Chapter 20: The Healer's Rounds
The late afternoon sun bled orange across the Montrose Magpies’ training pitch, stretching the shadows of the goal hoops into long, skeletal fingers. The air was still thick with the day’s heat, carrying the sour tang of sweat, the acrid ghost of spent Floo powder, and the lingering medicinal hum of recently-applied healing charms. A faint, floral scent of lavender cut through it all, emanating from the faded green medical tent pitched near the broom sheds.
Inside, Hermione wiped down a stainless steel tray with a cloth that smelled sharply of antiseptic. The tent was orderly, a sanctuary of precision against the chaotic energy of the field. Glass bottles of potions—ruby-red Blood Replenishers, pearlescent Skele-Gro, vibrant violet bruise salves—lined the shelves by size and function. Her own braid was a tight, neat rope down her back, but a few stubborn curls had escaped to frame her face, damp from the oppressive heat.
The flap of the tent rustled. She didn’t need to look up. She knew the particular sound of his footsteps on the worn grass matting—confident, slightly heavier than the others, with a Seeker’s innate quietness.
Harry ducked inside, the setting sun casting a halo around his silhouette for a moment before the canvas fell closed behind him. He was still in his practice gear, dark green robes streaked with dust and grass stains, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He offered her a smile that was all practiced, boyish charm.
“Healer Granger.”
“Potter.” She didn’t return the smile. She placed the clean tray back on its shelf with a definitive click. “Practice ended twenty minutes ago. Everyone else has cleared out.”
“I noticed.” He rolled his left shoulder in a slow, deliberate circle, wincing slightly. “Took a knock from one of the Bludgers during the last drill. Jenkins said it was fine, but it’s feeling a bit… twingey.”
Hermione turned fully to face him, crossing her arms. Her warm brown eyes were analytical, scanning him like a problematic scroll of arithmancy. There was no visible swelling, no tell-tale stiffness in his posture beyond normal athletic fatigue. The wince had been a fraction too slow, the performance a shade too broad.
“A twinge,” she repeated, her voice flat.
“A persistent one.” He took a step further into the tent. The space was small. He was now close enough that she could smell the specific cocktail of his sweat, broom polish, and the faint, clean scent of his skin. It was disconcertingly familiar after the storm-scented hours in her room. “Thought it best to get it looked at. Can’t risk it for Saturday’s match against the Cannons.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that was more theatrical than annoyed, she gestured to the low examination cot. “Sit.”
The canvas creaked under his weight as he sat on the edge of the cot. She approached, her healer’s persona settling over her like a cloak. “Which shoulder?”
“Left.”
Her hands were cool and competent as they landed on him, her fingers probing the deltoid muscle, tracing the line of the collarbone. She applied pressure in specific spots. “Here?”
“A bit.”
“Here?”
“Mmm, maybe.”
Her eyes flicked up to his. His playful mask had slipped. He was watching her with a naked intensity that had nothing to do with a phantom injury. The air in the tent, already warm, grew thicker.
“Rotate your arm for me,” she instructed, her voice clinical.
He obeyed, moving his arm in a slow windmill. Her hands followed the motion, one stabilizing his shoulder blade, the other guiding his elbow. The physical contact was professional, necessary. It also sent a current of pure memory through them both—her hands on him in the firelight, his mouth on her skin at the rain-lashed window.
“Your range of motion is perfect, Potter,” she said, but she didn’t let go. She leaned in slightly, as if to listen to the joint, one hand drifting to the pulse point at the base of his neck. Her thumb rested there, feeling the strong, rapid beat of his heart.
He turned his head, his lips close to her ear. His voice, when it came, was a rough whisper that bypassed her ears and went straight to her spine. “I flew like shit today. Couldn’t concentrate. Kept seeing you against that window.”
Hermione’s breath hitched. Her professional composure developed a fine crack. She started to pull back, but his free hand came up, not to stop her, but to gently capture the one she had on his neck. He laced his fingers through hers.
“Harry,” she whispered, a warning.
“I know. We have to be careful.” He said the words, but his grip on her hand tightened. “But I need to know. Was that just the storm?”
She looked down at their joined hands, her healer’s fingers intertwined with his seeker’s, calloused and strong. The contrast was startling. This was the hand that had written her groundbreaking thesis on magical ligament repair. This was the hand that had held her hip while she rode him into oblivion.
“It wasn’t just the storm,” she admitted, the words feeling dangerous and true.
A slow, real smile broke across his face, devoid of any playboy pretence. It was relief, laced with a hunger that made her stomach flip.
“I want to pick up where we left off,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “Not just the… the physical part. All of it. The talking. The quiet.”
She finally pulled her hand from his, but the separation felt charged, not final. She busied herself with a jar of muscle salve, unscrewing the lid just to have something to do. “We can’t.Not here. Ron is already suspicious you skipped the springs. The team…”
“I know.” He stood up, the examination concluded without either of them acknowledging the lie that brought him there. He was close to her again, crowding her gently against the shelf of potions. “Tonight.My suite. After dinner. It’s on the other side of the lodge from Weasley’s.”
Hermione’s mind raced. This was a terrible idea. A clandestine affair with the team’s star player, a man whose reputation was a tabloid headline waiting to happen. It threatened everything: her professional credibility, the team’s dynamic, the fragile peace she’d built for herself.
He saw the conflict on her face. For the first time, she saw something like uncertainty in his eyes. He wasn’t demanding. He was asking.
“Please,” he said, the word foreign and soft on his tongue.
The plea undid her. She gave one sharp, tiny nod.
Before he could react, she reached out and took his hand again, pulling him back to the exam cot. “Sit. If you came in here with a ‘twinge,’ you’re leaving with a treatment.”
He sat, a genuine laugh bubbling out of him. She scooped a dollop of the cool, green salve and began to massage it into his perfectly healthy shoulder. Her touch was firm, therapeutic, but her little finger traced a secret, slow circle on his skin. A promise.
Outside, they heard the raucous laughter of some teammates heading back to the lodge. The sound was a bucket of cold reality.
“You should go,” she said softly, her hands still working. “Separately.”
He stood, rolling his shoulder with exaggerated satisfaction. “Feels loads better, Healer Granger. Miracle worker.”
“Don’t push it before Saturday,” she said, her voice returning to its professional register, though her cheeks were flushed.
He paused at the tent flap, looking back at her. The dying sun caught the green of his eyes, turning them translucent. “Tonight,” he mouthed silently.
Then he was gone, the canvas swinging shut behind him, leaving her alone with the smell of lavender, antiseptic, and the lingering trace of him on her hands. She stared at the closed flap, her own pulse hammering in her throat. She had just agreed to walk into the gilded cage of Harry Potter’s world, on purpose, with her eyes wide open. The thrill that shot through her was equal parts terror and a desperate, undeniable hope.