Crossroads
7 Ficlets written for 7spells
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: Crossroads
Characters: Hermione, Neville
Prompt: Dragon Tears (Chapter 2)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 824
Summary: After twelve years of Auror work, Hermione finds herself at a crossroads.
Author's Notes: This story is in numerical order, to read in sequence, see Prompt Table
Dragon Tears
Hermione generally avoids St. Mungo’s like a plague house. She slips in the back door a few minutes before this particular wing is due to close, and makes her request ... her demand, really... at the counter. Healer Longbottom and no one else. Period. End of discussion.
She finds a grim amusement in the fact she’s unsettling the new girl on the floor. Hermione can hear her in nervous conference with Salamandra Pepperton.
“There’s a strange woman out there waiting to see the Healer,” the girl is whispering to her supervisor.
“That ‘strange woman’ is Auror Granger,” Pepperton says sharply. Then, with a sigh in her voice, asks, “Heavens, will that woman never learn to duck?”
A few moments later, there is another worried buzz. “I can’t find her file!”
“She doesn’t have a file.”
Hermione is paranoid. She knows she makes Moody look like a wide-eyed lamb. She doesn’t allow files, and that is her prerogative in her line of work. She knows it distresses Neville not to have notes, and she suspects he keeps some somewhere, but as long as her name isn’t on them and they aren’t stored here, she doesn’t care.
“When did this happen?” is the first thing he asks when he sees her hand.
Hermione tries to think. Four hours ago? Yesterday? Monday? She mumbles something suitably vague and watches him uncork a vial labeled “Dragon Tears”. The liquid smokes and foams when it drips onto the wound, but it doesn’t hurt. Quite the opposite, it settles in like a balm, and the ugly green glow dissipates, and the pain subsides.
“How do they get dragons to cry?” she asks.
“Hmm. Well, I think it’s just eye duct secretions, not tears, per se.”
“But how do they collect it, I wonder.”
“I suppose that’s what people like Charlie Weasley are for.”
The name Weasley makes her flinch, but thankfully, not visibly. She’s too well trained for that.
“There’s that, then,” he says, tucking in the end of a gauze bandage. “Shall we go and get something to eat?”
It seems like such a natural request, and quite sensible, it is nearly six o’clock and she is hungry. She nods.
Ten minutes later, she is hesitating on the sidewalk in front of a small, but nice-looking restaurant. She’d been thinking more along the lines of a basket of fish and chips, preferably from a vendor, outdoors, with a clear view in all directions.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for this ...” she begins. She never paid attention any more to what she wore, but she is conscious of it now. She is in a dress, but it is black and severe, like McGonagall had always worn. She has no jewelry, no make-up, and her hair is in a ponytail.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You look beautiful.”
The embarrassment of not fitting in fades once the waiter sets a tremendous plate of cheese potato casserole in front of her, dusted heavily with chives.
Hermione eats quickly, which leaves her some time to study Neville across the table.
There was something about the combination of ‘strong’ and ‘gentle’ that had always brought a little pang to Hermione’s heart whenever she looked at Neville, even when they were at Hogwarts.
She watches him butter the bread, as deft with a knife as she is, but for different reasons.
It’s not a date. He’s just an old friend, she’s known him since they were eleven. He’s a confirmed bachelor, and she is a confirmed.... something. Loner. Cynic. She doesn’t know when she started to hate humanity at large, probably five years into the job.
“So how is... um...” she breaks off, tries again. “Do you still have Trevor?” she finishes tactfully.
Neville smiles. “He’s fine. I have to stupefy his flies for him now, but he still gets around.”
“Goodness, he must be....” Her tired mind tries to do the math.
“Really old,” Neville chuckles. “But his kind live a long time. What about Crookshanks?”
“He’s old, too.” Mention of her cat makes her blurt something out on impulse that she’d never intended to reveal.
“I have seventeen cats,” she tells him, defiantly. Be pleasant about that, she thinks, chin tilted up.
“I see,” he replies. “Well, cats are nice. Seventeen is rather a lot, but....”
“I find one in every miserable dark alley I end up in,” she explains angrily. “Muggle cities, especially, people leave them out like trash.” Some of her indignation vaporizes and wisps away at Neville’s understanding expression. “I’m the laughing stock of the office,” she admits, trying to laugh, trying to make the confession go away.
“I doubt that,” he says. His eyes move to where she’s twisting her napkin on her plate. “Shall we get some dessert?”
Hermione nods, reaches for the little menu leaning against the wall. Strawberries, she wants something with strawberries in it, to make it taste like summer again.
