Infirmary Inquietude
Monday, July 11, 1994
Hermione drifted into conciousness, to her chest pinned with a heavy weight, vibrating to the sound of deep, rumbling purrs. She felt Crooks shift and stretch, lightly raking her stomach with claws, and her eyes flew open. “Crooks,” she scolded, trying to push herself upright, and finding herself too weak to push off the cat. The bed was hard, and the room was too bright. Had she overslept?
“Miss Granger,” a voice drawled from near by. “I see that you are finally awake. I cannot express how unsurprised I am to find you in an infirmary, less than a fortnight after arriving in Bulgaria, despite my instructions that you avoid trouble. Are you performing a comparative review of the facilities with those at Hogwarts? I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will be anxiously awaiting your expert opinion when you return to Hogwarts.”
With a gasp, Hermione tried to sit up right, dislodging her cat with a wave of adrenaline, but froze as a wave of pain hit her, and strong hands pressed her back down. “Professor Snape!”
“Stay lying down, you stupid child!” he snapped. “Do you wish to ruin all of Healer Zheleva’s hard work?”
“What happened?” She asked, turning her head with some difficulty and seeing her potions professor sitting on a hard chair next to her infirmary bed. Her mind flew – why was he here? Where was she? Oh. Viktor. Flying. Stupid broomstick.
“I understand that you took it into your head to attempt to fly a broomstick yesterday afternoon. One would have thought you’d learned the limits of your abilities from your regrettable first year, but, alas, Gryffindors were never known for their self-preservation.”
“Sir - The broom – it was jinxed – like Harry’s -”
“Did the werewolf fail to educate you on the difference between a curse and a jinx? One would think you’d have learned at least that by the time you finished your third year,” he mocked. “The broomstick was cursed, a passive enchantment, as jinxes are by definition, only active enchantments.”
“Ioana! You’re awake!” Tsveta called from the door in Bulgarian, rushing in. “Severus, leave off it,” she scolded in English, glaring at the man with more bravery than Hermione had ever possessed. With a disgruntled snort, he leaned backwards in his chair.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Stiff,” Hermione said. “And sore.” She realized she’d said it in English, and quickly repeated herself in Bulgarian.
“Hardly surpising, considering you fractured nine ribs, two vertebrae in the thoracic spine, your pelvis, your skull, one ulna, one femur, three metatarsals -” Professor Snape ranted.
Hermione gasped, then choked as another wave of pain hit.
“Severus, are you the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team Healer?” Tsveta asked tartly in German. “If not, be quiet!”
The door slammed open, banging against the wall.
“She’s awake? Is she alright? Are you alright?” Viktor demanded in Bulgarian.
“I am attempting to determine that, which would be easier if men would stop interrupting me,” Tsveta snapped in Bulgarian. “Viktor, Severus! Makhaĭ se! !”
“I am, in the regrettable absence of Professor McGonagall, Miss Granger’s magical guardian-” Snape protested in German.
“And I am the healer employed by her employer, for her care. You may return, after I have examined her again, with her permission.”
With a melodramatic swirl of dark robes, Professor Snape left the room, trailed by an anxious looking Viktor, who shot glances back at Hermione.
Hermione attempted to give him a little wave, but winced and thought better of it, giving him a little smile as he left. Crookshanks had settled in a window, basking in the sun as if he’d intended to be there all along.
Tsveta waved her wand, and the door slammed shut again.
“There,” she said with satisfaction, in Bulgarian. “Both of them have been driving me absolutely wild. Men! How are you feeling, mila?” she asked. Hermione’s brain took a moment to translate the endearment to English – “dear”.
“Sore, and stiff,” Hermione said. “What happened?”
“The broom was cursed. It flung you into the wall of the stadium, repeatedly, then, when Viktor froze it, it plummeted and accellerated into to the ground. Viktor wasn’t able to catch you, and only barely cast a cushioning charm before you hit the ground, but cast a medical stasis charm on you, and called for me, which is what saved your life. You were very lucky – or unlucky. Now – hold still while I check a few things.”
