Hello friends! I am back with chapter two! In this chapter we finally get to meet a certian someone! This chapter is a bit on the short side, but it is more of a bridge chapter, introducing the two main characters of this fic. I hope you all enjoy!
A huge thank you to AMBERJANUS, LongumDeorsum, kiwihalloween10, mckydstarlight, Lady Ylla for the fantastic reviews!
Once again, I express my gratitude to the amazing Lady Ylla for being so kind and giving me this fantastic plot bunny, and for going over this chapter and fixing any mistakes I made and for invaluable ideas and constructive critisism! You are simply the best, my dear!
Any and all mistakes that appear in this chapter are my own.
Mending
Chapter two
Neville had never been more thankful for Hermione in his entire life, including all the times she had saved his ass in potions class over their years at school. He knew that if it wasn't for her, when they stopped spinning past fireplace after fireplace too quickly to make out any details, he would've landed smack on his face in the emergency room waiting area and probably would have broken his nose at the very least.
As it were, once they did finally come to a stop, Neville wobbled on his one good leg, and his stomach threatened to betray him all over the floor. Swallowing back the bile that tried to force its way into his mouth, Neville fell into the rickety wooden chair closest to the fireplace.
While Hermione rushed off to find a wheelchair, Neville surveyed the emergency waiting room, taking in all the exits first (old habits die hard, even after fifteen years), and then took in all the witches and wizards that were waiting to be seen by the healing staff.
There was a witch that hiccupped large pink bubbles every couple of seconds, an old warlock with what appeared to be a fern growing out of his left ear, a stressed looking witch holding her young son, who was a bright shade of blue, and a wizard leaning against the wall reading a scroll of parchment, with what appeared to be a long yellow lions tail protruding from a split in the back of his robes. As Neville watched, the tail twitched in agitation to whatever it was the wizard was reading.
Neville had a love/hate relationship with St. Mungo's. Nearly all of his youth and a good part of his adult life was spent on the fourth floor, spending holidays and summer breaks in a room on the permanent spell damage ward. He loved his parents, even if they hadn't the slightest clue that he was their son; but when they had passed, peacefully in their sleep when Neville was twenty-six, he was ashamed to feel as if a weight had lifted off his chest. His holidays were his own again, and no longer had to be spent in a stuffy hospital room with an overbearing grandmother, and a mother and father who didn't know him. But that first Christmas after his parents died, Neville found himself at a loss of what to do. His grandmother had had Christmas tea, but with Augusta Longbottom was getting on in years, and wanted to turn in by six in the evening. Neville was surprised when Harry and Ginny turned up to his apartment, where he was nibbling on a lonely piece of fruitcake, and dragged him along to the Burrow for a large Christmas feast with the Weasleys. Neville spent a happy evening playing games with his friends young children, holding a small Lily in his arms, and graciously accepting a green hand knitted jumper from Mrs. Weasley.
"Here we are Neville," Hermione said, coming up next to him pushing an old fashioned wicker wheelchair. She helped Neville get settled and then pushed him through the waiting room doors and down a long hallway.
"We are going to my office first, for a quick look at what's under the wrappings and for you to tell me exactly what happened, then we will set you up in a private room," Hermione explained, stopping in front of a wooden door with a silver plaque on it halfway down the hall.
"Hermione Granger-Weasley, head healer in experimental medicine," Neville read from the plaque as Hermione unlocked the door with a flick of her wand. "Not bad, 'Mione," he grinned at her.
"I've been trying to incorporate some muggle medicine and healing techniques since I got the job here after I did my bit for the ministry," she explained, pushing him into the office and in front of her desk.
He knew she worked at St Mungo's, but she never really talked about what exactly it was that she did here. Saturday night dinner conversation was usually populated with talk of Ginny's quidditch matches, Ron and George's new items in the joke shop, Harry's dealings with the new auror recruits, or the children. Hermione rarely talked about her patients, although she usually had a new story or two about Gilderoy Lockhart if she was on that ward's rotation that week.
