Junior Healer Fleur Weasley was walking quickly down the hallway of Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It was her third day, and she was already late. She moved as quickly as she could, dodging patients, medi-witches and healers alike.
She couldn’t believe she was late. She was never late. It was rude and abhorrent, and she blamed her husband. He would be gone for six weeks, and he had insisted on spending as much time with her the night before as he could; and spending a little more time with her this morning before she left as well. She loved her husband, and she loved having sex with her husband, but somethings were simply more important; like sleep, and being on time. So now, not only was she late, she was exhausted .
She finally made it to her boss’s office on the fourth floor. The sign on the door read, Head of Emergency Healing and Spell Trauma, Head of the Janus Thickney Ward, Healer Leo Arcturus Black. Her assignment to him had been a show of confidence from the hospital; he was a war hero and the best healer there — in the world — and had saved as many lives as he’d taken during war if the stories were to be believed—and they were. She knew some of the survivors personally: Remus and Tonks couldn’t speak any higher of him, and he’d saved Fred—Leo Black was practically royalty amongst the Weasleys; even Bill respected the man. Fleur had seen him in action herself at the Battle of Hogwarts. He had earned every bit of his reputation.
At the age of 22 he was the head of two departments, and the de facto second in command of the hospital. If all else failed and a problem couldn’t be solved, you called Healer Black.
Stopping outside the door, she settled her breath and straightened her robes and hair. She was already late, there was no excuse for being late and unpresentable.
She knocked on the door three times before she heard, “enter.”
Opening the door, she stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. He sat behind his desk, staring at her. His gaze nailed her to the wall. His eyes were as bright and golden as they had been the day before, set upon his high cheekbones. His pink lips were set into a firm line, as they usually were. His expression was unreadable, and her stomach turned the slightest bit.
“My apolog-”
“Don’t,” he said, his deep voice cutting across hers. “We cannot afford to be late in this profession, Miss Delacour.” His eyes expressed silently everything he hadn’t said verbally. She wanted to correct him on his use of her maiden name, but found his lack of use of her title as Jr. Healer even more offensive. It was a title she’d earned, and being late a single time didn’t discount that.
He stared at her for a while longer. His stare was intense, and she straightened her spine and returned it. She may have been late, but she was not going to allow him to make her feel lesser for it. She knew she was wrong, there was no need for him to make a fuss of it.
He broke his gaze first, sighing and clasping his hands on the desk. “Why do you want this job?”
The question caught her off guard, and offended her. Did she need any specific reason to want the job? “I told you already, I want to help-”
“No,” he said quietly, examining her in the same way he did a patient he was trying to find a solution for. His golden eyes were so intense they were like two small stars set in his skull. “I don’t care what you told Ingrid. She’d hire a monkey if they had the qualifications.” Fleur sniffed, glaring at him. He was clearly speaking from personal experience. “Why are you really here? I’ve seen your NEWTs, and I know about your prowess with a wand—you could be doing anything you want in the world. Why this?”
Fleur took a deep breath. The question had been in her mind from the moment she applied for the position. And really, the answer was simple. She wanted to do something challenging and meaningful with her life. For much of the year her husband was gone, and working at Gringotts had proven to be stale, and quite frankly, a waste of her talents as a witch. She hadn’t gotten all those NEWTs and put a dragon to sleep so she could crunch numbers behind a desk. The goblins treated her poorly because she was a Veela, and she was through with it. She only ever worked there in pursuit of Bill Weasley; she had him, now there was nothing left for her there.
Here, her first two days alone had proven to be challenging. She’d worked near-endlessly, and by the end of the day, there was nothing on her body that didn’t ache. The man in front of her was a taskmaster and a fount of knowledge he had no business being at his age. He was two years her junior, for Magic’s sake. “I…” she began, but could find nothing. “I don’t know.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. For a moment, she was sure he was simply going to tell her to leave and not come back. She pinched the hem of her robe sleeves to stop the slight tremble in her fingers. She didn’t know why but the prospect of being dismissed—of failing —terrified her. She didn’t need this job, Bill made more than enough money for the both of them. Still, she wanted it. Wanted to prove to herself, and now to her boss, she could do the job. Even now, as a grown woman, failure was what she feared most. She had no choice but to succeed.
