after she said it. I'm sorry, please. I am sorry to have thought such horrible things."
Hermione raised her pale, blotchy face and shook her head. "No, no. Thank you. I'm glad you were thinking. I mean, that's what the world is now, isn't it? It's just horrible things. One after another. They think they can do what they want with people like me. They will if they're not stopped."
They were silent for a while, mulling that over. After a while, Hermione's shoulders began to shake and Fleur, unsure of her welcome but overwhelmed with pathos, embraced the other woman tightly. To her relief, Hermione clung to her gladly. To the dismay of both, she began sobbing into her shoulder, grief muffled in Fleur's thick jumper.
They stayed like that for a long while, so long that Hermione finished crying and felt instead hugely tired. She turned her face from the damp patch on Fleur's chest and let the other woman cradle her in warm arms and stroke her hair. They were silent then, no words could really describe the realities of this new, terrible world of theirs.
The night was dark indeed by the time Fleur crawled in beside Bill. The rest of the household was deeply asleep and the night inky, moonless and starless. Hermione had fallen asleep on top her and she'd held her for many hours, until the other woman had rolled away and burrowed contentedly into her own pillow. Fleur had covered her with a warm blanket and left quietly, spying Luna in the other bed. She must have drifted off herself, then, to not have noticed the girl's entry.
Bill grunted and turned onto his back, not quite awake. "Umph, how is she?"
"Asleep," Fleur replied quietly. "Quietly so."
"Greyback get her?"
"No, he didn't touch her."
"Good. Moon was full. Merlin knows if she wouldn't have gotten it."
"She likely would have," she sighed. "Goodnight, Bill."
"'Night pet," he muttered, turning his broad back to her. Warmth fell off him and Fleur marvelled at how different it felt compared to the sensation of Hermione in her arms. She held herself instead, feeling helpless to fix the cruel damage done but yearning to at least make an attempt.
