A/N: I'm rather proud of this chapter and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also, shout out to the lovely anon who sent me a message on tumblr! I love hearing from you guys and you can chat with me about whatever at 16-pennies dot tumblr dot com.
**Please Note** This chapter has some French dialogue. English translations will be [italicised in brackets] after the quotes. I decided to do it this way to help convey Hermione's confusion at having to rapidly adjust to a new language. I feel like this format conveys the same sort of slowed-down language processing that she's dealing with. All the French is by me and as I'm not a native speaker, please let me know if there are any errors (unless it's in Hermione's dialogue-her French is deliberately incorrect).
Thanks to Cleo for pointing out my errors in a review! As of 27 August 2016 this chapter has been updated to fix minor French mistakes.
Trigger Warnings: Blood, hospital setting, dissociation, mild description of injury
It was cold. Frightfully so. It stole Hermione's breath away, burned her skin as her pant leg soaked through with snow.
Snow which was rapidly turning red.
Hermione sucked in a breath which felt as though it pierced her lungs.
"Help!" she screamed, then changed tack. "M'aider! M'aider!" [Help me!] The empty space around her sucked her voice into nothingness. She continued to wail, becoming more and more concerned when the sound didn't even cause Narcissa to stir. "M'aider!"
Skis slid into Hermione's line of sight, hissing to a stop at her side. A voice attached to them aggressively questioned her in French.
"Wh-what?" Hermione could think of nothing but the warm, bleeding body in her lap. "Parlez-vous anglais?" [Do you speak English?]
"Non, je regrette je parle juste français." [No, I'm afraid I only speak French.] He turned to his companion, who Hermione had failed to notice until now, and hurriedly murmured in French. The second man nodded and quickly skied away down the mountainside.
Speaking very slowly, the Frenchman gestured to Narcissa's limp form. "La femme-?" [The woman-?]
"Elle—elle a—est tombée," [She—she has—fell] Hermione said quickly. "Et le—I mean, la, um…" [And the…] She searched her head, trying to remember the word for "arm." "Non est le main, mais…" [It's not the hand, but…] Hermione pointed to the exposed part of Narcissa's forearm where the blood flowed. The man hissed in shock.
"Oui, je vois le sang. Michel est allé trouver un médecin. Je m'appelle Jerôme." [Yes, I see the blood. Michel went to go find a doctor. My name is Jerôme.]
"Merci." [Thank you.] She didn't offer a name. Jerôme noticed, but said nothing, perhaps assuming Hermione hadn't understood his words. A moment later, he unwrapped a thick scarf from his neck and knelt down to gently tie a tourniquet at Narcissa's elbow where the wound ended. "Merci," whispered Hermione again.
Perhaps minutes, perhaps seconds later, a medical trolley noisily pulled up beside them. Snowmobile was probably the more apt description, though; the thing had skis on the bottom.
Hermione followed dumbly as the French Muggles pulled Narcissa onto the gurney and sped down the mountain to the hospital. Jerôme tagged along and Hermione was grateful for it when he did the talking on her behalf.
Hermione could not understand what they were saying, but she knew she did not approve being kept out of the room while they tended to Narcissa.
"Mais je-" [But I-]
"Désolée, mademoiselle," [I'm sorry, miss,] said the nurse slowly. "Quel est son nom de famille? Nous vous appellerons quand elle est prête." [What is her surname? We will call you when she's ready.]
Hermione wanted to protest, but Jerôme accepted the offer, leaving Hermione no choice but to answer, "Son nom est…" [Her name is..] She cast about for a safe lie. "Wilson." Hermione wanted to cringe at how simple it sounded, how wrong when assigned to Narcissa. It had been the surname of a primary school friend and the first one that came to mind.
The nurse wrote it down and Hermione was herded to a bland waiting room, a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate thrust into her hand.
I shouldn't have brought her here, was Hermione's first thought. Narcissa lay alone in a room of Muggles and medical equipment she didn't understand. What would she think when she came to? What if these Muggles couldn't treat her injuries, or more Death Eaters showed up?
"Votre femme sera bien," [Your lady/wife will be well] Jerôme gave her a friendly smile. His hat and ski goggles removed and his scarf knotted around Narcissa's arm, Hermione now had a clear view of his face. His eyes struck her first, their blueness reminding her of Ron, but his auburn hair which trickled down to his chin wasn't bright enough for a Weasley.
Hermione silently nodded in acknowledgment of his kind words and took a gulp of chocolate. It burned her mouth terribly, but she forced it down. She deserved it. She had brought Narcissa into danger; it was Hermione that should have been splinched…
Somewhere in her head, a voice screamed and pounded its fist, telling Hermione to stop being so bloody melodramatic!
She smothered it with another scorching mouthful.
Why was Jerôme sticking around, anyway? He must think her crazy: A girl who barely spoke French at a ski resort in France with a bleeding, unconscious woman on the slope and neither of them dressed for it. Hermeione's clothes were soaked through up to her knees. She couldn't feel her toes.