He said nothing. He stood from his chair and donned his robe from the back of it. His robe was not the emerald green of her own, and of the other healers, but the rich white of the chiefs, like the clouds in the sky over her childhood home in Bordeaux. It contrasted greatly with his pitch black hair and bright golden eyes. His tall, lean form cut a striking figure. He fastened the robe over his button up shirt and tie, a decidedly muggle outfit. She’d heard of the Black family; his choice of attire was surprising.
“Come along then,” he said. He brushed by her, not bothering to respect her personal space. Fleur turned to follow him and his scent filled her nose, blown into her face by the pace at which he walked. She kept up easily, the sweet, spicy smell lingering in her mind.
“Where are we going?”
“Seeing as you were 15 minutes late today, you will get only a 15 minute lunch.” Fleur grimaced. The 30 minute reprieve the previous days had been a saving grace, and she had squandered half of it with her husband’s un bite in her mouth. She supposed it was worth it, just to see him coming undone, though her already heavy eyes and aching feet begged to differ.
She followed Healer Black down the corridor; he received deferential nods and she ignored the lingering stares. She’d suffered with it her entire life, she was as used to it as she’d ever be. Cochons.
They came to a stop outside of a patient’s room, the door marked with a large C. A clipboard materialized in his hand, and he handed it to her. This was different from yesterday. She hadn’t done anything more than the average mediwitch; changing bandages and watching Healer Black work.
He opened the door to the room, and she followed him inside. She was taken aback by just how sterile the room was, even for a hospital. There was nothing in the room other than the patient, the bed the patient was lying on, and a set of curtains that surrounded the bed. She looked down at the clipboard.
Debra Brand
Age 87
Stage 5 Magical Failure.
Fleur looked away from the page, not even bothering to read anymore. Magical Failure was terminal—this must’ve been a compassion visit. She hummed to herself. Black didn’t seem like the type. She certainly wasn’t.
“Hello, Miss Brand,” Black said, his voice calm and clear.
The old lady in the bed struggled to raise her head up to get a good look at him. “Healer Black,” the woman’s voice was so faint and raspy Fleur could just barely hear her from where she stood. “I didn’t think I’d see your gorgeous face again before I went.”
Black smiled at the old lady, then looked at Fleur, motioning her closer. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said. Fleur’s eyebrows rose. Was this lady someone important to him?
“This is my…apprentice of sorts,” he said, gesturing to her. “Junior Healer Fleur Delacour.”
“Weasley,” she corrected him, stretching a hand out for the lady to shake. She’d been married for three years already, and he had been present at the wedding. His constant use of her maiden name was bordering on disrespectful—as though he had no respect for her marriage.
The old woman’s hand was feeble within her own, the skin waxy and paper thin, her fingers with the slightest tremble.
“My goodness,” the old lady gasped when she laid eyes on her. “I’m sorry sweetie,” she said apologetically to Black, patting his hand shakily. “But this one’s got you beat in the looks department.”
Black chuckled. It was the first time she’d heard any sort of laugh out of the man. He glanced at her before looking back at Debra. “Yes, I suppose that might be true.”
The old lady beckoned him forward, and he leaned down so she could whisper in his ear. From the looks the old lady was shooting her, Fleur could guess she was a topic in the conversation.
“No, no, Miss Debra,” he whispered conspiratorially, glancing at Fleur. “Don’t you see her ring? No, a woman as beautiful as Mrs. Weasley here is sure to have a husband.”
Fleur raised a brow and crossed her arms. Had he brought her here just to tease her? This woman clearly wouldn’t recover, and there was nothing for her to learn, watching him chat with a dying old lady.
The older lady scoffed, no longer even pretending to whisper. “And you’d think a man as handsome as you would have a wife. Besides,what’s a ring going to stop? I’ve had my fun with a fair share of husbands, and I’m not nearly as pretty as you.”
Black shushed the lady and glanced at her again. Fleur didn’t bother hiding her amusement at his incredulous look. It was a surprise the man was single, given that he was wildly handsome, wildly popular, and filthy rich. Fleur was woman enough to admit her boss was handsome, breathtakingly so, even—but that would never cause her to stray from her husband. His golden eyes were somewhat exotic and his features spoke of aristocracy. Still, handsome men had pursued her before, none had been successful — not that her boss had shown even the slightest hint of attraction to her. His gaze did not linger or wander, he did not flirt, he really hardly spoke to her. It was both refreshing and frustrating; she knew she was beyond beautiful, she’d been told so her entire life—but her boss did not even spare her a second glance.
