Chapter Text
Art by the wildly talented Ectoheart
Hermione cursed beneath her breath as her heel found yet another divot in the pavement, sending her ankle in a direction she could confidently say it was not meant to go. “You want to look professional on your first day, don’t you, Hermione,” she muttered to herself, mocking the lecture she’d received from Ginny over the weekend. She’d looked perfectly professional in the sensible flats she’d worn every day at St. Mungo’s for the past decade, offensively lime robes aside. And yet, somehow, she found herself in front of the gleaming glass doors of the Derbyshire Dragons’ arena, tugging at the narrow navy skirt she’d let Ginny talk her into in a desperate attempt to lower the hem another few inches. As if her colleagues needed to be able to see her knees for her to be a professional.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the door into the dimly lit atrium. She paused for a moment as the cool air washed over her, gaze drifting over the abstract sculptures of Quidditch players suspended from the soaring ceiling, until the rapid click of heels against tile interrupted her. She groaned inwardly as a petite young witch hurried from the far end of the hall towards her. Ginny had been right about the heels, damn it.
“Miss Granger!” The woman greeted with a broad smile, extending her hand. “I’m Daisy Fortnum, Director of Public Relations. We’re so thrilled to have you here with the Dragons!”
Hermione returned the handshake with a smile, forcing away the unease borne by her first day in the face of the positively effervescent greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fortnum.”
The witch waved her off. “Oh, call me Daisy, please. The team here is all so close, we don’t stand on formality. Do you mind if we walk and talk? It’s offseason, but things do still get busy around here.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked off, leaving Hermione to trot after her even as the blonde woman continued talking. “Normally our owner would be here to greet you, he’s very hands-on with everything involving the team, you know, but he’s on a recruiting trip at the moment, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for now!”
With a bright smile, she pushed through an inconspicuous side door and they moved from the gleaming surfaces of the atrium into a much more utilitarian hallway, the concrete walls a pale grey streaked with the green and gold team colours of the Dragons. “This is our back of house,” Daisy explained cheerfully, seemingly uncaring that Hermione hadn’t managed to form a full sentence since she’d arrived. “You’ll be spending most of your time here, with the players, but I’m sure we could get you an office in the front as well, if you’d prefer.”
Here she paused, glancing back expectantly, and Hermione realised with a start that she was actually expecting an answer. “No, no, I’m sure what you already have will be perfect, I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
Daisy let out a trilling laugh. “No, no trouble at all. And you may change your mind, just let me know.” She winked at Hermione as if she were in on a joke before she continued. “But let’s get you all settled in before we worry about that!”
Fourteen turns and several doors later and Hermione was both thoroughly lost and had learned more about the Dragons than even her own research, and Harry and Ron’s inexhaustible font of Quidditch conversation, could have taught her. Finally, Daisy slowed her rapid pace in front of yet another door, this one painted with a vivid mural of the team’s mascot (a Hebridean Black, Ron had eagerly informed her).
“First things first, we’ll have you meet the team, they’ll just have finished practice, so now’s as good a time as any, and then I’ll show you your office.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, startled. “I thought I might get to know the facilities a bit first…” Her voice trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed by the idea of coming face to face with nearly a dozen professional Quidditch players, but Daisy waved her off with a smile.
“Trial by fire, right?” she said, her voice chipper in a way Hermione was beginning to suspect was her natural default, before she pushed the door open, calling out, “Look decent, gentlemen, new healer onboard!”
Hermione winced. It was too late to protest now, she supposed. Pulling herself straight and giving one last tug at her hem, she tilted her chin up with a confidence she wasn’t sure she truly felt, and followed the bubbly PR manager into the room.
