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The letter unfurled itself in her palm with a breathy rustle, as though sighing under the weight of its own drama.
“I’m so sorry for running late! Had an emergency with the kids, but I’m on my way now. I hope I reach you before this letter does! Kisses.”
Parvati’s voice—cheerful, sing-song, and just this side of exasperating—faded into the sterile hush of the tearoom, leaving behind only a whisper of fatigue and guilt.
Of course, the letter had arrived first. They always did. Time, after all, bent politely for no witch’s child care emergencies.
Hermione exhaled, an amused flicker of breath escaping her nose, and folded the parchment with clinical precision. She didn’t mind Parvati’s tardiness—not really. St. Mungo’s was, for once, lulled into a rare moment of morning serenity, its cacophony reduced to a low murmur of rustling robes and whispered diagnostic spells. Most of the night-shift healers were still shepherding out the last of their walk-in patients, and Hermione—ever the overprepared martyr—was trying to seize a precious minute of calm to contemplate whether her day would begin with a scone or something containing a bit of chocolate.
That moment, of course, was immediately and irrevocably shattered.
"Morning, Healer Granger! Getting breakfast?"
A voice chirped behind her, youthful, overeager. A newly-minted trainee, fresh from Hogwarts and still dewy with naivete, stood smiling too brightly at her, as if this were some quaint village hospital and not a cathedral of blood and broken bodies. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Poor bloke.
Hermione turned only slightly, her eyes still scanning the pastry display. “Morning,” she said, polite but clipped. “Attempting to claim a pain au chocolat before Parvati shows up and steals half of it during our rounds again.”
The boy chuckled, oblivious to the precipice he was dancing on. “Right! Better get on and enjoy the quiet, then—seems like a peaceful morning.”
She froze.
Ah.
There it was.
That wretched word.
Her spine stiffened; her lips flattened. And then, slowly, she turned to face him fully, one brow arched high, her hand now resting sternly on her hip like the scythe of Death herself.
“Why,” she asked, her voice low and silken with menace, “would you ever say that?”
His smile faltered. “I—I don’t understand…?”
Somewhere in the distant wings of the hospital, a crash echoed. The unmistakable sound of wood splintering against bone, followed by the high, panicked shriek of a mediwitch calling for backup.
Hermione didn’t blink. “There goes my morning, I reckon.”
The poor trainee backed away slowly, his complexion rapidly draining to parchment.
And right on cue, the tearoom doors burst open.
Parvati entered at a near-run, already half-swallowed by her robes, breathless and wind-chapped.
“Big wave, Granger,” she panted. “Multiple broom collisions, north corridor. Possibly intentional. Aurors inbound.”
Hermione didn’t respond. She simply tilted her head back toward the trainee, whose expression now bore the haunting clarity of a man who had just watched the world catch fire at the precise moment he lit a match.
“We never say the Q-word in a hospital,” she said, enunciating each syllable like a curse. “Not here. Not ever.”
With a long-suffering sigh and the last fleeting glance toward the untasted pastries, Hermione turned on her heel and swept out behind Parvati, cloak snapping sharply behind her like punctuation.
As soon as they reached the main floor, the chaos hit like a wave. Mediwitches and mediwizards moved with sharp precision, levitating stretchers, shouting for supplies, weaving through conjured privacy curtains. The rush of spells, the sharp scent of antiseptic potions, and the low hum of panic disguised as control filled the air.
Hermione didn't hesitate. "Alright, Parvati, get your trainees, have them assist you with the civilians. I'll handle the Aurors."
Parvati gave a curt nod and veered right, already shouting instructions to her group. Hermione turned sharply on the heel of her boots and spotted a cluster of trainees—some frozen, others trying to mask their morbid excitement with professionalism.
"You lot—on me. Move!" she barked.
That got them going. She led them into the left wing, curtained off into makeshift triage stalls. Groans, coughing, and the occasional jolt of magical feedback leaked through the gaps. Behind each curtain: another injured Auror. Some minor injuries—splinters, bruises—others worse.
