Chapter 3: The Morning After
The fire in the grate had died to embers by morning, but the view from Harry’s suite was all relentless, cheerful gold. London sprawled under a clear sky, the distant onion domes of the Ministry catching the light. He’d slept fitfully, the potion leaving a cottony taste in his mouth, the bandage around his wrist a stiff, foreign presence.
He was at the bar, attempting to pour a glass of pumpkin juice left-handed and mostly missing, when the Floo chimed.He didn’t turn. He knew the rhythm of that step already—firm, deliberate, unhurried.
“You’re up,” Hermione Granger’s voice stated from the doorway.
He finished pouring, set the jug down with a clumsy thud, and finally looked at her. She was a splash of crisp, uncompromising linen in his world of velvet and chrome. Her healer’s robes were a lighter grey today, her hair in its usual severe braid, a leather satchel cross-bodied over her chest. She surveyed the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the artfully discarded team jersey on a chair, her expression utterly neutral. It was the look of someone appraising a museum exhibit they found mildly derivative.“Healer’s orders,” he said, lifting his sling-bound arm slightly. “Resting.As you can see.”
“I see you attempted to dress yourself. Commendable.” She walked in, her boots silent on the polished wood floor. She didn’t sit.“Diagnostic first. Then we’ll see about the bandages.”
He remained leaning against the bar, watching her approach. Up close in the daylight, he could see the fine grain of her skin, a small, faded scar on her temple. She smelled like lemon verbena and clean linen today, cutting through the residual scent of his own cologne.Her wand moved in a practised arc. “Perspicuus Vulnera.”
The usual spectral light—reds, oranges, a hint of yellow—glowed briefly over his torso and wrist.She studied it, her head tilted. “The inflammation is reduced.The fracture is… respectful of the rest period, for once. The wrist is the priority now.” She pocketed her wand.“Pain? On a scale of one to ten.”
“Six,” he said automatically, then shrugged his good shoulder. “Maybe a seven when you’re looking at me like that.It’s quite intense.”
Her lips tightened imperceptibly. “My gaze is non-invasive, Potter. Please sit.”
He moved to one of the deep armchairs, lowering himself with more care than he wanted to admit. She followed, pulling a straight-backed wooden chair from his dining set—of course she wouldn’t sink into his plush furnishings—and placing it directly in front of him. The sun behind her lit a halo around her hair, turning loose flyaways into fine copper wires.
She opened her satchel, withdrawing fresh bandages, a jar of salve, and a pair of shears. “The sling, please.”
He eased it off.She leaned forward, her fingers deftly unwinding the existing bandage. Her touch was, as always, efficient.Not rough, but not gentle.It was factual. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, a small line appearing between her eyebrows. He could see the individual lashes framing her brown eyes, the exact shade of dark oak.
“You know,” he said, his voice lower, “most healers try to put the patient at ease.Small talk. A reassuring smile. You’re more of a ‘hold still and endure’ type.”
“Most patients,” she replied, not looking up, her fingers peeling away the last layer of gauze, “haven’t actively tried to worsen their condition twice in twenty-four hours. You’ve opted out of the reassurance package.” The inflamed skin of his wrist was revealed, still swollen and discoloured. She assessed it with a clinical hum.“It’s improved. Slightly.”
She reached for the salve.This one was cool and pungent, the smell of crushed comfrey root and something metallic. She dipped her fingers into the jar. The shock of her skin on his, now without the barrier of bandage, was immediate.Her hands were warm, her fingers surprisingly soft despite their capable strength. She worked the salve into his wrist with a firm, circular pressure, her thumb pressing along the tendons.He held his breath.
“This needs to be done twice daily,” she said, her voice focused on the task.“You’ll need assistance. I’ll instruct one of the team physios—”
“You do it.”
The words hung in the sunlit air. Her rhythmic motion paused for a fraction of a second.Then she continued, her touch perhaps a degree more deliberate. “I have other patients.A full roster.”
“You’re my lead healer. Seems like it’s your job.” He kept his gaze fixed on her face, searching for a crack. “Unless you’re delegating the difficult cases.”
She lifted her eyes then, meeting his look directly. Her fingers were still moving on his skin, a slow, firm massage that was somehow both clinical and incredibly intimate.“You are not difficult, Potter.You are predictable.And stubborn. There’s a difference.”
“And yet here you are.” He smiled, not his broad, press-friendly smile, but a smaller, more intent one. “Playing physio.”
A faint, ruddy colour began to bloom high on her cheekbones. It wasn’t a blush of flustered attraction; it was one of sheer, affronted irritation.But her ears were pink, too. And her fingers, still working the salve into his skin, had slowed. Her thumb brushed over the sensitive inside of his wrist, just above the pulse point, and lingered there for a heartbeat too long before she pulled away as if scalded.
“That’s enough for now,” she said, her voice clipped.She reached for the fresh bandage, her movements suddenly brisk again, all business. She wrapped his wrist with swift, precise turns, her earlier hesitation gone. But she wouldn’t look at him.“The sling stays on.No magic requiring fine motor control. No attempts at flight, simulated or otherwise.I’ll return tomorrow evening.Eight o’clock. Do not make other plans.”
She stood, wiping her hands clean on a cloth from her bag, then on her robes. She was putting herself back together, piece by piece, the professional wall firmly re-erected.“Looking forward to it,” he said, not moving from the chair.
She slung her satchel over her shoulder and walked to the Floo without another glance. Just as she took a pinch of powder, he called out, “Hey, Granger?”
She paused, her shoulders visibly tense.
“Thanks,” he said.It was simple, devoid of flirtation.She didn’t turn. “It’s my job,” she repeated, but the words sounded different now, hollowed out. Then she threw down the powder, said “St. Mungo’s,” and vanished in a rush of green flame.
Harry stayed in the chair, the ghost of her touch burning cooler than the salve on his skin. He looked at the neatly wrapped wrist, then at the empty fireplace where she’d stood.The crack wasn’t in her armor.It was in the foundation. And he had absolutely no idea what to build on it, but for the first time in a very long time, he wanted to find out.