Distantly, Hermione noticed she was floating again. The room was too bright, none of these shapes made sense. Her body was drifting apart, her limbs no longer moving when her brain commanded. And breathing, breathing was so difficult, the strain of expansion and contraction…
The last time she had felt like this had been that hour after escaping Malfoy Manor, spellfire still on her heels. Narcissa had looked after her then. Cradled her in the London hotel until she found herself again. Hermione almost smiled at the memory of Narcissa exploring the Muggle technology like an innocent child, of getting caught in the shower's spray fully clothed.
Narcissa had wanted to go to Greece. And why hadn't Hermione let her? She could be lounging by picturesque seascapes, sunlight dripping from her fingertips instead of blood. Wasn't that what she deserved? Not this.
Time took on that strange emptiness again. Hermione treaded through pools of self-loathing and fear before finally succumbing, drowning in desolation.
When Jerôme nudged her, drawing her attention to a waiting nurse, Hermione noticed her cup was somehow empty.
"Allez maintenant." [Go now.] Hermione stood dumbly to follow the nurse. "Si vous avez besoin d'aide, mon petit-copain et moi serons ici." [If you need help, my partner and I will be here.]
Hermione looked at this stranger, logically remarked that he was extraordinarily kind, and felt nothing.
"Merci beaucoup," [Thank you very much,] she mumbled and then followed the nurse into the depths of the hospital.
"Madame Wilson, votre amie est ici." [Ms Wilson, your friend is here.]
Hermione saw Narcissa's wide eyes ease slightly when she entered the room. Another nurse prodded at Narcissa's injured arm. Hermione stood beside the head of the bed, watching as the nurse collected some bloodied cloths and let them know en français that they had found an English doctor who would be with them soon. Then the nurses left and they were alone again.
"Why do they call me Wilson?" was the first thing out of Narcissa's mouth.
"I had to give a name," answered Hermione.
"Where are we?"
"A ski lodge in the French Alps. I used to come here on holiday. With my parents."
"Are we safe here?"
"Yes. I think so. I don't know where the one that followed us went. You fought him off before we... landed."
"I am hurt."
"Yes. I brought you here after I realised you had been splinched. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."
"This is a Muggle hospital?"
"Yes. Not fully equipped, though. It's only meant to handle minor skiing injuries. I've no idea what they assume must've happened to you."
Narcissa's gaze swept over the room. For someone who had been out cold, Hermione thought she seemed remarkably alert.
"That woman, she said 'un médecin.' I assume that is a Muggle healer?"
"Yes; a doctor."
"And what will this doctor do to me?" Narcissa sounded only mildly apprehensive. She stared at her gored arm with a kind of academic curiosity. Hermione gently sat herself near the uninjured arm on the opposite side of the bed.
"Well, I'm not a doctor, so I don't know exactly. It looks like they've cleaned the area and probably disinfected it, too. And they've elevated it to slow the bleeding. The doctor will examine you—oh, that reminds me: Try not to say anything suspicious which might make them think this was anything other than a sport accident. The doctor will decide what's best for you. My guess is stitches."
"'Stitches?' As in with a needle and thread?"
"Essentially, yes. They can numb you if you're worried about the pain."
As if on cue, "le médecin anglais" strode into the room, flanked by a pair of nurses. His accent nearly caused Hermione's throat to seize before she reminded herself that this English Muggle in France had no reason to recognise her.
Indeed, the doctor did not spare her a second glance as he cheerfully bustled around. He reminded Hermione of Horace Slughorn and his chattiness did not fail them when he assumed Narcissa had merely had an unfortunate run-in with the pointy end of a ski pole and carried on without a syllable of confirmation from his patient.
He continued to prattle as he worked, deciding that they were sisters—no, cousins—no, aunt and niece—no, colleagues on a holiday, celebrating a promotion, an engagement, mourning a breakup, and a dozen other scenarios Hermione didn't care to comment on or remember.
Hermione remained the silent sentry at the head of the bed, squeezing Narcissa's hand when she needed it but otherwise staring out the window in an aimless daze.
By the time the doctor left and Hermione turned back to the bed, she found Narcissa staring at the knotted thread in her flesh with horrified curiosity.
"I could feel the needle move through me, and yet there was no pain."
"It's called anaesthesia." Hermione dropped back into her perch on the edge of the mattress. She felt so tired and though Narcissa's presence marginally comforted her, Hermione still felt lost, intangible…
"Are you unwell?" Narcissa shifted over to make more room. "Do you require the doctor to examine you, too?"
"No. I'm just… tired."
"Then come rest." Narcissa gently tugged on Hermione with her good arm and Hermione weakly curled into Narcissa's side. Get away from me; I've hurt you; I'm broken, stop wasting your time…
The dark, whispering fogs swallowed Hermione with ease and she was gone.