Iskra bustled around, muttering spells to herself, wand dancing as she cast in complex patterns over Hermione.
“It looks like you are healing quite well already. The benefits of a young body, I suppose. I’d like you to remain in bed in the infirmary until tomorrow, and after that you can start to be up and about more. I know Radka will insist you come to Viktor’s birthday party tomorrow night, and it’s a good opportunity for you, but I’ll warn you to be careful, and only stay for a few hours. Maybe two or three dances, certainly nothing more, but only if you rest up tomorrow, too. I’m sure Iskra will be happy to have an excuse to escape early, she hates large parties.” Tsveta conjured a glass, and filled it with water. “Keep hydrated too – no heavy food, lots of water, no alcohol, yes, even at the party. Drink this,” she ordered handing the glass to Hermione who sipped it obediently. “I wouldn’t clear you to play professional quidditch for a few weeks yet, bone injuries need time to really solifify their healing, but you should be able to go back to work on Wednesday, if you are cautious tomorrow night. Of course, you’ll need to recast all your woman’s spells, when you feel a bit better. I had to strip all the enchantments off you for the healing. Luckily the Bulgarian language spell Iskra cast seems to have mostly set, you don’t appear to be struggling there, and I’ll give you back your pendant before I discharge you... But take it easy magically, your magic is working to help shore up my healing, too.”
“Women’s spells?” Hermione asked blankly.
“You know – the monthly ones. The menstration easers, contraceptive spell, hair growth inhibitors for your legs, whatever spells you use on your hair. Whatever your new moon routine is.”
“I don’t – I’ve never – People DO that?”
Tsveta chuckled. “Surely your mother taught you, or your aunt – no, you’re Muggleborn, I’d forgotten. I’ll teach you the basics tonight. I can’t believe Hogwarts hasn’t at least taught you the contraceptives and menstrual spells?”
Hermione shook her head, blushing furiously. “No. Muggles have contraceptives, and my mother’s offered to take me to the doctor on summer break, but it’s not practical for me to get a prescription, what with being away at school all year, and it’s not like I need them yet,” Hermione babbled. “my mother sent me with napkins and tampons in my school trunk of course, but I only started needing them last year -”
“I think I will be sending a letter to Poppy Pomfrey,” Tsveta said, tsking disapprovingly. “Muggle products! Imagine! I read about them in school, of course, as an option for fertility curses, where the normal solutions don’t work. Barbaric, aren’t they?” Tsveta said, in tones of fascinated horror. “They just sop up the blood?”
Hermione wished fervently to be anywhere but this conversation, but nodded.
“Hmmpft. Well, witches have better options. We will discuss it later. I’d heard Hogwarts had an issue with fairypox and wandblight in the upper years, and it’s no wonder, if you’re not even getting the basics of reproductive health classes.”
“Fairypox? Wandblight?” Hermione squeaked, then cursed her over-curious tongue as Tsveta waved her wand again. Surely she could just ask Lavender or Pavarti when she got back to Hogwarts? They’d make fun of her, of course, probably tell the whole tower but surely it would be better than asking Tsveta, who she worked with?!
“Accio reproductive health pamphlets.” A stack of pamphlets soared through the air, and landed on Hermione’s lap.
“Sexually transmitted diseases, mila. Read these, and we will discuss later tonight.” Tsveta swept out of the room, closing the door behind her. Crookshanks abandoned his windowsill and hopped back onto Hermione’s bed, settling beside her feet.
Hermione still clutched the pamphlets automatically, and looked down, reading the first title with trepidation. “A Witch’s Guide to the Reproductive System”
Well, knowledge was knowledge, right? And the reliability of the written word certainly beat asking the giggling girls of Gryffindor Tower.