~~~
Continue…
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: Crossroads
Characters: Hermione, Neville
Prompt: Dragon Tears (Chapter 2)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 824
Summary: After twelve years of Auror work, Hermione finds herself at a crossroads.
Author's Notes: This story is in numerical order, to read in sequence, see Prompt Table
Dragon Tears
Hermione generally avoids St. Mungo’s like a plague house. She slips in the back door a few minutes before this particular wing is due to close, and makes her request ... her demand, really... at the counter. Healer Longbottom and no one else. Period. End of discussion.
She finds a grim amusement in the fact she’s unsettling the new girl on the floor. Hermione can hear her in nervous conference with Salamandra Pepperton.
“There’s a strange woman out there waiting to see the Healer,” the girl is whispering to her supervisor.
“That ‘strange woman’ is Auror Granger,” Pepperton says sharply. Then, with a sigh in her voice, asks, “Heavens, will that woman never learn to duck?”
A few moments later, there is another worried buzz. “I can’t find her file!”
“She doesn’t have a file.”
Hermione is paranoid. She knows she makes Moody look like a wide-eyed lamb. She doesn’t allow files, and that is her prerogative in her line of work. She knows it distresses Neville not to have notes, and she suspects he keeps some somewhere, but as long as her name isn’t on them and they aren’t stored here, she doesn’t care.
“When did this happen?” is the first thing he asks when he sees her hand.
Hermione tries to think. Four hours ago? Yesterday? Monday? She mumbles something suitably vague and watches him uncork a vial labeled “Dragon Tears”. The liquid smokes and foams when it drips onto the wound, but it doesn’t hurt. Quite the opposite, it settles in like a balm, and the ugly green glow dissipates, and the pain subsides.
“How do they get dragons to cry?” she asks.
“Hmm. Well, I think it’s just eye duct secretions, not tears, per se.”
“But how do they collect it, I wonder.”
“I suppose that’s what people like Charlie Weasley are for.”
The name Weasley makes her flinch, but thankfully, not visibly. She’s too well trained for that.
“There’s that, then,” he says, tucking in the end of a gauze bandage. “Shall we go and get something to eat?”
It seems like such a natural request, and quite sensible, it is nearly six o’clock and she is hungry. She nods.
Ten minutes later, she is hesitating on the sidewalk in front of a small, but nice-looking restaurant. She’d been thinking more along the lines of a basket of fish and chips, preferably from a vendor, outdoors, with a clear view in all directions.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for this ...” she begins. She never paid attention any more to what she wore, but she is conscious of it now. She is in a dress, but it is black and severe, like McGonagall had always worn. She has no jewelry, no make-up, and her hair is in a ponytail.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You look beautiful.”
The embarrassment of not fitting in fades once the waiter sets a tremendous plate of cheese potato casserole in front of her, dusted heavily with chives.
Hermione eats quickly, which leaves her some time to study Neville across the table.
There was something about the combination of ‘strong’ and ‘gentle’ that had always brought a little pang to Hermione’s heart whenever she looked at Neville, even when they were at Hogwarts.
She watches him butter the bread, as deft with a knife as she is, but for different reasons.
It’s not a date. He’s just an old friend, she’s known him since they were eleven. He’s a confirmed bachelor, and she is a confirmed.... something. Loner. Cynic. She doesn’t know when she started to hate humanity at large, probably five years into the job.
“So how is... um...” she breaks off, tries again. “Do you still have Trevor?” she finishes tactfully.
Neville smiles. “He’s fine. I have to stupefy his flies for him now, but he still gets around.”
“Goodness, he must be....” Her tired mind tries to do the math.
“Really old,” Neville chuckles. “But his kind live a long time. What about Crookshanks?”
“He’s old, too.” Mention of her cat makes her blurt something out on impulse that she’d never intended to reveal.
“I have seventeen cats,” she tells him, defiantly. Be pleasant about that, she thinks, chin tilted up.
“I see,” he replies. “Well, cats are nice. Seventeen is rather a lot, but....”
“I find one in every miserable dark alley I end up in,” she explains angrily. “Muggle cities, especially, people leave them out like trash.” Some of her indignation vaporizes and wisps away at Neville’s understanding expression. “I’m the laughing stock of the office,” she admits, trying to laugh, trying to make the confession go away.
“I doubt that,” he says. His eyes move to where she’s twisting her napkin on her plate. “Shall we get some dessert?”
Hermione nods, reaches for the little menu leaning against the wall. Strawberries, she wants something with strawberries in it, to make it taste like summer again.
~~~
Continue…