Hermione turned back to the trainees. "Right. Pair up. Basic external and thorough internal diagnostic spells—focus on circulatory and respiratory. Chart results on the boards outside the curtain. One minute. Go."
They scrambled to follow her orders, pulling back curtains and moving in quick pairs, some steadier than others. Hermione swept toward the farthest bed and pulled back the curtain herself—and stopped.
“Merlin’s balls, you look like shit, Zabini.”
Blaise gave her a weak glare, sweat beading at his temple, a jagged piece of broomstick clearly embedded in his upper chest and shoulder.
“Hey, Granger. Maybe you can continue to poke fun at me after you fix the fact that I've been impaled in the chest?” he groaned, clutching at the bed’s edge.
Hermione grinned despite herself and moved closer. Her wand was already out, casting a series of quick diagnostics over his torso. His vitals flickered to life in front of her in the form of light blue light—no major arteries hit, no organ perforation, but his blood levels were dropping faster than she liked.
“You’re lucky this missed your lung. Barely,” she muttered.
“Luck has nothing to do with it. I... I definitely meant to do that.”
Hermione snorted. “Sure. Let’s talk more about that when you don’t have a broom shoved through you like a kebab.”
She was prepping to pull the broom out when a sudden voice bellowed through the din.
“BLAISE!”
Hermione barely had time to react.
“In here, mate!” Blaise called back, voice strained.
Heavy footfalls. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She could already hear the stomping presence behind her, charging through the ward like a bloody centaur.
The curtain yanked open behind her.
“Heard what happened, are you—”
"Stupefy!"
Hermione’s spell hit Blaise before he could flinch. He slumped back instantly. With another flick, she whispered Reducio and gripped the embedded broom. The sound of splintering wood and shifting muscle made the visitor behind her retch.
Hermione ignored him.
She tossed the bloodied broom aside and immediately began the internal repair. A cauterizing charm sealed ruptured tissue and broke down any necrotic ones, her wand carefully drawing out lingering splinters as they vanished into wisps of smoke. Her other hand wandlessly summoned the supplies she needed from the nearby medicart—cleaning solution, Dittany, a hint of Murtlap Essence. She worked in silent rhythm, layering charm over potion over salve.
The final step: she measured exact doses of her custom mix into a single vial, shook it swiftly, and tilted Blaise’s head up. The liquid shimmered a dull maroon, thick like syrup. She dripped it carefully into his mouth.
It only took a few moments.
Blaise stirred. Groaned.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, you wanker.”
Finally, she turned—and there he was.
Draco bloody Malfoy.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a white button-up rolled to the elbows, sleeves creased from wear, suspenders slung easily over his shoulders. His Auror badge gleamed under a faint charm of dust repulsion. Hair tousled from flight, stubble lining his jaw like he hadn’t bothered with a shaving spell that morning.
But it wasn’t his appearance that gave him away.
It was the smirk.
“Malfoy,” she greeted flatly, turning back to wrap Blaise’s shoulder in fresh bandages.
“Healer Granger.”
She paused. That wasn’t right.
Her eyes flicked back to him. “Healer Granger? Where’s Draco Malfoy and what have you done with him?”
“No clue. Sent him packing. Bit of a tosser, that one.” Draco leaned against the frame of the bed, watching her with mild amusement. “Head Auror Malfoy, however, thinks you’ve done a rather spectacular—if mildly terrifying—job saving his best mate.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but a smirk tugged at her mouth. “Hermione Granger would’ve told you to fuck off.”
“And Healer Granger?”
“She’s rather intrigued that you have a heart.”
He chuckled, stepping closer to Blaise. “You touch it, you buy it,” Blaise muttered blearily. “And by buy it, I mean fund this entire bloody hospital stay.”
Without warning, Draco jabbed a finger at the bandaged shoulder.
“AH—wait… that didn’t hurt.”
“That’s because I barely touched you, you idiot,” Draco replied, settling into the chair beside the cot with all the grace of a lounging cat. His thigh bumped against Blaise’s shoulder, making the injured man groan louder.