//
The pamphlets were eye-wideningly interesting, in the sort of way that her parent’s old textbooks could be. Having learned far more than she’d ever thought to consider about the various sexually transmitted diseases of the wizarding world (untreated wandblight could cause the penis to rot off! Surely Tsveta hadn’t said that was happening at Hogwarts?!) the affects of certain curses on the reproductive system (there were more than 300 documented curses and hexes known to affect it, ranging in legality), gender change (which was very possible but it really was safest if the spell was best performed by a qualified healer) and a fascinating guide on potions and spells impacting the fertility rates of the wizarding population, Hermione still quickly stuffed her stack of pamphlets under her pillow when the door creaked open again. Eye opening, they may have been, but she certainly wasn’t ready to discuss it with anyone who might be visiting!
She was very glad she’d done so.
“Fuck your mother, you jeopardized everything!” Vasil Daskalov, the team manager, screamed as he slammed the door behind him. “What were you thinking? I ought to suspend you from the team – you could have injured our Seeker and cost us the fucking Cup! I ought to have the aurors drag you to the Ministry on charges of sabotage! What were you even fucking doing there on a Sunday?! I’ll have you deported by fucking tomorrow!”
Crookshanks leapt from his spot in the window and ran, arched back and hissing, between him and Hermione. Daskalov was wise enough to not come any closer.
“Vasil Stoyanov Daskalov, you will not!” Iskra said as she banged into the room after him. “What are you doing, barging into the infirmary like this!”
Daskalov wheeled on her. “You! Your assistant and your irresponsible nephew almost ruined Bulgaria’s hopes for the Cup before we even left for England! She’ll be on the next fucking portkey home if I have to tie her to it myself!”
“You will NOT! You have jurisdiction over the team, but not over me or my employee,” Iskra snapped.
“Then I’ll fire you, too,” Daskalov spat.
“I wish you luck with that – I report to the Ministry and the council, not some old retired Quidditch player.”
Daskalov pulled his wand out, levelling it at her, and Crookshanks growled deeply.
“Be very careful where you aim that wand,” Iskra warned softly, her own wand in her hand so fast Hermione hadn’t even seen her move.
The door slammed open again and Tsveta, Snape, and Viktor charged in, wands in hand. Hermione wished desperately for her own wand, but couldn’t spot it anywhere. “Accio wand?” she muttered hopefully – Professor Lupin had mentioned once that it was possible to summon your own wand wandlessly – but whether she lacked experience with the new spell, or power wandless casting, or if her wand just wasn’t there, it failed to appear.
“What are you doing, Gospardin Daskalov, yelling in my infirmary!?” Tsveta demanded. “Out!”
“Oh I’ll get out, Healer Zheleva,“ Daskalov snarled, “and I’ll be taking this one with me, fuck your mother. Send her back to fucking Britain before she can try to kill any of my other players. Or do you not care about your reckless cousin? That bitch could have killed him!”
“Killed me?” Viktor snarled back. “I wasn’t the one on a cursed broom! Ioana’s the one in the infirmary! Fuck your mother, kick me off the team, I’m the one who chose than broom for her- if you’re going to blame anyone, blame me! How did it even fucking get there, past the wards?”,
The door slammed open again, vibrating against the wall, as the team captain, Kosta Vulchanov, stomped in.
“Gospardin Daskalov! Enough! Why are you disturbing the rest of an injured team member?”
“Team member? Fucking team member?” Daskalov scoffed. “She’s not a player. You may be responsible for the players, but you’re not responsible for the other employees, Captain Vulchanov. This is none of your business- shut your mouth and get fucked by a horse!”
“It was my broom, it’s my business. Get out!” Vulchanov snarled.
“Gospardin Daskalov- that is enough!” Tsveta said. “This is the infirmary. Get out, and stay out until you can be professional.”
“I’m the team manager – and I’ll leave when I’m through! The British witch must have tampered with the wards, to have let the broom be cursed!”
“With the way the wards are designed,” Hermione said softly, more slowly than usual. Oh, her body ached, and it wasn’t doing her brain any good... “There’s no way a cursed broom got past them, and we swept the stadium for curses after the wards went up. So, if it wasn’t cursed then... someone with access here must have done it.”
