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Greta watched the blizzard rage outside the window of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, grateful to be inside helping her friend grade papers. Quirinus had adjusted well to the role of assistant teaching two classes, Defense and Muggle Studies, but even after months out of Azkaban he still found it difficult to write without shaking a little. When he'd asked her to help, she was thrilled that he felt comfortable enough to ask.
For months he'd insisted he could handle all the work himself, and to his credit, he'd managed remarkably well for a while. Then there'd come a day he was fully taking over while Remus was ill, that he'd been so uneasy he could barely hold a wand, let alone a piece of chalk. Greta had been supervising, as part of her new job as both apprentice to Madam Pomfrey and personal assistant to Quirinus, and he'd asked for her to do all of the writing on the chalkboard for him.
It had surprised her, to see him ask for help in front of an entire class, calling her "Professor" Linden without a second thought, as if she had any claim to that kind of title. He'd only shown how anxious he was when the class was over, barely half the students out the door before he began fidgeting with his sleeves and staring at his feet. When she'd told him how proud she was that he hadn't pushed himself too hard, he turned as bright pink as the scars across his face and mumbled something she couldn't make out.
Now, after January had begun and they were finding their footing in this new routine, Quirinus was a lot more comfortable around her. It wasn't quite the same as when they were children, but given everything he'd recently been through and done, he had recovered quite well. He was still thin but not emaciated, nervous but not terrified, and his hair was growing back - which he'd joked was a much needed advantage after the setback that was the damage done to his face. It had struck Greta as odd, given that he'd rarely been concerned with how he looked before, but now that his face was irreparably changed it must be different. Even Greta herself - who had not only overcome her teenage insecurities, but embraced being unattractive - would probably be affected by something like that happening to her.
"What are you thinking about?" he suddenly asked.
He was leaning across his desk toward her, looking at her with the open curiosity she'd missed so much from him. His hand trembled when he waved it in front of her face, but he smiled when she looked at him.
"You," she answered.
His brows - what was left of them - furrowed, and his smile became a thin line.
"How well you've recovered from everything," she went on, patting his hand, "I'm so glad you're here."
His expression softened, but there was still an underlying tension in his face.
"So am I," he said quietly, as if he was only just realizing it himself.
Her smile deepened before she remembered why she was here and straightened it out. She turned her attention back to the test they'd been grading, rolling the quill between her fingers.
"I'm sorry, what were you saying? The answer is a boggart, right?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, though his attention was fixed on her, "But it can wait if you want to talk."
Her first instinct was to protest and get back to work, but there was never going to be an ideal time to have this conversation.
"I want to know how you're feeling," she told him.
The corner of his lips twitched upward as he asked, "Don't we have this conversation every day? I'm okay - good, even. Still shaky, but you know that."
"That's good. And I'm proud of you," she said, to which he shrunk in on himself a bit, "But I mean emotionally. How are you, really?"
"Is that relevant to my recovery?" he asked, his gaze flickering away.
"I'm not asking as a healer, Quirinus, I'm asking as your friend."
That made him look up at her with an expression of doubt - maybe even disgust.
"Do you really still think we're friends?"
Her smile faltered, her heart sinking.
"I know you were the best person for this job because you know me better than anyone, but that doesn't mean you have to pretend to be emotionally invested. I can handle it, really."
Looking at his face, she knew he wasn't lying. He'd become less sensitive over the last few months, or at least better at pretending he was. That was what had her so concerned about his emotional well being in the first place.
At least she knew it wasn't her he had a problem with.
"I'm not pretending," she said carefully, afraid to spook him, "I've never stopped thinking of you as my friend."
He examined her features, and she hoped he could see how much she meant it. She didn't know what to do with her face, and she was suddenly hyper-aware of what each part was doing without knowing how to make them work together.
"Do you mean that?" he whispered.
Her face broke into an effortless grin as she exclaimed, "Yes! Yes, of course I do."
He laughed quietly, squeezing her hand. She'd almost forgotten she was still holding his, and she realized this was the first time he'd been able to initiate touching her. The texture of his scarred palm was unfamiliar, but the thin fingers and desperation in his grip were exactly how she remembered.
"I was so afraid to ask," he confessed, avoiding her gaze, "I knew - I know - I don't deserve it, but I missed this, just talking. I missed you."
"It doesn't matter whether you think you deserve it, I'm not going anywhere," she said as she took his hand in both of hers and explored the shapes of the scarring, "You can tell me, or ask me, anything you want."
"You're not scared?" he said, giving a slight nod of his chin toward his hand.
"Of what?" she asked, and looked up at him, "The scars?"
He looked away, as if he regretted asking now that her attention was on the scarring of his face.