It was all she could do to keep from wrinkling her nose as a wave of humid air washed over her, the room smelling unmistakably of sweat and male. Instead, she pasted on the professional half-smile that she’d found, over several years of research, projected the perfect blend of authority and reassurance her patients craved. Not that these men were anything like the patients she’d seen at St. Mungo’s. No, these were athletes at the peak of their form. She’d reviewed their files, of course, making careful note of past injuries that might cause problems down the line, or of ongoing physical therapies, but there was no denying that they were a remarkably healthy bunch. Remarkably healthy, and the perfect subjects for her neuromuscular regeneration research. Which is exactly what they’d lured her here with.
To be sure, the salary was nice enough, and, according to Ron and Harry, the box seats were practically the coup of the century, but it was the promise of a blank cheque to fund her research, as long as it benefitted the team, that had really brought her here. “…a warm Dragons welcome to Healer Granger!” A light smattering of applause, paired with a few whoops and—Merlin, was that a whistle?—brought Hermione back from her wanderings and she flushed slightly to realise that every eye in the room was trained on her as Daisy faced her with an expectant smile.
“Oh, erm,” she stammered slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I look forward to working with you, and getting to know you.” She glanced around the room, careful not to linger too long on any one player, particularly the ones who were only half-dressed. “I’ll be reaching out to you each individually to schedule baseline physicals and update your records, but of course, I’m available as a resource at any time.” She paused as the men continued to stare expectantly at her before finishing lamely. “Thank you.”
Daisy’s smile fell slightly for a half-second—Hermione thought she might not have given the rousing motivational speech the other witch had been hoping for—but then it was back in full force as she clapped her hands together. “Right then, we’ll leave you lot to it then. But remember, team photos are this Friday, please let’s make sure we’re well-groomed and ready!”
“She’s talking to you, Nils!” Someone called out, and laughter rippled through the room as a heavily bearded man grunted and threw up a two-fingered salute. Daisy merely continued to smile as if their antics were nothing out of the ordinary as she shepherded Hermione from the room.
“The team really is wonderful,” she said as they continued to walk, as if she were confiding a secret. “You know athletes, they’re all just a bunch of overgrown boys more often than not.” Hermione nodded along as if it was a well-known fact, resisting the urge to point out the fact that until now, the majority of her patients had been wizards well past their prime who visited the hospital more for the company than anything else. But calling attention to her lack of qualifications perhaps wasn’t the best thing to do on her first day, so instead she kept her mouth shut and trailed after Daisy as she chattered on. “They’ll be respectful, there’s no need to worry about that, but they do all think they’re a bit invincible. You may have to chase after them a bit to get anything done, and give up on any hope of them sitting still, they practically drove our last Healer mad. But I’m sure you’ll be fine!” she said brightly as she pulled open the door to the arena, bright sunlight flooding the hall. “Now, tell me, who’s your favourite Quidditch player?”
Theo turned back to his locker as Daisy trotted from the room, the team’s newest healer in tow. Granger had grown up since he’d seen her last. Of course, they’d been sixteen and it had been a decade, so it wasn’t as if he shouldn’t have expected it. And yet.
She’d looked far more polished than he could ever recall seeing her, though the way her once-frizzy curls fought to escape whatever twist she’d forced them into hinted at the girl he’d once known. And Merlin, the way that skirt had hugged her hips…
A raucous burst of laughter broke him from lingering thoughts of Hermione Granger and the glimpse he’d got of her arse as she left, or the way her gaze had slid right over him, as if they were total strangers.
“Right, mate?” His neighbour jostled against his arm and Theo looked over, a grin at the ready.
“Cor, you know I tune your yapping out, right?”
The rookie chaser flipped him the bird as a chuckle rippled through the other men still standing about.
“What are you on about now? Still convinced you’ve finally got fans?”
“Nah,” the younger man waved off the jibe. “Granger. She’s a right piece, yeah? I’d let her play healer any time.” A jeering laugh went up from the handful of teammates clustered around them and, never one to give up an audience, Corbyn kept on. “I’ll let her get real… physical with me, if you know what I mean.” His words were paired with a crude gesture, as if any of them could have missed his meaning.