“I agree,” Iskra said, frustration clear in her voice. “As I’ve told the team manager already, numerous times. Look into who accessed that broom closet alone.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you,” Daskalov sneered. “Your wards are infallible, and my team – who have the opportunity of a lifetime – are trying to sabotage our chances. Very convenient. I’d call the aurors to get rid of you both - but we can’t risk having this come out in the press – after all the rumours flying about fucking Krumov and his idiotic stunt the other day, the team can’t afford to have another mishap associated with him.”
Snape interrupted, snapping in irate German, “What, precisely is the matter?”
“He’s blaming Ioana for the broom being cursed,” Viktor replied furiously, also in German.
“Who else had the motive, or the opportunity? I should have known not to let a British girl on the team!” Daskalov scoffed in German. “You’ll be taking her back to England with you!”
Snape snorted. “I assure you, precocious as the girl might be, no 3rd year Hogwarts student, no matter how bright, is casting curses on well warded broomsticks. Our own Quidditch games would be far more exciting, if it was possible. And even she is not foolish enough to have cursed her own broomstick. Can your team not even secure their own broom closet? Perhaps I should return her to England for her own safety, if Bulgaria’s unable to vet their own team’s loyalties – I’m sure Professor McGonnagall would insist I do so.”
“Severus Snape – no, you will not be stealing my assistant from me right before the World Cup begins!” Iskra said.
“On your head then! If anything else happens I’ll be sure to report to the Wizarding Council just who was responsible for the decision to keep her on!” Daskalov yelled, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at each other.
“I’m so sorry, Captain Vulahnov, for wrecking your broom,” Hermione apologized in Bulgarian. “It was completely unacceptable of me to borrow it without your permission, and I apologize for ruining it. I’d be happy to pay for the replacement.”
“I’ve said before – call me Kosta. The team, we’re family. And no, you certainly will not pay to replace it – I’m far too grateful to you to worry about the cost of a broomstick,” he said. “Viktor knows I’m always happy to lend my spare broom out. It was my daughter’s birthday last week, and of course, I missed most of it due to practice. We had a little family gathering yesterday, to celebrate. I’d promised I’d bring her to the stadium last night to practice, to have individual time before we leave for the World Cup. If Raya’d been on that broom- She always flies so high, and loves to dive so fast I worry she’ll lose control. Her father’s daughter,” he said with a slight laugh, before sobering again. “She would have been much higher in the air before the curse struck, I doubt I’d have noticed something was wrong in time and with the added time for the curse to accelerate before hitting the wall...” He closed his eyes.
Hermione hadn’t really met Raya, just seen her at the beach the other day, but the thought of the little girl, not even Hogwarts age yet, crashing into the stadium wall, made her choke in a wave of horror. “So thank you - inadvertent or not, you likely saved my daughter’s life. I owe you a debt I can never repay, and I’m just grateful that your survived a curse meant for me or my daughter.”
“You owe me nothing,” Hermione said. “I’m very glad it was not your daughter, and I’m so sorry we didn’t think to put some sort of ward up to prevent this.”
“I owe you a life debt, little witch, on behalf of my daughter,” Kosta corrected. “Don’t insult my honour by denying it. In fact, I was only in this wing of the stadium to bring you this, as a marker of my debt.” He held out his hand, and on it was a little silver coin, carved deeply with runes. He dropped it in her hand, pressed her hand closed around it, then whirled towards the door.
“I’ll send a message in to the Ministry,” he called over his shoulder. “And I will make sure Daskalov is not doing something foolish we’ll all regret. Heal well, Ioana.”
With that, he strode out the door, closing it softly behind him.
Hermione glanced down at the little coin in her hand. “What is this?” she asked, in German, for Professor Snape’s sake. She’d watched his growing irritation with being excluded from the Bulgarian conversation and seen how his eyes had stopped on the coin.
“It’s a kaitsa-coin,” Tsveta said. “They’re charmed for protection. May I see it?”
Hermione handed it over.
“Ooh, yes – this one’s new, and heavily charmed! Some are more for decor than others, but Kosta certainly didn’t skimp when he made this one! Very appropriate for a life debt, but the Vulchanovs have always been a very traditional family.”