When Hermione woke, bleary-eyed and disoriented, the pleasant noon sunlight had gone, replaced by warm tones of early evening. She lay alone in the bed, but it didn't take long to locate Narcissa sitting across the room and nursing what appeared to be a cup of tea. Thick gauze curled securely around her forearm. As she lifted her good arm to take a sip, Hermione noticed many things at once: Narcissa's hair was a disaster. Windswept, dirty, knotted and with dried black blood clinging to strands at the pack. Furthermore, she seemed to be restless; adjusting her posture every few moments and absently moving her arm, her leg, her foot, her knee. She let out a particularly long breath, as through trying to calm herself, and Hermione heard it from across the room.
Then she looked up.
"You're awake." Narcissa jumped in her seat. "Are you feeling better?"
"Yes," Hermione answered even though she still felt rather awful. Ghosts of half-formed thoughts rushed through Hermione's head, frantic yet lost. They urgently flew about before dissolving into mist moments later, fragments of a nightmare she would never remember. "What time is it? Do the doctors need you to stay longer?"
"Some time past four, I believe. We may leave whenever you wish."
Hermione threw her legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go, then."
"Are you sure you don't need anything?" Narcissa's voice was tender and soft in the cosy room, but Hermione only found it aggravating. They didn't belong here in this generously furnished room. Hermione wanted to leave. Now.
"Very well," Narcissa murmured as Hermione stood on shaky legs and brushed herself down. "But before we go, I must ask you something." Narcissa fidgeted with her nearly empty Styrofoam cup. When she spoke, her words were carefully measured. "When you disapparated, were you able to save my wand?"
Hermione blinked. "Don't you have it?"
Slowly, Narcissa shook her head. "No, I can't find it."
Hermione reviewed her patchy memory, distinctly remembering taking it from the park… but after that?
Hermione groped her pockets. She found her own wand and… yes, a second one beside it. She must have subconsciously put them away together.
Narcissa could not disguise her relief when the slender wood reunited with her hand.
They slid out of the hospital with practiced discretion. The spring sunlight glittered magnificently on the snow.
Narcissa breathed, "It's beautiful here," and Hermione silently concurred.
But they could not stay here. Well, Narcissa could not, and so by extension, neither could Hermione.
Shortly after Hermione had joined the magical world, she had quickly discovered that Muggle history often overlapped with its magical contemporaries. While the end of the 18th century had heralded the Muggle French Revolution, there had also been a parallel magical uprising. As the Muggles guillotined their nobility, the wizards had essentially done the same in collectively rejecting the Pureblood aristocracy and way of life. In fact, it was during that time that the Malfoys had fled their native France to Britain.
But though her ancestors had once ruled this land, if Narcissa were discovered here, she would be incarcerated in France or returned to the English authorities.
And so they had no choice.
But where had they left to go?
Today, Hermione had single-handedly attacked two people in the woods without provocation, put innocent Muggles in life-threatening danger, caused Narcissa to be injured beyond her capacity to treat and nearly lost the woman's wand. Her guilt was festering, irrational and enormous, but there despite her logical reprimands.
Narcissa still stood there, serenely admiring the view.
"I don't know what to do," Hermione confessed to the empty air. "Nothing I've done so far has been right. I can't think of a single safe place to go." To Hermine's great dismay, she could feel the tell-tale burn of tears in her eyes and an uncomfortable lump in her throat.
"You have done very well, in my opinion," came Narcissa's soft reply. "Do not be overly harsh on yourself. There is no perfect solution for any of this, and yet you have managed to take care of us both when you owe me nothing."
Hermione frowned, the image of Narcissa's body bleeding out still haunting her. "I couldn't just leave you there."
"Yes, you could, and any lesser woman would have. Whether at the manor or today, you are never obligated to save me. You have chosen to do so, and I will never be able to convey my gratitude."
Hermione was not convinced, but nevertheless Narcissa's words had left her rather stunned. Each day together seemed to extract more unexpected candour which left Hermine's heart in confused disarray.
She couldn't help but notice that Narcissa never specified whether she was a "lesser woman" herself.
"However, I do believe I have a place to go. In England."
"Really? Where? Is it safe?"
"I asked the doctor; today is a Tuesday. I believe we should be as safe as possible."
Hermione had no idea what that meant, but she found herself holding out her arm. She didn't want to be in charge anymore. "Alright. Let's go."
Narcissa looked mildly surprised at Hermione's acquiescence, but accepted her hand. Hermione could feel the soft whisper of bandages against her wrist. They still had healing to do, still had to debrief what happened and plan ahead, but Hermione didn't think that could be done just now. They were still in shock, too afraid to look back and appreciate what they had escaped. Adrenaline kept them going, and they would not stop.
"Forgive me; I fear this may be… unpleasant."
Nothing could be worse than what we just went through, thought Hermione as apparition sucked her away.
All that remained of them in France was a pair of inexplicable footsteps in the snow.