Debra tutted, patting his cheek. “You’re the most eligible bachelor in this country, boy,” she said. “She’d be a damned fool not to at least throw you a bone, unless her husband is Harry bloody Potter.”
Fleur snorted. Harry was a good boy, and a good friend, but she was far too much for him to handle. He desired simple and easy after a life of strife, and Fleur would admit she was everything but. Despite his fame, Harry was small and unassuming—both physically and his presence. It suited him, but it wasn’t something Fleur was looking for in a man. She needed a man that could match her. No, her Bill was just perfect.
Black stood up, pulling away from the woman. “Alright Debbie, that’s enough. How are you feeling?”
She shrugged. “I’m hanging in there.”
Black nodded, before motioning Fleur over. “Well, my Jr. Healer is going to be doing your examination today. Is that alright with you?”
Debbie, as he called her, shrugged. “What’s it matter to me? Doesn’t make much difference.”
Black patted her hand a final time, before he stood up and took the clipboard from her. He nodded toward the woman, and Fleur stepped forward, wand in hand. The woman looked up at her with glassy eyes the color of seaweed. For a dying woman, her eyes were so full of light and a love for life. It was a shame.
She silently cast the diagnostic spell, but before she could even read it the woman began seizing. The light in her eyes was chased away by panic and pain, an expression she’d seen far too much during the war. Her body jerked harshly, her head snapping down onto her pillow over and over. An alarm began blaring overhead, and Fleur whipped her head around to find Black, but the room was empty. Merde. Turning back to Debra, her mind raced. A sweat broke out on her forehead, and her hands began to tremble.
Why had he done this? She wasn’t ready to save a crashing patient, he knew she wasn’t ready. Was this punishment for being late? Leaving her, and the patient, to suffer?
Fleur hadn’t managed to cast a single spell before the woman’s seizing stopped—everything stopped, except for a steady, ear splitting ring that Fleur knew indicated the patient’s heart had stopped.
This—this is something she knew how to handle. Brandishing her wand, she tapped it on the woman’s chest, muttering Parvus Scintilla .
The woman’s chest jolted, but the ringing remained. Come on. Again and again and again and again she cast the spell. The woman’s body jolted over and over in the bed, but her chest did not rise, and the ringing did not stop.
She raised her wand, for what was probably the 15th time, but the spell fizzled out on the tip; a large, warm hand clasped her own, and lowered it down to her side. “Enough.”
She whirled around, less than 6 inches separating them. She looked up at him to glare into his eyes, but they were like molten pools of gold—hot and unyielding.
“Why?” She demanded, snatching her hand away. “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you save her?”
He held her gaze steadily. Her allure was loose, a present force around them that weighed down on their shoulders, a blistering heat settling around the pair. The pressure of it caused a haze to surround them. “There was nothing to be done.”
She glared at him, her blood boiling under his calm demeanor. A woman had just died —a woman he had been friends with, and he stood there, looking at her as if everything were okay, as if he hadn’t just watched her try and fail to bring that woman back to life. She turned away from him, intent on heading for the door, and never returning. Whatever it was she thought she wanted, it wasn’t this.
“Fleur.”
His use of her given name stopped her. She looked back over shoulder. He stood there as calmly as ever, but his eyes were different. They had lost their hardness, their unyielding nature being replaced with a look she couldn’t place. She turned around.
“What?” she said plainly, unconcerned about the presence of her native accent.
He looked at her, his gaze assessing her once more. It was one of the few male gazes to ever examine her so functionally. There was no sort of leer in his gaze. Whatever he was looking for was clearly not physical, as he moved nearer still, to look her more closely in the eye.
His presence invaded her space again; his heady scent filled her nose and the warmth of him, even from the few feet that separated them, felt the as if she were standing in front of a small sun. His magic was a constant buzz against her skin when he stood so close, an intangible static that made her hair stand on end and her flesh to goosebump. It was something she’d felt only once before, when she helped Bill raise the wards around their home—ancient wards that required all of his magic, and some of her’s as well to complete—and even then, it had been for but a split second. How powerful is he? For his magic to be so casually present without his influence spoke of a potency she had never heard of before.