"Muggle medicine? How is that going over?" He asked, now that he wasn't putting weight on his broken leg, the pain was easier to control.
"Not as well as I would've hoped, but I'm not being shot down completely either. Being a war hero does have its benefits," she scoffed. "Now," she flicked her wand at her quill, and it stood at attention atop a piece of parchment. "Tell me what happened,"
As Neville recounted the quidditch practice and the fall, the quill on Hermione's desk skated across the parchment at top speed, recording everything Neville said. When he got to the part about his leg bone tearing straight through his skin and trousers, Hermione came around the desk and peeled back the bandages.
"Neville!" She gasped. "How are you not writhing in pain? How are you just sitting there, talking to me calmly, as if we were having tea?!"
"I've had a lot of practice blocking out pain, 'Mione," he shrugged.
Hermione sat back on her heels, and looked at him skeptically. "Your bone snapped in two, and tore right through your skin and trousers. That's not some sprained wrist or broken finger, Neville."
"It's not the Cruciatus Curse either, Hermione," he reminded her quietly.
He watched as her face paled for a moment, and Neville knew that memories of the war were flashing through her mind.
"I try to forget about things like that, Neville," she whispered. "I try not to let the war interfere with the now."
"I try not to either. But some things don't just disappear because we pretend they didn't happen," he reminded her.
Sighing, Hermione got to her feet, flicked her wand at the quill to stop it writing, and tore off the bottom section of the parchment.
"I'm going to put you in the new wing of the hospital," she said, businesslike again. "Where we are mixing magical and muggle healing practices. I will mend your bones and muscles back together. I want to try something new with the skin though. Don't worry, it's safe," she assured him, noticing the skeptical look on his face. "But you will also have to do several weeks of physical rehab. Just because magic can make your bones and go back together, doesn't mean it will make you good as new. That will take time and exercise,"
Neville sighed. He knew that there would be more to this than swallowing a dose of Skele-gro and poking the wound with a wand.
"Skele-gro tastes terrible anyway," he said, waving a hand through the air as if it didn't really matter to him.
"I agree," said Hermione, coming around the desk and unlocking the brakes on the wheelchair. "You will be staying in room 16. It's a private room, so you won't have to worry about sharing; or people gawking at you,"
"Thanks for that," he said as they turned into the small room.
After getting into the bed, Hermione helped him get his robes off and then she pulled a screen around his bed.
"Catch," she said, tossing a standard issue hospital gown over the top of the screen. "I'm afraid you pants are a loss, Neville. They are going to have to be cut away to fix your leg. Hope you weren't too fond of them,"
"Nah," he said, peeling off his T-shirt and pulling on the hospital gown. He really wasn't. They were an old pair that hung loose and had to be held up with a thick belt.
Hermione came around the screen holding a glass of golden potion in one hand, and a glass of water in the other.
"Take this; it's for a dreamless, painless sleep." She said, handing him the potion. "When you wake up, your leg will be mended, and then you can start the physical therapy tomorrow,"
"Cheers," Neville said, swallowing the golden potion in two gulps.
He was asleep before he hit the pillow.
Neville woke to the sound of someone humming quietly. The tune sounded familiar, and for one heart-stopping moment Neville thought he was back on the permanent spell damage ward, dozing off in the armchair next to his mother's bed. His mother might not recognize him as her son, but she knew that the young man came to see her regularly, and would sometimes hum softly as he sat next to her, unsure of what to say, or lost in his own thoughts.
Neville wrenched his eyes open, and realized he wasn't in the permanent ward, but in a generic hospital room. The walls were a pale cream color, and the drapes and duvet were both a pale blue. Stifling a yawn, Neville turned his head to see where the quiet humming was coming from.
A small witch, maybe five foot three, was filling out a chart with her back to him. She had straight black hair cut into a stylish bob, and wore the navy blue robes of a healer's assistant.