"No, not at all. Is that something that's been bothering you? Have other people been afraid, or made fun of you?"
Shaking his head, he answered, "No-- I mean, no, nobody's given me any trouble about it, but... I can't stop thinking about it."
After a moment of silence, Greta urged, "You can tell me, if you'd like."
"I don't know what there is to tell," he sighed, "It's pathetic, to be concerned with how I look when I should be grateful just to be alive, I know that. But it was easy not to care when I looked... I don't know, plain. Unremarkable."
"And how would you describe the way you look now?"
"Do I really need to say it?" he asked with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "I'm ugly, Greta. You don't have to pretend I'm not."
It hurt to hear, but the words were more familiar than she'd anticipated.
"I remember telling you the same thing once."
He relaxed a bit, his smile coming more naturally, but he shook his head and argued, "Every teenage girl feels ugly at some point. You never were, and you've grown into a perfectly normal woman either way."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," she snickered.
"Shut up," he said, though he was grinning.
She straightened out her features and asked, "But really, would you believe me if I told you I still think I'm ugly?"
"I trust you wouldn't lie to me," he told her, hesitating, "But otherwise no. I wouldn't."
"The only thing that's changed is the way I think about it," she explained, "Being ugly, and being okay with it means I don't have to put effort into being something I'm not. I'm never bothered by men who are only interested in me for how I look. I don't have to agonize over whether I'm pretty enough."
"I understand that, I think. As a woman. It does sound freeing," he began slowly, "But you're not... disfigured. You don't frighten people."
"I know," she said quickly, "I don't mean to make it about myself, or-- or minimize your pain-- especially with it being such a sudden change to how you look."
"I know. Really, I do," he told her, waving a hand, "And it does help, to know that at least one person doesn't see me any differently. Thank you."
She nodded, squeezing his hand, and asked, "Did it take a long time to get used to?"
"I'm still not used to it," he admitted, looking down at where she held onto him, "My hands don't look like my hands... When I look in the mirror I don't see myself, and I'm... I'm afraid I never will."
"Oh," she said, feeling terribly stupid for thinking he could relate to her, "I'm sorry."
"You didn't say anything wrong, it's alright."
She gave another small nod and said, "If it helps, I still see your face."
"What do you mean?" he asked, lighting up the tiniest but, "You see it the way it was?"
"No. But you still look yourself to me," she explained with a smile, "Different, of course, but still unmistakably you."
The sudden hope in his eyes dimmed, and he nodded.
"I still see your eyes the way they've always been," she said, making him glance away self-consciously.
"Like that black and white French film," he said with a bitter, but soft laugh.
With no idea what he was talking about, she fondly shook her head at his enthusiasm for muggle cinema and went on, "And your nose, and your mouth, and the structure of your skull. It's all still there."
He was quiet for a moment, and she worried she'd said something terribly wrong. It wasn't until she heard him taking small, sharp breaths that she realized he was crying, and she immediately began to apologize.
"I'm s--"
"Thank you," he cut in, without even hearing her attempt.
"What?"
He swiped his sleeve across his face and took a deep breath before saying, "I think I've been so... in my own head about it... This is what always stands out to me, when I see myself, and it's hard to think of anything else... to think other people don't see it as something that's completely ruined my face."
"I don't think anyone sees it that way," she told him, standing up and going to the other side of the desk, "I'm not just saying that to be nice. I've never heard anyone say anything about how you look, other than how well you're recovering."
Quirinus watched as she sat down in the chair next to his, extending both her hands. It took a moment to realize what she was doing, but when he did he placed his in hers.
"It doesn't hurt, does it?" she asked, to which he shook his head.
"No, it's just... different. The nerve damage makes it a bit harder to feel."
"Your face too?"
He nodded, and Greta raised a hand slowly. It wasn't until she froze, silently giving him space to say no, that he realized she wanted to touch his face.
"I don't think you want to do that," he quietly warned, glancing away.
She lowered her hand slightly, asking, "Would you be uncomfortable?"
"No," he said, before admitting, "I'm afraid you might be."
It wasn't entirely honest of him to say he wasn't uncomfortable, but it was more his own awkwardness than anything she could do to him.
"If I promise I won't be, would that be okay?" she asked quietly.
His gaze flickered back and forth between her eyes, her hand, and anywhere else. There was no doubt in his mind that she meant it, but she couldn't know that for certain. Still, he'd missed the way they used to be as children, casually touching each other's faces and limbs without a second thought. That, more than anything, was what pushed him to give her permission.
"Okay. Yes," he whispered, bracing himself to be touched for the first time in years, and for the likely outcome that she would be disgusted and withdraw it.
But she didn't. Her hand settled gently on the side of his face, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. She smiled as she did, and he knew there was nothing to be afraid of.