Chapter 9: Sweating It Out
The Scottish Highlands, usually a bastion of misty chill, decided to betray them all. The heat descended not as a wave but as a suffocating blanket, thick and sudden, sometime before dawn. By mid-morning, the Montrose Magpies’ lodgings had transformed into a beautiful, sun-drenched furnace. The ancient stone walls, so good at holding warmth in winter, now trapped the oppressive air with miserly efficiency. The enchanted windows, designed to offer picturesque views of heather-clad hills, shimmered with heat haze. The cooling charms—a complex web of magic woven into the manor’s foundations a century prior—sputtered and died with a final, pathetic sigh, overwhelmed by the unnatural atmospheric pressure.
Chaos was a sweaty, shirtless affair.
Players littered the common room floor like beached seals, sprawled on any available cool surface. Ron was flat on his back on the flagstones near the hearth, which was mercifully empty. “I’m melting,” he groaned to the ceiling. “Actually melting. You’ll have to mop me up.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Hermione’s voice came, taut with strain.
She stood by her corner desk, looking profoundly out of place. While everyone else had shed layers, she remained in her full healer’s robes—a bastion of professional decorum. But the heat was a great equalizer. Her usually pristine braid had frizzy tendrils escaping at her temples and neck. A persistent, dark blush painted her cheeks and throat. Harry, leaning against the doorjamb leading to the hall, watched a single bead of sweat trace a path from her temple, down the line of her jaw, before disappearing beneath her collar. The sight was more captivating than any photographed kiss. It was real. It was human. She was fighting a losing battle against a force of nature, and her stubborn refusal to yield was both admirable and maddening.
He saw her pick up a clipboard, fan herself with short, efficient strokes. Her eyes scanned a potions inventory, but they weren’t moving. She was just staring, trying to think through a soup of humid air.
“Alright, who knows a decent Cooling Charm?” demanded Oliver Wood, the team’s captain, his face the colour of a boiled lobster.
A chorus of unhelpful groans answered him. Someone tried Glacius on a tankard of water and succeeded only in exploding it into a shower of lukewarm shards.
Harry pushed off the doorframe. The movement was casual, but his target was fixed. “Medical wing’s got those enchanted ice packs,” he said, his voice cutting through the lethargy. “The ones for concussions. They stay cold for hours. I’ll get them.”
He didn’t wait for approval. It was a perfect excuse, a mission of mercy that couldn’t be misconstrued. He was just being a helpful teammate. The fact that the medical wing was Hermione’s domain, and that fetching supplies would necessitate an interaction, was purely incidental.
The journey down to the cooler, lower-level wing was a brief respite. He returned five minutes later, his arms laden with sleek, blue fabric packs that radiated a gentle, frosty aura. He began distributing them, tossing one to Ron, who clutched it to his chest with a whimper of gratitude.
Finally, one remained. He approached her desk.
Hermione had given up on the clipboard. She was simply standing there, one hand braced on the desk, breathing slowly through her nose as if conducting a private meditation on thermal dynamics. The flush on her skin had deepened. Up close, he could see the dampness at the hollow of her throat, the slight tremble in her fingers where they pressed against the wood.
“Healer Granger,” he said, quieter than he’d spoken to anyone else.
Her eyes flicked to his. They were darker than usual, the warmth muted by sheer physical misery. There was no welcoming smile, no softening. Just that same wary, assessing gaze. But it was glazed over, the sharp intellect fogged by the heat.
He held out the last ice pack. “For the heatstroke patient who refuses to admit she’s a patient.”
She stared at the blue pack, then back at his face. For a long moment, she didn’t move. The common room chatter, Ron’s complaining, Wood’s frustrated spells—it all faded into a muffled backdrop. The only sounds were their own breathing and the persistent, low hum of the dormant, overheated castle.
“It’s protocol,” she finally said, her voice parched. “To remain identifiable. In case of emergency.”
“The only emergency is you passing out on your dosage charts,” Harry said. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t make it a joke. He kept his expression neutral, earnest. “It’s not a surrender. It’s a tactical retreat. You can’t heal anyone if you’re a puddle on the floor.”
Her lips, slightly parted from the effort of breathing, pressed into a thin line. She was weighing his words, the offer, him. He could see the calculations happening behind her eyes: the professional pride, the undeniable physical need, the memory of Ginny’s hand on his arm.
Slowly, grudgingly, she reached out. Her fingers brushed his as she took the pack. The contrast was shocking. Her skin was fever-warm, his cooler from carrying the enchanted ice. The contact lasted less than a second, but it was a live wire in the stagnant air.
She didn’t thank him. Instead, she raised the pack and pressed it to the side of her neck with a small, almost imperceptible shudder of relief. Her eyes closed for a brief second. When they opened, they were clearer, focused directly on him.
“Your wrist,” she said, her clinical tone returning, though softened by her obvious physical relief. “The heat can cause swelling. You should be wearing your support wrap.”
He’d taken it off an hour ago, finding it stifling. “It’s in my room.”
“Then go and put it on.” It was an order, but it lacked its usual razor edge. It sounded, absurdly, like concern. Or maybe just professional habit.
He didn’t move. They stood there in the sweltering room, amidst their lethargic teammates. He was watching the ice pack against her skin, the slight relax of her shoulders. She was watching him, waiting for him to obey.
“You were right,” he said. The words left his mouth before he could vet them. They weren’t about the wrist wrap.
Her brow furrowed slightly. “About the wrap?”
“About the scene. With Ginny.” He kept his voice low, for her ears only. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t what it looked like. She was winding me up. Old habits.”
Hermione’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. The wariness deepened, tinged with a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or simple disbelief. She lifted the ice pack from her neck, turning it to a cooler side. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Potter. Your personal life is irrelevant to your ligament repair.”
“It felt relevant,” he pushed, taking a half-step closer. The heat between them was no longer just atmospheric. “It felt like you walked in on a confirmed hypothesis.”
She held his gaze, unflinching. A droplet of sweat escaped the ice pack and traced a path down her collarbone. “And if I did?”
“Then the hypothesis is flawed.” The arrogance was there, but it was strained, underpinned by a raw need for her to simply see. “The data’s incomplete.”
A long, silent beat passed. Ron yelled from the floor for someone to pass him a pumpkin juice that was just out of reach. The sound broke the spell.
Hermione finally looked away, setting the ice pack down on her desk with a soft thud. The professionalism snapped back into place, but it was slower this time, as if the heat had warped its edges. “The only data I require is your adherence to your recovery schedule. Now, go put your wrap on. That’s an order from your healer.”
It was a dismissal. A retreat. But for the first time, it didn’t feel like a defeat. She’d listened. She’d acknowledged the subject, even to dismiss it. And she was still using the ice pack.
Harry gave a single, slow nod. He turned and walked away, back towards the stairs, the heat seeming less oppressive than it had five minutes before. He could feel the weight of her gaze on his back until he turned the corner. The game had shifted. He hadn’t scored, but the Snitch was still in the air, and for the first time, he felt like he was finally flying on the same pitch as her.