The book
It was like Professor Black had a sixth sense for Hermione. She was always the one to find Hermione when she was hiding away. She could tell when Hermione needed a piece of advice and when she just needed someone to listen. She could even tell when Hermione needed a hug—as Hermione was fairly opposed to hugs on most days from most people, she always found it odd how comforted she felt by the Professor. One time, in her third year, after a scrape in the hallway with a few of the younger Gryffindor—namely Ron Weasley—who would not leave her alone, Professor Black found her cowering in a corner staring off into space. The professor sat with Hermione, keeping her distance as the girl processed the feeling of being roughly grabbed around by the boy. After some time, Professor Black brought her back to her office and gave Hermione a selection of French pastries and a cup of warm cocoa. No matter how much Hermione enjoyed pumpkin juice, tea, and the occasional butterbeer, cocoa had always been something of a comfort and somehow Professor Black just knew.
Now, sitting on the plush chair with a cup of warm cocoa in her hands, Hermione took in the elegant silver and green of the Professor’s office. She knew Professor Black was a Slytherin through and through. Her sisters and her all were—though she rarely spoke of them. Despite the royal colors, the office was warm and comfortable. Thick woods made up the desks and bookshelves. Two elegant chairs faced the desk and a small plush couch resided in the corner across from the Professor’s small minibar. The bookshelves were filled with tomes on potions mastery, herbology, and charms—all courses the Professor had taught at Hogwarts. Everything was perfectly neat and well organized, something she had come to know as a critical habit of the older witch—everything was neat and proper. In a frame above her desk, a lone feather, pure black but for a streak of white at the tip. Hermione’s eyes had always been drawn to the feather—something about it intrigued her but she had never had the confidence to ask about it. It seemed so out of place in such an elegant and royal office, but yet, the office would not be the same without it.
Hermione was drawn from her musings by the gentle clearing of a throat. Gazing at the blue-grey eyes of her professor, she was not surprised to see a gentle smirk pulling at the woman’s lips.
“So you ran, again.” She said, disrupting the silence.
Hermione could only nod, looking down to the swirling depths of her cocoa.
The confrontation in the great hall had only been a few hours ago. The Beauxbatons students had just introduced themselves—Hermione barely hearing their words as she gazed at them in awe. They had been so stunning and so achingly familiar. The first girl, Fleur. Hermione couldn’t stop thinking about her. The depths swirling in her golden eyes. The gentle smile that graced her face, Hermione would do anything to put a smile on that face just to witness that joy again. The spark that exploded across her body and travelling straight down her spine as their hands met. The smirk that replaced that smile and looked so incredibly sexy on the woman. The way her blue robes hung to her gentle curves. The softness of her skin. The musical tone of her voice.
Hermione, the girl who never developed crushes. The girl who was accepted to Hogwarts two years too early because of her home life (Hermione learned, from Professor Black in her fourth year, that Dumbledore saw it fit to bring her to Hogwarts early given her immense bursts of uncontrolled magic and her highly unstable living situation—Hermione had once unintentionally spelled all of the cleaning and cooking supplies to the roof when she was six and in a rage. Hermione had taken to the change well, quickly proving herself amongst her older peers and quickly surpassing them). Hermione found herself inexplicably excited and fascinated with the girl. Which, given her usually shy nature, immediately scared her.
And then there was the other girl. Isabelle Dubois. Meeting her eyes, Hermione felt an instant familiarity, something she could not explain. If meeting Fleur was fire, meeting Isabelle was water. Looking into her golden eyes, Hermione could clearly see, buried behind the warm welcome, a deep and dark sadness swirling inside, the type of emotion Hermione wouldn’t wish upon her worst enemy. The girl must have suffered a terrible loss. She was beautiful. Her bronze hair filtered down to her shoulders, carefully framing her delicate face. She seemed so kind and yet so haunted. While Hermione could not shake Fleur from her mind, Isabelle had caused her heart to ache and that ache had not left her since their meeting. It was as if something inside of her was desperately reaching out, begging her to fix whatever was wrong with the other girl.