He was close enough now for her to make out the small flecks of purple and green in his golden eyes, like fireworks set off in a sunny sky.
“I don’t know why you’re here,” he said, his quiet voice and solemn stare impressing the gravity of the moment on her. “And now, I don’t care. I’m sure you’re not here to waste my time, and I’m sure you won’t be late again.” His eyes roved her face. “You care. Whether you care about patients dying, or your own failure to save a life, you care.” He looked away from her. “And that’s enough for me.”
He stepped away from her abruptly, breaking the hold his sheer presence had over her. She released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and surreptitiously shook out her limbs, trying to remove the residual feeling of his magic buzzing along her skin. She had to repress the urge to step closer to him; the feel of his magic was intoxicating, like luxuriating in the sun on the beach of Lacanau while enjoying a fine wine.
With but a twitch of his wand, Debra Brand’s sheets rose to cover her face. He looked at the clock and announced the time of death. He bent down and left a kiss on the woman’s head, gently, delicately.
Rising back up, his face was impassive and his eyes were like molten pools of magma. That man that had chatted so casually with the older woman was gone, and back was the man she knew.
“Mediwitch Brown has your assignment. Come to my office after lunch.”
He swept from the room, and she watched him go, glaring daggers into his back. His impromptu lesson had been entirely uncalled for, and did little more than piss her off.
She took a moment to straighten her robes, and put her hair back into place. Rubbing at her eyes, she stifled a yawn before going to find Mediwitch Brown to do whatever inane task he’d set for her.
He was right about one thing, she thought. I’ll never be late again.
Fleur just barely managed to repress a gag as she swallowed the slop the hospital cafeteria tried to pass off as food. The food was horrid, her feet ached horribly, and she was sure she could pass out at any moment.
“Not up to your usual standards?” said a coy voice that she had come to cherish. Their friendship had been an unexpected one, their personalities so different, but it was one she valued greatly.
“Hermione!“ Fleur exclaimed, taking in her sister-in-law. “What are you doing here?” Eyes roaming her heavily pregnant figure, it wasn’t hard to guess.
Given Hermione’s sarcastically raised brow, she agreed. “I have a check up with Leo today.”
Fleur’s brow pinched. “Healer Black is your Obstetric Healer? ”
Hermione looked at her as if the question was silly. “And why wouldn’t he be? He’s the best there is and I trust him with my life and the life of my baby.”
Fleur merely stared. She couldn’t picture the cold man in such a role, but she had seen the way he was with Debra, so perhaps it fit him just fine.
“So how is your Apprenticeship with Leo going?” Hermione said, slowly lowering herself into the seat across from her. She relaxed with a sigh, before sliding the tray of food Fleur had been reluctantly picking at towards her. She didn’t even bother complaining.
“It has been…” she struggled to find an adequate word. “Complex.”
“Complex?” Hermione said after swallowing a mouthful of grey gruel. “I know healing is difficult, but I was sure you’d have no problem with it.”
“Non,” Fleur said. “Not the magic. Him.”
“Leo?”
Fleur nodded.
“How do you mean?”
She told Hermione about Debra Brand, and all that had happened — not even leaving out the part about her being late. By the end of her tale, Hermione was smiling broadly.
“Oh, he must really like you.”
Fleur raised a brow. “Like me?”
“Mhm,” she hummed around another mouthful of flavorless sludge. “Otherwise he would’ve just fired you — and then add on he did the whole Debra routine on only your third day.”
“ Routine? ” she hissed. “It wasn’t real?”
Hermione looked at her amusedly. “Of course not. Surely you don’t think he would stand by and let a patient die just to teach you a lesson?”
Fleur stared back at her, because yes, that is exactly what she thought!
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Fleur, this is the same man who cut out a piece of his own liver to save Tonk’s life right there on the grounds.”
Fleur nodded slowly, casting her mind back to those times — times she tried very hard to forget. She tried to churn up any memory she had of the man — because even then, he’d been a man, albeit a young one. He always had that sort of grim intensity to him, as though the world might crash and burn at any moment — but he’d always been there to heal whoever was hurt, even at the expense of his own safety.
