Chapter 7: The Unexpected Connection
The scent of iodine and crushed dittany hung in the air, a sharp, clean counterpoint to the lingering peat-smoke and sweat of the pitch. The medical wing was quiet, lit by the cool emerald glow of diagnostic orbs floating near the ceiling. Hermione’s sanctuary.
Harry pushed through the soundproofed door at ten sharp, the silence feeling heavier than any crowd’s roar. He’d slept fitfully, images of a laughing Hermione and a smug Cedric Diggory playing on a loop behind his eyes. He’d arrived early, a foreign impulse, and now he leaned against the doorway, watching her.
She was at her potions station, back to him, measuring drops of a silvery liquid into a vial with a precision that felt like an accusation. Her hair was back in its severe braid, the line of her neck graceful and focused. The cream jumper was gone, replaced by crisp healer’s robes.
“You’re punctual,” she said without turning around. “A first. Sit.”
He moved to the high examination table, the parchment-covered mattress rustling under his weight. The room hummed with subtle magic, a thrumming beneath the silence. She finished her task, capped the vial, and turned, her expression professionally blank.
“Wrist,” she instructed, approaching. Her fingers were warm, her touch clinical and efficient as she began to manipulate his hand, her own movements tracing arcs of light in the air that only she could see. “Flex. Resist.”
He obeyed, his eyes on her downturned face. The proximity was intimate, her focus absolute. The memory of her loose hair in the wind, the blush, it all bubbled up, sour and urgent.
“So,” he said, the word too loud in the quiet. “Diggory.”
Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming their work. “What about him?”
“Just making conversation. Seems your type.” He kept his tone casual, a deliberate contrast to the tightness in his chest. “All… polite. Probably asks permission before he kisses a witch.”
Hermione’s eyes snapped up to his. The warm brown had hardened into polished oak. “My ‘type’ is irrelevant to your ligament repair, Potter. But since you’ve brought it up, yes, Cedric is a gentleman. He’s considerate. He listens. Qualities evidently absent from the developmental curriculum for certain overgrown children on brooms.”
The direct hit landed, sparking his temper. “He’s boring,” Harry retorted, pulling his wrist back slightly. She held firm, her grip surprisingly strong. “A perfect, polished, quaffle-tossing bore. You’d be yawning within a week.”
A slow, cold smile touched her lips. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It was the smile of someone holding a winning hand. “You are spectacularly misinformed. And, for the record, spectacularly arrogant.” She released his wrist and took a deliberate step back, crossing her arms. “Cedric Diggory has been happily dating Cho Chang for three years. Cho was my housemate in Ravenclaw. We shared a dormitory for seven years. We still have tea every other Tuesday. The butterbeer was a courtesy between professionals. We were discussing a collaborative research paper on repetitive stress injuries in Chasers.”
She let the words hang, each one a small, precise hammer dismantling his entire assumption. The medical wing’s hum seemed to grow louder, mocking him.
Harry stared. The hot jealousy curdled instantly, morphing into something cold and shameful in the pit of his stomach. He felt his face grow warm. He’d constructed an entire rival narrative in his head, and she’d just set fire to the manuscript with three detached sentences.
“Oh,” was all he managed to say. It sounded pathetic, even to him.
“‘Oh,’ indeed.” She uncrossed her arms and picked up a notepad, scribbling something. “Your jealousy is noted, both as a potential neurological symptom of repeated minor concussions and as a frankly pathetic character flaw.” She tore off the parchment and held it out. “Your apology is also noted, by the way. Mumbled, inelegant, but structurally present.”
He hadn’t even realized he’d muttered ‘sorry.’ He took the prescription. “It’s not jealousy,” he said, the defiance weak.
“Of course not.” She turned back to her potions station, dismissing him. “It’s professional concern for the integrity of inter-team mediwizard relations. Take that to the apothecary. Twice daily with meals. It’ll strengthen the tendons you keep straining by showing off. Now, get out. I have actual work to do.”
He slid off the table, the scrap of parchment crumpling slightly in his fist. He paused at the door, looking back at her. She was already absorbed in her notes, the line of her shoulders straight and unyielding. The embarrassment was still there, a dull heat on his skin, but beneath it swirled something else—a grudging, unsettling respect. She hadn’t just shut him down. She’d eviscerated him with facts and a barely-contained smirk, and he’d walked right into it.
He left, the soundproofed door whispering shut behind him, sealing her back in her world of calm, logical precision. The corridor outside felt chaotic, loud with the distant echoes of players training. He looked at the prescription in his hand. For the first time in a very long time, someone had seen right through him, and instead of being charmed, they’d been… amused.
It should have pissed him off. Mostly, it just left him profoundly off-balance.