If her observations weren’t enough, that tingling sensation had wrapped around her in a vice grip. It had been less comfortable and patient than each time she had felt it earlier. It was like claws, gripping into her, wrapping around her, searching for something, not unkindly, but desperately. And it was that sensation, when she felt it, that made Hermione run. She stood up from the table after Isabelle introduced herself, looked at the hand offered, and ran, leaving her half eaten bread and jam behind alongside three bewildered Beauxbatons students and two softly smiling goddesses.
Shaking her head to return to the moment, Hermione was met by Professor Black’s gentle eyes.
“Sorry,” Hermione said, “I was lost in my thoughts.”
“Oh I could tell dear,” Professor Black responded with a small upturn of her lips. “You seem to be doing that more often, getting lost in your thoughts.”
A gentle blush rose to Hermione’s face as she pulled her cocoa to her lips.
“Okay Miss Granger,” Professor Black said drawing herself upright, “While I would love to sit here interrogating you further about that blush of yours, I did ask you to my office tonight for a reason.”
Hermione nodded at her to continue, still too embarrassed to speak.
“What do you know of magical creatures?” Professor Black asked.
“Not too much Professor,” Hermione replied, “Only what we’ve learned in class and what I can find in the books in the library. But, even with access to the restricted section, it seems some creatures have no written history at all, at least no accessible history.”
“What do you know of the Veela?” She asked.
Hermione tilted her head to the side in contemplation. She had heard the name before but not much else. There was certainly nothing written about them in the Hogwarts library (and she had looked, spending the majority of her breaks at the school had provided much time for free reading. The holiday at the end of her second year was spent studying magical creatures and, despite an occasional mention, Hermione had not seen much on the Veela).
As if reading her mind, Professor Black gently smiled and stood, moving towards her shelves. She pushed a few books aside and gently pulled one out into her hands. Gazing at its cover fondly, she took a moment before turning around and returning to Hermione’s side. Sitting next to her, Professor Black smiled softly and gently placed the book in Hermione’s hands.
“This was given to me,” she said, “by a very dear friend. I suggest you read it carefully and in private. It would be best that this knowledge is not dispersed to those who do not need it. Veela are a very private and secretive.”
Looking down at the tome in her hands, on inflex Hermione brushed a finger over the title: The Hidden History of the Veela: Culture, tradition, magic, and the five noble families.
“Are you sure?” Hermione asked, gazing upon the much loved and obviously well cared for book, “Why should I be the one to read it? I don’t want to overstep, especially if this is so well protected.”
Professor Black gently moved her fingers beneath Hermione’s chin and tilted it forward to meet her eyes. The pools of silver-blue were filled with unshed tears. “You, my dear,” she said to Hermione, “have the most right out of anyone here to read the story of the Veela.”
She didn’t continue and Hermione was too shy to ask her why so she nodded in barely understood acceptance and gently placed the book by her side. She could feel the magic in it, calling to her, and she knew she would read it at her first available opportunity.
Professor Black’s hand gently moved to cradle her cheek as she continued to gaze at Hermione, one tear spilling over and carving a gentle path down her cheek. She pulled Hermione into a tight hug. While she had done this before on occasion, this one seemed different. She held Hermione tightly, almost too tightly but not quite. She held onto Hermione as if she never wanted to let her go as if she had found something deeply cherished that had been lost. Hermione fell into the hug, accepting the love her favorite professor offered her. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon and warm books with just a hint of old potion, clinging to her robes. Professor Black had always had a way of calming Hermione and this was no different. She wished she could express her gratitude to her Professor but didn’t have the words.
“I know my dear.” Was gently whispered into her hair, “I know and I am so grateful for you.”
Hermione could have imagined it but knew she didn’t. She often wondered how her professor always seemed to just know. But, as the professor’s warmth wrapped around her gently, almost tentatively, like a soft sheet slipping beneath her walls to gently protect her magical core, Hermione let herself let her questions go.
There would be plenty of time for questions tomorrow. She just had to try her best not to run.