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Chapter 19: The Logic of a Child
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 18:32:23 +0000 UTCSister Natasha!
The moment the door to the medical ward hissed open, Hermione launched herself forward. She ran across the sterile, white room and threw herself into the arms of the surprised agent, burying her head affectionately against her chest. It was a perfectly executed performance of a worried child overjoyed to see her friend, but for the soul inside, it was a moment of pure, unadulterated fanboy glee. I'm getting a hug from the Black Widow, a giddy voice screamed in the back of his mind.
A sharp, stabbing pain shot through Natasha's side from the sudden impact. Her face went pale, and her breath hitched, a pained gasp catching in her throat. She managed to bite back a cry, her lips thinning into a tight, strained line. But as she looked down at the small girl nuzzling happily against her, all the pain and irritation she felt could only melt away into a weary, bitter smile.
After a moment of what she deemed a sufficient amount of affectionate rubbing, Hermione pulled back, her expression shifting to one of deep concern. "Where are you hurt, Sister Natasha?" she asked, her big, brown eyes scanning the agent from head to toe. "Let me see!"
Natasha gently shook her head, forcing a reassuring smile. "It's nothing, little sister. The wound is… a bit messy. I wouldn't want to scare you."
Hermione had to actively suppress a snort. Scare me? You may have forgotten that you're talking to the person who killed a dozen men last night without batting an eye. But she understood. To them, she was just a child, a cute, magical little girl who needed to be protected from the harsh realities of their world. It was a perception she had carefully cultivated, and it was working perfectly.
"No, I want to see it!" she insisted, puffing out her cheeks in a perfect imitation of a stubborn child.
"Alright, alright," Natasha sighed, giving in. There was no arguing with that face. With Coulson consciously turning his back to give them privacy, she lifted the thin blanket and slowly, carefully, peeled back the edge of her medical gown.
Beneath the bandages, a vicious, angry scar ran across her abdomen, a deep, jagged line of bruised flesh and black sutures that pulled the pale skin taught. It was a wound that spoke of a brutal, nearly fatal encounter.
"Ah!" Hermione cried out, covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with what looked like pure, horrified shock.
"It's okay," Natasha said, her voice soft and comforting. "Just a minor injury, really." It wasn't entirely a lie. Compared to the star-shaped bullet wound the Winter Soldier had given her years ago—a scar that still ached on cold days—this was manageable.
"How long will it take to heal?" Hermione asked, her voice a small, worried whisper.
Natasha considered for a moment. "With S.H.I.E.L.D.'s advanced medical tech? Two or three months before I'm back to full operational capacity."
"Can't it be faster?"
Natasha couldn't help but chuckle at the childish naivete of the question. "I wish. But that's just how bodies work, little sister. Wounds need time to heal."
"It's okay," Hermione said suddenly, her expression turning from worried to bright and confident. "I have a way!"
Natasha's smile turned patronizing. It was a sweet thought, the kind of thing a child would say. "Oh, you do?" she asked, deciding to play along. "And how are you going to make me heal faster?" Please don't say 'drink more hot water,' she thought.
Hermione pulled out her wand. "First," she said, her tone suddenly all business, "those stitches are in the way. We need to get them out. This might sting a bit."
Natasha's smile vanished. Wait, what? "Hermione, what are you…"
Before she could protest, Hermione waved her wand. "Relashio!"
The sutures on either side of the wound untied themselves as if pulled by invisible fingers. Then, with a slow, steady force, the threads began to pull free from her skin, each movement sending a fresh, sharp spike of pain through her.
"Hiss…" Natasha's cheeks twitched, her jaw clenched as she fought back a scream. This was not the gentle hand of a surgeon; it was rough, crude, and excruciating. As the last of the thread was pulled from her body, the wound, no longer held together, split open, and fresh, dark red blood began to well up, staining the white sheets.
Hearing Natasha's pained groan, Coulson spun around, his face a mask of alarm. "Miss Granger, what are you doing!"
"Vulnera Sanentur!"
Hermione ignored him, her focus absolute. She cast the healing spell, the tip of her wand glowing with a soft, golden light as she traced it gently along the length of the gaping wound.
And then, the impossible happened. As the golden light passed over the injury, the raw, bleeding flesh began to knit itself back together. Natasha and Coulson watched in stunned, silent disbelief as the torn muscles fused, the severed tissues reconnected, and a fresh, new layer of skin spread across the wound, leaving not so much as a faint pink line behind. In a matter of seconds, the entire injury was gone.
Natasha stared down at her own perfectly smooth, unblemished abdomen. She quickly grabbed a towel and wiped away the blood. There was no scar. No pain. Nothing. She tentatively poked the newly healed skin. It felt completely normal.
"This… this is…" Coulson stammered, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. He had seen a lot of impossible things in his career, but this was on another level.
Natasha finally remembered that the girl in front of her wasn't just a sweet little sister. She was a real, honest-to-god witch. The kind that did actual magic. She looked at Hermione, her voice filled with a new, profound awe. "Was that… was that magic too?"
What else would it be? Hermione thought, rolling her eyes internally. Did you think you just spontaneously developed a healing factor?
Realizing how stupid her question sounded, Natasha just shook her head and, with a giddy laugh, jumped out of the bed. She stretched, twisted, and felt her body. It was perfect. Strong. Whole.
"By the way," Hermione said, pointing to another, older scar just above Natasha's hip. "Do you want me to get rid of that one for you, too?"
Natasha's eyes lit up. "You can fix old scars?"
Hermione didn't answer. She simply cast a low-powered cutting spell on the old scar tissue, then followed it with the same golden healing light. The puckered, silvery skin smoothed over, leaving her abdomen completely flawless.
With a joyful, uninhibited cry, Natasha swept Hermione up into another hug, burying the girl's face in her chest. For an agent of her level, scars were just part of the job. But for the woman underneath the spy, to have her skin made perfect again was a gift beyond measure.
Ten minutes later, a fully-dressed and miraculously healthy Natasha, along with a still-reeling Coulson, escorted Hermione to the Director's office. As they walked, the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical staff they passed stared at the lively, agile Black Widow as if they were seeing a ghost.
They finally arrived at a set of large, imposing doors at the end of a long, quiet corridor. The doors slid open silently, revealing a vast, circular office with a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window that offered a god's-eye view of the entire city. A single figure stood with his back to them, looking out at the sprawling metropolis below. The bald, black back of his head was an image of pure, unmistakable authority.
"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Miss Wizard," the figure said, turning around. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Nick Fury. I'm the Director."
Black, bald, one-eyed, and wearing a long, black leather coat. Yup, Hermione thought. That's him.
She tilted her head, her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. "Are you Sister Natasha's boss?"
Nick Fury nodded, his one good eye intensely analytical. "I am."
Hermione's face broke into a bright, trusting smile. "Well then," she said, her logic simple, direct, and completely unassailable, "I believe Sister Natasha is a good person. And you're her boss, and she trusts you. So that must mean you're a good person, too!"
Fury's eye twitched. His mouth opened, then closed. For the first time in his long, storied career as the world's foremost spymaster, a man who navigated a labyrinth of lies, betrayal, and complex geopolitical strategy on a daily basis, he was rendered completely and utterly speechless. How was he supposed to respond to that? No, you've misunderstood, I'm actually a morally gray bastard who manipulates everyone around me?
Behind him, Coulson and Natasha had to physically bite their lips to keep from laughing out loud. Sincerity, it turned out, was the one weapon the king of spies had absolutely no defense against.
