Chapter 1: The Unimpressed Healer
The Scottish summer sun hammered down on the Magpies’ training pitch, bleaching the grass to a pale, crackling yellow. The air shimmered with heat and the residual buzz of aggressive magic. Harry Potter soared fifty feet above it all, the wind a welcome roar in his ears, the world reduced to the glint of the snitch in his peripheral vision and the familiar, addictive thrill of the chase.He dove.
It wasn’t a tactical dive. It was a showboat’s plunge, a vertical drop designed to make the reserve Seekers watching from the ground suck in a breath. His broomstick, a state-of-the-art Thunderbolt VII, screamed towards the earth.The snitch darted left. He followed, pulling up at the last possible second, his knees skimming the parched turf. A perfect, flashy, unnecessary maneuver.
The crack of the Bludger was a dull, sickening thud against his ribs.It wasn’t even a good hit. It was sloppy, a wild shot from a rookie Beater that Harry, in his arrogance, hadn’t bothered to track. The force ripped the air from his lungs and the control from his hands.The broom slewed sideways. He was a sack of limbs and cracking wood for one endless second before he met the ground with a crunch that vibrated through his entire skeleton.Silence, thick and sudden, swallowed the pitch. Then came the shouts, the pounding footsteps.
He lay on his back, blinking at the violently blue sky, tasting dirt and blood.A shadow fell over him.
“Potter.” The voice was female, crisp, and devoid of panic. “Can you move your fingers and toes?”
He turned his head, a sharp pain lancing through his neck. He saw practical boots, healer’s robes of muted blue, and a wand already lit with a soft diagnostic charm.His eyes traveled up. Curly brown hair yanked back into a severe, frizz-framed braid. Warm brown eyes that held none of the awed concern he was accustomed to. They were assessing him like a broken piece of equipment.“I’m fine,” he grunted, pushing himself up onto his elbows. The world tilted.A fresh, hot agony stabbed his right side.He winced.
“You are not fine.” The healer didn’t offer a hand. She just watched him struggle, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air. A shimmering, schematic image of his torso appeared, glowing amber over a cracked rib.“You have a concussion protocol to pass, and at least one fractured rib. Possibly a fractured ego as well, but I don’t treat that.”
A couple of his teammates snickered.Harry shot them a look, but the movement sent another spike of pain through him. He focused on the healer instead, summoning his signature, lazy grin.It felt strained. “And you are?”
“Hermione Granger. Lead Healer for the Montrose Magpies, as of this week. Can you stand, or do you need a conjured stretcher?”
“I can stand,” he said, sharper than he intended. He got to his feet, slowly, ignoring the offered arms of his teammates.He was a head taller than her. He used it, looking down, letting the famous green eyes do their work.“Granger. I’ve heard about you.Top of your class at that fancy French surgical mastery program.”
She didn’t blush. She didn’t look away. She simply pocketed her wand and turned, expecting him to follow.“Mmm.And I’ve heard about you. Try to keep up, Mister Potter. The medical tent is this way.”
He limped after her, the snickering of his team fading behind them. The medical tent was a faded green canvas structure at the edge of the pitch.Inside, it was a refuge of dim, flickering lantern light and quiet. The scent of dittany and antiseptic potion clashed with the smell of old canvas and male sweat. A Magpies Chaser sat on a cot, having his dislocated shoulder reset by another healer, his face pale and sweaty.“Sit,” Granger said, pointing to a cot.
He sat, the canvas sinking beneath him. She pulled a curtain around them with a sharp zing of rings on a rod, shutting them into a small, private space.He watched her. She moved with an economical precision, collecting bottles, her back to him. Her robes were standard issue, but they fit her in a way that was annoyingly professional.“Right,” she said, turning. “Shirt off, please.”
His grin returned, more natural this time.This was familiar territory. “Usually, I get dinner first.”
Her expression didn’t change. It was like he’d commented on the weather.“This is a clinical assessment, not a date.Shirt. Off.Or I can vanish it. Your choice.”
The challenge in her tone, so utterly devoid of flirtation, was a novelty. He pulled his sweaty training jersey over his head, hissing as the fabric tugged at his ribs.He tossed it onto the cot beside him. The cool air of the tent raised goosebumps on his skin.
She moved in, her fingers—surprisingly warm and firm—probing the spectacular bruise already blooming across his ribcage. Her touch was clinical, searching for the precise point of fracture. Her head was bent, her braid falling over one shoulder. He could smell a hint of something clean, like rosemary and parchment, under the medicinal scents.“So,” he said, his voice a low murmur in the intimate space. “You’re the one who’s replacing old McDougal.He was a big fan of mine. Always gave me the good pain potion.”
Her fingers pressed down decisively. White-hot fire flashed through his side.He sucked in a sharp breath.
“That’s the spot,” she said, unaffected by his gasp.She straightened, meeting his eyes.Her gaze was intelligent, analytical. “McDougal enabled your habit of playing through serious injuries.I won’t. You have a minimally displaced fracture of the ninth rib.You’re grounded for a week. No flying, no training, no strenuous activity.”
He stared at her.“A week?For a rib? I’ve played with worse.”
“And that,” she said, turning to a small table and uncorking a blood-replenishing potion, “is why you have the skeletal resilience of a ninety-year-old wizard and a file of reckless endangerment notes thicker than your ego. Drink this.”
He took the small bottle, his fingers brushing hers.She didn’t react. He downed the potion; it tasted of iron and mint.“The match against the Harpies is in five days. I’m playing.”
“No,” she said, taking the empty vial, “you’re not.I’ll clear you for light cardio in three days, if you rest. If you so much as sit on a broomstick before then, I’ll bench you for the following match, too. Club policy grants me full authority.”
He leaned back on his elbows, wincing again but covering it with a smirk. “You know who I am, right?”
For the first time, something flickered in her eyes.It wasn’t admiration. It was sheer, unadulterated impatience.“Yes.You’re Harry Potter. You have a scar shaped like a lightning bolt and a penchant for dating women who appear in Witch Weekly. You also have a cracked rib, which, last I checked, makes you my patient. Your fame doesn’t alter musculoskeletal healing.You’ll heal faster if you follow instructions.”
He was speechless. Genuinely, utterly without a retort. The casual dismissal, the way she reduced his entire public persona to a penchant, it left him winded more thoroughly than the Bludger had. He watched as she scribbled something on a parchment chart, her handwriting quick and sharp.
“Here,” she said, tearing off a slip.“A salve.Apply it twice daily. And a sleeping draught, if the pain keeps you up. No alcohol with it.” She finally looked at him again, her professional mask firmly in place.“Any questions?”
He took the parchment. “Just one. Do you ever smile?”
She considered him for a moment, then glanced at the curtain.“Not at work.We’re done here, Mister Potter. Send in Dawlish on your way out; he’s favoring his left knee.”
Dismissed. He was being dismissed from his own medical evaluation. He pulled his jersey back on, the movement stiff and painful, and pushed through the curtain.Outside, the glare of the sun felt like an accusation. He could hear her voice, already shifted to a polite, focused tone as she addressed the next player.
Harry stood there for a second, the parchment crumpling in his fist. The familiar sounds of the pitch—the crack of bats, the whoosh of brooms, the shouted plays—felt suddenly distant. He looked back at the faded green canvas of the tent, where Hermione Granger was already moving on to the next injury, having definitively, and without a second thought, handled his. A strange, unsettled feeling uncoiled in his gut.It wasn’t pain. It was the unfamiliar, irritating prickle of not getting what he wanted.