Chapter 8: The Unexpected Visitor
The common room of the Montrose Magpies’ lodgings was a cathedral to casual triumph. Afternoon light, thick and golden, slanted through leaded windows, painting dust motes that danced above worn leather sofas and the scarred oak of the game table. The smell was familiar: old broom polish, the tang of ironized potion from a recent healing session, and the faint, ever-present scent of the peat fire smoldering in the great stone hearth. Harry was stretched on a sofa, a copy of Which Broomstick open but unread on his chest, his wrist resting on a cushion. The potion Hermione had prescribed made his tendons hum with a low, synthetic strength, a constant reminder of his own stupidity.
Ron was across the room, attempting to balance a Practice Snitch on the end of his nose.“It’s about focus,” he grunted, cross-eyed.
“It’s about inevitable facial injury,” Harry replied, watching the tiny silver wings flutter dangerously close to his friend’s eye.
The green flames in the fireplace roared suddenly, swelling with a heat that made the air waver. A figure tumbled out in a whirl of travel cloak and vibrant red hair, landing with practiced grace on the hearth rug.
“Delivery for one Ronald Weasley,” Ginny announced, brushing soot from her jeans.Her grin was wide and wicked. “Mum’s sent enough treacle tart to sink a ship. Hi, Harry.”
“Ginny.” He sat up, a reflexive, charming smile appearing.“To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Passing through. Had a meeting with the Harpies’ scout in Perth.” She dumped a magically expanded basket onto the table with a thud that made the Snitch finally zip away from Ron’s face. Her eyes, bright and sharp as a Knut, scanned Harry, lingering on the supportive charm-wrap on his wrist.“Seen the pictures of your crash.Looked spectacular. Heard you’ve been hobbling around like a wounded Hippogriff ever since.”
Ron snorted. “He’s been worse. Moaning about the potions tasting like bog water.”
“Everything tastes like bog water to him unless it’s served with a smile and a low-cut top,” Ginny said, dropping onto the sofa beside Harry.She was close.Too close for casual friendship.Her knee brushed his. “Remember that time in Madrid, Harry? When you sprained your ankle and that Spanish mediwitch literally fed you bruise-salve paste? You recovered suspiciously fast.”
She laughed, a warm, inviting sound, and let her hand rest on his arm, just above the wrap. Her touch was familiar, comradely, but layered with an old, unspoken history. Harry’s brain caught up a second too late. This was Ginny’s game: winding him up, testing boundaries, enjoying the friction. It had always been their dynamic, a holdover from her teenage crush and his subsequent, brief, utterly disastrous attempt to reciprocate years ago.Usually, he played along. It meant nothing.Today, it felt like a trap.
“That was medicinal efficiency,” he said, his voice a fraction too light. “Professional dedication.”
“Is that what they’re calling it?” Ginny leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that carried perfectly across the room. “Looked more like recreational therapy to me.”
The door to the common room opened.
Hermione entered, a clipboard in one hand, a roll of fresh bandages in the other. Her gaze swept the room, landed on the basket, on Ron, then on the sofa.On Harry. On Ginny, whose hand was still on his arm, whose body was angled toward his in a perfect mimicry of intimacy.Hermione stopped.The air in the room changed, the golden light suddenly feeling brittle.
For a suspended second, no one moved. Harry watched as Hermione’s eyes—those warm, intelligent eyes that had recently looked at him with cold amusement—took in the scene. He saw the slight, almost imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders. The way her expression, which had been open in thought, smoothed into a neutral, impenetrable mask. It was the same mask she’d worn in the medical wing, but this one felt colder.Distant.
She didn’t say a word to Ginny.Didn’t acknowledge her at all.
“Your updated weekly potion regimen, Potter,” she said, her voice crisp and clear as breaking ice. She walked to the game table, set the clipboard down with a precise tap. “The Strengthening Solution is now to be taken with breakfast and dinner. I’ve added a mild nutrient potion to counter the side effects you complained about.” She said ‘complained’ like it was a synonym for ‘whinged’.“Try not to break anything else before the season opener. We’re low on sarcasm-resistant bandages.”
She turned and left, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet.
The charm-wrap on Harry’s wrist felt like a tourniquet.The sinking dread from the medical wing returned, deeper and more profound. He knew, with absolute certainty, what that scene had just looked like.What Hermione had just seen. And after the Diggory debacle, the narrative would be cemented in her mind: Harry Potter, the unreformable playboy, cozying up with another witch right under her nose.
Ginny slowly removed her hand from his arm. She was staring at the closed door, a slow, dawning comprehension spreading across her face.Then she looked at Harry, and her grin returned, wider and more dangerous than before. It was the grin of a Seeker who’s just spotted the Snitch.
“Oh,” Ginny said, her voice dripping with delighted mischief.“Oh.That’s her. The scary-smart healer who terrifies you. The one who mentioned concussions and pathetic character flaws.” She let out a low whistle.“Merlin, Harry. You’ve got it bad.”
Ron, finally catching up, looked from the door to Harry’s stricken face. “Wait, what? What’s bad?”
“Shut up, Ron,” Harry and Ginny said in unison.But Ginny’s eyes were gleaming. “She thinks we’re a thing.Or that you’re trying to make her think we’re a thing. Which is honestly a tactical error of such staggering magnitude it’s almost beautiful.” She patted his cheek, a gesture of pure pity. “Good luck with that.”
Harry sank back into the sofa, staring at the ceiling beams.The scent of treacle tart from the basket was suddenly cloying. He could still feel the ghost of Ginny’s touch on his arm, and superimposed over it, the clinical, assessing pressure of Hermione’s fingers during his examination. The contrast was a shock to his system.Hermione thought he was exactly what she’d always accused him of being. And he had just handed her all the evidence she needed on a silver platter, delivered by a red-headed demon with a perfect smile.A reckless, unfamiliar resolve hardened in his gut. This wasn’t over.He couldn’t let it be. For the first time, it wasn’t about winning a date or a kiss.It was about proving her wrong. About proving he could be more, could see more, than the reflection in the tabloid cameras.
He had no idea how to do it.But the game, infuriatingly, was still on. And for the first time in his life, he was playing from behind.