“Come on,” Hermione said with another roll of her eyes, rising from her seat slowly. “As his apprentice, you can tag along for my appointment.”
It was Fleur’s turn to roll her eyes now.
The walk to Hermione’s room was not long, but they filled it with idle chatter.
“How is Bill?”
Fleur smiled bittersweetly, thinking of her husband. “He will be in Mongolia for the next month and a half.” Already, she was missing him, and thinking of him made her think of the empty home she’d be returning to at the end of the day.
Hermione squeezed her hand, smiling at her gently. “I know I shouldn’t, but I rejoice everyday that Ron gave up on his dream to be an Auror. I had enough of him being in danger for one lifetime — Harry too, but trying to talk him out of anything is harder than conjuring gold.”
Fleur nodded. This was a common topic between them, and one that Fleur was growing tired of. She didn’t need any reminders of the peril Bill put himself through, just to sate some childish sense of adventure he had yet to rid himself of. The man was 31 . And while that was young for wizards, it effectively put their life as a family on hold.
When they entered the room, Healer Black was already inside. He raised his eyes to meet them, and a look crossed his face — a look of haunted despair, she was sure — so quickly she might’ve thought she imagined it, if she were inclined to having an overactive imagination, which she was not.
“Leo,” Hermione said softly, her right palm resting gently on the large curve of her stomach. Her eyes were soft as she looked at the man, who studiously avoided her gaze. Fleur looked between them in confusion, her mind working.
“Hello, Miss Granger,” he said, almost automatically, his voice flat.
“Weasley,” Hermione corrected him, her voice tinged with just the slightest bit of sadness, before going and sitting gently on the bed.
The man seemed to physically draw himself up, before approaching the bed. Fleur approached a step behind him, silently as she tried to process everything that wasn’t being said. There was a tension in the air as thick as any she’d ever felt.
The room was quiet for a few moments, besides the occasional quiet hum or odd noise of Black casting a spell.
“You still haven’t come to the Weekly Weasley Brunch,” Hermione said, her brown eyes staring up into Healer Black’s face.
Fleur hadn’t even known the man was invited, though she should’ve expected. Molly liked Leo more than she liked her. She asked Hermione — and would now probably ask Fleur — about him every week.
“And I don’t suppose I will,” he replied, wand still waving.
“Molly asks about you every week, you know,” Hermione told him, her eyes clearly searching for some response.
“And who does she ask?” he said archly. “You?”
Hermione’s eyes flashed, and Fleur could tell her temper was rising.
“How long are you going to do this, Leo? How long are you going to isolate yourself?”
Fleur was watching the interaction with rapt attention. This was more information about her boss than she — or anyone — had ever got in their lives. The man was an enigma to the entire world — with the apparent exception of Hermione. Fleur loved being in on a secret.
His wand waving hitched, hardly noticeable if he wasn’t always perfect. “You of all people don’t get to judge me, Granger. Not you.”
“You have to let it go, Leo! It was five years ago!”
“I’m glad you can so easily forget,” Black muttered.
“I haven’t forgotten, Leo, I’ve just moved on.” Her voice was quiet now, tired, as if she’d said this a thousand times.
Black shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. “You had something to move on to — you always did, from the very beginning. I was just a stop in the road.”
Hermione closed her eyes, and the room was silent. Fleur felt like she was at the theater, watching a live action performance — but the emotions here were very real, and very raw, and she felt like an intruder.
“Come to the brunch, Leo. It’ll be good for you to be around other people — people who care for you.”
He snorted. “Ronald cares for me, does he?”
“You know what I meant.”
“And how will that be good for me, Hermione?” It was the first time he said her name, and it was laced with anger. “How good will it be for me to sit around a table of strangers and watch you with your husband as they shower your soon to be born baby — who is in excellent health by the way — with affection?”
Hermione was silent once more, and her eyes wet. Healer Black put away his wand, and headed for the door.
“Delacour will see you out,” he said. Reaching for the knob, he stopped, and said with his back turned, “I got over the fact that you used me, Hermione. I forgave you.” His voice was cold, colder even than it was with her earlier that morning. “But you made me think it was forever, and then you were gone, just like everyone else. So don’t ask me to sit around and play nice with your muppet of a husband and his family. I am your Healer, nothing more. You gave that up the moment you left.” The door swung open quietly, and he was gone.