"Ah, awake at last, Mr. Longbottom," the witch said, barely turning her head to glance in his direction.
"How long was I o-o-out?" Neville asked around a yawn.
"36 hours," the witch responded, setting down her chart and quill. "But don't worry; we will have you up and walking around on your own in no time!" She promised, finally turning to give Neville her full attention.
Neville stared at the young witch with wide eyes and open mouth.
"Parkinson!" He gasped, jerking back from her gaze and causing a shock of pain to shoot up his leg.
"Yes?" Pansy asked, lifting a perfectly arched eyebrow.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" Neville yelped.
He watched her eyes travel from his face to his exposed chest where the hospital gown was open, to his hands clenched in fists on his lap, to his injured leg that was bare from hip to foot.
"I'm your physical therapist," she smirked.
"No." He said flatly, clenching his jaw and shaking his head.
"Uh, yes." Pansy said, raising both her eyebrows and planting her hands on her hips.
"No." He repeated, yanking the covers off himself and gingerly swinging his legs off the narrow hospital bed. "Nope. Not happening," he continued, grabbing the guardrail of the bed and pulling him into a standing position.
"What the hell are you doing, Longbottom?!" Pansy shrieked, running to his side. "You have got to get back in bed!"
"What I've got to do is get the hell out of this damned hospital!" Neville shot back through gritted teeth.
"What do you plan on doing? Running down the halls, out the front door and through London in your pants?" She asked coolly, nodding to his attire.
Neville looked down to see that he was, in fact, dressed only in a pair of boxer briefs and a flimsy hospital gown on back to front that was hanging open to reveal his underwear and nothing else.
Neville yanked the gown closed and took a shaky step towards the door. Pain flared up his leg, through his hip and settled in his stomach, causing bile to almost erupt from his mouth. Pansy reached out her hands to help steady him, but he jerked away with a hiss.
"Don't touch me!" He growled, over balancing and landing with a thump on the bed.
"Fine!" Pansy said, throwing her hands into the air and rolling her eyes. "What DO you want me to do?"
"Get Hermione," Neville said, teeth gritted in pain instead of anger this time.
"You do know that she's the head healer on this ward, right?" Pansy scoffed. "She is very busy, even for one of her old war hero mates,"
"Then just get out!" Neville shouted, causing Pansy to flinch away from him. The action was so minute, that Neville was sure nearly anybody else would've missed it. But he saw it, and an unwelcome curl of regret settled in his nauseated stomach.
"Neville?" He heard Hermione's voice call from right outside the door. Neville tore his eyes away from Pansy to see Hermione standing in the door frame now, eyebrows knitted with confusion.
"What in the name of Merlin is all the shouting about?" She asked, looking from Neville to Pansy.
"How in the bloody hell could you let her work here-?"
"He's being difficult-!"
"She's the absolute WORST person to have around sick people-!"
"He tried to walk right out of the room like he didn't have a bloody bone sticking out of his leg two days ago-!"
"Stop! STOP!" Hermione shouted, looking wide-eyed between the two of them. "Please stop talking over one another! Pansy? What happened?"
Pansy shot an angry look at Neville before facing Hermione. "The patient was surprised to see that it was I who would be assisting in his physical rehabilitation, and has angrily refused my services." She said in an overly professional tone. "I apologize for the shouting, Healer Granger-Weasley. I let my emotions get the better of me."
Neville stared at Pansy Parkinson as if he had never quite seen anything like her before. The woman standing in front of him was not the sneering, loud mouthed Slytherin who had tried to sell his mate out to the darkest wizard of all time just to save her own neck. Because, unless Neville was sorely mistaken, Pansy Parkinson just apologized to Hermione Granger.
"I told you to call me Hermione, Pansy," Hermione sighed, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips.
"All the same, I'm sorry for the shouting, Hermione," Pansy said, dropping her professional tone and sounding exasperated once more.
"I understand," Hermione said, running a hand through her bushy hair in frustration.