“But what is it?”
“They’re traditional magic. Traditional in Bulgaria, of course, but many of the other countries nearby, have a version,” Iskra explained. “They’re charmed for protection, and can have some very nasty spellwork attached. They might be given as gifts from father to daughter, or by a man, courting a woman, or like in this case, between families, in gratitude. We all have them, well, all Bulgarian witches from older families. Each family has their own spells they use in them, but they’re handed down.” She fished a necklace from her neck, on which hung three charms, two silver, and one black. “See- these are the most precious of mine. This one was made by my father, just before he was killed by Grindelwald, and it saved my life. And this one, was made by my husband. And this one by my brother.” She carefully tucked the little charms away. “Now, we mostly use them for ceremony and events – like jewellery, and it’s a bit of a status thing, to have many of them, and stitch them all to your formal clothing. But originally, they were meant as protection for witches in times of war. They’ll absorb and shield you from a curse or two, then blacken when their power is used up. Now, of course, they’re often courting gifts, to prove a wizard is strong enough to provide for a witch, but they’re still given out as symbols of gratitude or apology, too.”
“Do witches make them for wizards, too?” Hermione asked.
“No, never!” Viktor said. “It would be admitting you need a witch to protect you.”
“That’s horridly chauvinistic!” Hermione objected. She always tried to be tactful and respectful of other people’s beliefs, but really!
Iskra smiled. “Yes, well, wizards can be stupid like that. It’s meant to be sweet – how else is a man to prove he can protect and provide for his wife, without him proving his competence? No self respecting, intelligent witch would accept a man who can’t make a decent showing, charming a kaitsa-coin! My husband, may he live forever in the peace of the afterlife, gave me a coin every week, each more magically complex than the last, for the entirety of our courtship. It was horribly romantic – and he wrote a wonderful article about advancements in object based warding in Le Journal des Avancées de la Théorie Magique out of it, and he listed me in the acknowledgements as his inspiration.” Iskra sighed dreamily, a faint smile on her face. “Of course, I didn’t need them – the Krumov’s have always been wealthy, and I inherited a fair number of my own kaitsa coins in my dowry, and I’m more than proficient magically. But, it’s very flattering, when a wizard thinks highly enough of you to make one for you.”
“Trust your family to make potential partners engage in foolish wandwaving to prove their worth, Tsveta,” Professor Snape muttered, and Tsveta laughed.
“Better get working on it,” Iskra said tartly. “I expect my niece to be equally discerning.”
Wait – Professor Snape – and Tsveta?!
Hermione exchanged a wide eyed glance with Viktor who scowled and rolled his eyes.
“Well, I imagine that little charm won’t last long with the way this one insists on finding trouble-” Snape said. “Tell me, would one of those little charms protect against a basilisk?”
“I doubt it,” Iskra said, “but you’re unlikely to find a basilisk these days.”
“And yet, she did.”
“A basilisk? Where, you can’t mean at Hogwarts?”
“Oh, but she did,” Professor Snape said gleefully, “between encountering a basilisk in the halls, and that incident with incorrectly brewing Polyjuice, your little assistant spent almost half of her second year in the infirmary.”
“It was perfectly well brewed and you know it!” Hermione fumed, reverting to English in her fury. “I just chose the wrong hair to use – Harry and Ron were perfectly fine -” she shut her mouth abruptly.
“Ha! I knew you’d taken too many ingredients for it to be just you!” Snape crowed, also in English. “And there wasn’t enough left in the cauldron either! I knew Potter had something to do with it!”
“Excuse me, Severus,” Tsveta interrupted again, in German. “Did you say that she brewed polyjuice, in her second year?!”
“Yes, the world’s most competently incompetent criminal, and quite the trouble maker. She stole supplies from my store room, and brewed it – yes, correctly, and yes, I’m sure it was her, her friends barely know one side of a cauldron from the other- only to choose the wrong hair and end up half-cat for a month. It’s no wonder she wasn’t sorted into my house – no self preservation at all.”