Hermione brought a hand up to hide a laugh, failing slightly as it escaped through her fingers.
“You’re sitting too close, mate,” Blaise muttered, side-eyeing Draco.
Draco, though, wasn’t looking at Blaise anymore. His attention was on Hermione.
“You know,” he said, voice quiet but direct, “I never thought I’d say this to you. But thank you.”
She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone.
“I appreciate your work. For the wizarding world. And for saving Zabini over here.”
Hermione pulled off her gloves, meeting his gaze. “It’s my job, Malfoy. But… you’re welcome.”
Draco nodded. “I was meant to be on their return flight, you know? Got held up with a mission. Burning building. Might've saved a Kneazle.”
Hermione arched a brow. “Really?”
“Terrifying little bugger. Bit my hand.”
She gave a dry laugh, wrapping her curls around her wand and into a tight bun. “How tragic.”
“Deeply,” he said, that damned smirk sliding back onto his face.
And for once, she didn’t hate it.
Hermione tilted her head, arms crossed. “So. Burning buildings and kneazles now. That’s your life?”
Draco leaned back slightly, folding his arms. “Heroism doesn’t clock out, Granger.”
“Mm,” she mused. “I always imagined you in a cushy office chair somewhere. Pushing papers. Waxing your hair.”
“Is that what you think of me?” he asked, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I only wax on special occasions.”
Hermione smirked, gaze flicking up from under her lashes. “Tragic and vain. I suppose some things really don’t change.”
Blaise shifted beneath them, making a face. “Can one of you help me sit up, or should I just die while you flirt over my unconscious body?”
Neither of them looked at him.
“I prefer ‘professionally banter with life-saving undertones,’” Draco said with a glance toward Hermione.
“Of course you do.”
“I do have layers now, you know. Depth. Complexity. A charming sense of humility.”
She chuckled, raising a brow. “Humility? That’s new. Is that next to your sarcasm or neatly folded under your superiority complex?”
Draco grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”
Blaise groaned dramatically. “Oh my God, he’s flirting. He’s actually flirting. This is hell.”
Hermione shook her head but smiled, arms crossing as she leaned one hip against the bed frame. “You’re not very good at this, you know.”
“What? Flirting?” Draco asked, placing a hand to his chest mock-woundedly. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been getting by just fine.”
“Charmed half of Knockturn Alley, have you?”
“Just the ones with a sense of humor,” he replied easily, then added, voice a touch lower: “But it’s been a while since I wanted to actually charm someone with a brain.”
That earned him a look—curious, sharp, and not entirely disapproving.
“And what would you do,” she asked, eyes narrowing just slightly, “if you managed to charm someone like that?”
“I’d ask her to dinner,” Draco said, straightening slightly, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “A proper one. Somewhere without broom shards or blood on the floor. Maybe a bottle of wine. Possibly conversation that doesn't include near-death experiences.”
Hermione blinked, surprised by the sudden sincerity.
He didn’t press—just let the silence settle between them.
Finally, she uncrossed her arms and gave the smallest, amused shake of her head. “Well,” she said, standing upright, “you can get my number from Harry.”
Draco raised his brows. “That’s a yes, then?”
She looked at him for a moment longer, lips twitching into a subtle smile. “I'm rather curious to know more about this new Draco Malfoy.”
He grinned.
She turned to leave, drawing the curtain aside to exit, her bun bouncing slightly as she moved. But just before the fabric swung closed behind her—
“OW, you absolute bastard!” Blaise’s voice rang out, followed by a snort of laughter.
Hermione paused just outside, covering her grin with a hand as she heard Draco’s voice trail behind.
“Oh relax, Zabini—it’s good luck.”
She rolled her eyes fondly and slipped back into the fray, where trainees were already calling for her help and new patients arrived by the minute. But there was a lightness in her step now—something amused and curious curling at the edge of her thoughts.
She had patients to tend to, after all.
And maybe… a dinner to consider.
So much for a quiet morning.