"What the BLOODY HELL is going on here?!" Neville shouted, thoroughly confused and unable to stand it any longer.
"Would you excuse us, Pansy?" Hermione asked.
"Sure," Pansy muttered, walking from the room, her back straight and not sparing a glance for Neville.
"Hermione, what the hell?" Neville asked again, a little quieter this time. He wouldn't put it past the sneaky witch to be eavesdropping outside the door.
"What do you mean 'what the hell'?" Hermione snapped at Neville, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at him. "Pansy is the best damn physical therapist St Mungo's has,"
"I don't give a damn if she is the best in the world! What possessed you to actually hire her?!" Neville hissed. He cast his mind around to try to find an infraction that would prove that Pansy Parkinson was the worst person to hire. "She tried to sell out Harry!" Neville said in fierce triumph, satisfied that he had reminded Hermione of what a horrible person Parkinson was.
"That was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO!" Hermione's voice was filled with a quiet frustration. "People do change, Neville. No." She raised a hand when Neville opened his mouth to furiously argue. "When was the last time you even spoke to Pansy? Or better yet, when was the last time you even heard anything about her?"
Neville closed his mouth and blinked. Now that Hermione had mentioned it, he hadn't heard anything about Pansy Parkinson in almost...fifteen years. He dropped his eyes to his hands, which were still clenched in anger.
"That's what I thought," Hermione said quietly. "You know nothing of her life these past fifteen years. She really has changed. Did you know Harry has forgiven her for what she did when we were seventeen?"
Neville still refused to meet Hermione's eyes.
"We were children fighting a war that most adults wouldn't even take part in. We all made mistakes. Some of them left scars-" she nodded towards Neville's once again exposed chest, where an eight inch scar roped across his left pectoral; a souvenir from Amycus Carrow. "And some of them followed us around like a storm cloud. Don't be so quick to judge someone so harshly, Neville."
Neville finally looked up into Hermione's face.
"You've always been so smart, 'Mione," he sighed.
"Some one had to be," she smiled back. She pulled a small bottle from the inside of her robes. "I brought you some pain relieving potion," she sat the bottle on Neville's bedside table. "Pansy is going to be your physical therapist while you are here. I don't expect you two to become best mates, but I do expect for you to show her the respect she deserves as a medical professional," she said, giving him one of her patented no nonsense looks.
"What has she done to make you believe she has really changed?" Neville asked as Hermione helped him get comfortable again.
"She told me exactly what she has been up to these past fifteen years," Hermione answered, straightening his duvet and uncorking the small potion bottle.
"What has she been doing?" Neville asked, accepting the potion from Hermione and swallowing it in one pull.
Hermione took the potion bottle back and replaced the cork. When she answered, it sounded as if she chose her words very carefully.
"That is between her and me. She told me in complete confidence," she looked at Neville's annoyed expression. "I expect that if she wants you to know, she will tell you on her own,"
Hermione placed the empty bottle back inside her robes and peeled the bandages from Neville's leg. Through his anger he was surprised to see a large red gash held together with black stitches.
"Did you sew my skin together?" He asked, shocked.
"I told you I was trying muggle healing techniques," Hermione said, picking up Neville's chart. She gave it a quick once over before placing it back on the table.
"In one week's time, if the skin isn't mending properly, we will use magic instead. I want to see the effects magical blood has on muggle stitches," she explained, wrapping the bandages around his leg again.
"So I'm your test subject?" He asked.
"More or less," she smiled.
"Glad I could help," he grinned back.
"I am going to send Pansy back in here to begin the first part of your rehabilitation," Hermione informed him, her smile fading. "You will be civil. She is excellent at what she does, and you will greatly benefit from her therapies,"
Neville just nodded his head and settled back on his pillows, hoping that the pain relieving potion would take affect sooner rather than later.
And that is chapter two! I am hoping to upload chapter three on Thursday. Monday at the latest! Be on the lookout!
I can be found on tumblr as kendrasowlpost!