Tsveta’s hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle a laugh, but Iskra and Viktor didn’t even try. “A cat?!”
Hermione looked anywhere but at Viktor and wished desperately to be anywhere but here, in this room, unable to move from her bed. Why even were there this many people in her sick room, anwyay? Shouldn’t she be allowed to rest? In peace? Were professors really allowed to gossip about their students like this?
“What’s worse – is even when she doesn’t get caught, she sends an apology note,” he said gleefully. “Let’s see – I received one the summer after first year, for having lit my robes on fire, with a gift certificate for Madam Malkins for a replacement, because she said she didn’t know my size. After second year – for stealing polyjuice supplies, and a thank you for brewing two potions to cure her, a list of what she stole, it’s market value, and the galleons needed to cover it. After third year – an apology for going outside on the full moon with a werewolf, forcing me to come to her rescue., and a box of homemade fudge. What shall it be next year, I dare not wonder?”
Viktor’s mouth dropped open. “You lit your professor on fire?!” he demanded, in tones of incredulous respect. “In first year?”
“I thought he was cursing my friend’s broom!” Hermione protested.
“So you didn’t think to find another teacher? You just lit his robes on fire? That was your first thought?”
“Well, yes, it was my first thought – I had a new spell I’d made that I’d been practicing - ” Hermione cut herself off, knowing she wasn’t helping matters
“Mila,” Iskra said, “You and I will have a talk about that school of yours later. I still have connections at Durmstrang, and your German is decent enough.”
“And speaking of languages, how is it that you now speak Bulgarian so well?” Snape demanded, looking, in Hermione’s opinion, even more peevish than usual.
“A new language transfer spell I’ve been working on,” Iskra said. “Quite fascinating really – using a combination of traditional Bulgarian magecraft, Vulchanova’s theory of mental magic and a few Japanese principles I picked up at a conference. So far it’s worked very well.”
“See! This is exactly what I mean about her always finding trouble – not even a week, and she’s agreed to allow her mind to be laced with questionable and experimental mental magic! I shudder to think what McGonagall will say when I report this back to her.”
“Is the man ever happy?” Viktor muttered in Hermione’s ear, in Bulgarian. She couldn’t hold back a giggle, but stifled it quickly when Snape glared. “Only when he’s insulting people, I think, and even then, it’s hard to tell,” she whispered back in the same language.
“As enlightening as this has been about the quality of the education provided by Hogwarts, I think we must depart and leave Ioana to rest. Severus, since you insist on hanging around, you can do something useful,” Iskra ordered. “You’ve got at mastery in dark arts, to go with the potions mastery, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Then make yourself useful, and see what you can find on this.” She pulled a box from her pocket. “I stole a few shards of the broken broom. You can teach Ioana how to detect and track curses.”
“Surely I have better things to do than teach an insufferable young witch about curses,” he grumbled.
“But I see your not denying she can do it – now, either go be useful, or go back to England, and stop distracting my niece.”
“I’ll do it, but only since Minerva would have my hide if anything else happened to one of her precious cubs, and apparently the Bulgarian team is too obsessed with image to bother to do a proper investigation,” he said, sneering again. “Hand it over.”
“I’ve been thinking - what even was the point of cursing that broom?” Viktor asked. “No one could have known I was going to bring Ioana with me – it obviously wasn’t aimed at her.”
“And no reasonable person would have believed she’d be on a broom,” Snape muttered.
“So who was targetting the captain? And wouldn’t it have made more sense to target his regular broom, not his spare that he doesn’t have time to use?”
“No, because he uses it every day – far harder to pinpoint when the spare was cursed,” Hermione said.
“But if it had missed – everyone knows the captain lets Raya use that broom!” Viktor objected.
“Perhaps that was the point,” Snape said softly. “Perhaps she really was the target.”
Iskra frowned deeply. “Upset the captain enough to throw him off his game, but with the teams set months ago, we couldn’t replace him on the team without an injury.”
“Horrible, but not unbelievable,” Tsveta agreed.
“Whatever the motive – I suggest we do not trust anyone outside this room,” Iskra said.