“Oi,” Theo thwacked the other man’s arm, hard enough to bruise, if he was lucky. As if he hadn’t just been thinking the same, but saying it out loud was another matter. “Save that shit for the Snitch snatch, Corbyn. Granger is one of the team now, she deserves your respect. Not to mention, she’ll hex your balls off if you try anything, and I guarantee she won’t feel bad about it.”
Corbyn scowled, rubbing at his arm, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as he yanked his bag from his locker and skulked away with muttered goodbyes.
“You know her?” Nilsson asked, carefully wrapping tape around the handle of his bat.
Theo shrugged as he pulled a shirt over his head. “Who doesn’t know the Golden Girl? Couldn’t open a paper without seeing her face for a few years there.” Nilsson grunted in agreement. “But yeah, we were in school together. Scary brilliant witch, Merlin only knows how she ended up stuck here with this lot.”
Nilsson snorted. “Maybe she’ll actually keep us in one piece this season.”
Theo grinned. They could only hope. They would have made the finals last year if their last healer had managed to keep the team healthy for more than a week or two at a time. Incompetent wanker.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Theo waved goodbye to Nilsson. The man would sit around for hours caring for his equipment, there was no point in waiting around for him.
“Which witch is it tonight?” the beater glanced up, a wry grin nearly hidden by his overgrown beard.
Theo shrugged. He’d planned to meet a pretty little blonde thing at the bar for a drink, she’d been panting after him for weeks but…
“Nah, not tonight. Team captain should say hello to the new healer, make her feel welcome, right? Plus, I’ve got to schedule my physical before the rookie can.” Theo threw a wink over his shoulder as he strode from the locker room, ignoring the wadded up jersey his friend chucked past his ear with a laugh.
It took them nearly another two hours to conclude an alarmingly thorough tour of the facilities before Daisy deposited Hermione in a small, windowless office that had apparently belonged to the team’s last healer and swanned off to whatever was next on her seemingly endless agenda with a cheerful goodbye.
Hermione sank into the chair behind the desk with a grateful sigh, before she frowned and shifted, and then shifted again. Well then, the first order of business would be finding a halfway decent chair before she permanently damaged her back hunching over the desk. Not that she expected she’d be spending much time in her office, not between managing the players and her research. The final portion of their tour, after hours spent trudging up and down the stands and across the pitch, had been of the actual medical facilities. She’d been pleasantly surprised when they’d reached the sleekly modern clinic, though she couldn’t say why, it wasn’t as if the rest of the arena were particularly shabby. She could have entertained herself for hours poking about the small, but efficient, space, but Daisy had hurried her along, promising she could come back later before she'd promptly dumped her in the office along with an alarmingly tall stack of human resources paperwork to be filled out.
She'd thought about turning around and going back, but now that she was sitting, her feet were beginning to throb, a painful reminder of the miles she’d walked in those thrice-bedamned heels. She was halfway tempted to transfigure them into a sensible pair of flats, but seeing as they were technically Ginny’s she suspected the other witch might not appreciate the change. So instead, with a glance to ensure the hallway beyond her office was still empty, she gingerly toed off first one shoe, and then the other, wincing as her stocking pulled at a newly-formed blister. Whispering a curse beneath her breath, she bent to probe at the raw spot, silently promising her feet she’d never abuse them so again. If she were being honest, Daisy’s tour had been through, and interesting, but the high point had been when she had mentioned in passing that no one would bat an eye if she were to dress more comfortably.
“The front office is a bit more formal, it’s all optics for the investors,” she explained, not out of breath in the slightest after they’d climbed a half dozen flights of stairs to reach the owners’ box while Hermione panted along behind her. “And of course we dress for game days. But when you’re with the players, or at the clinic? Wear whatever you’d like, I’m sure you’d rather be comfortable. Though for your sake, I hope lime isn’t the standard for all healers, Merlin, what an awful colour!”
Rolling down her stocking, she let out a hiss of pain as she pulled her foot free, reaching blindly towards her desk and fumbling for her wand.
“Fancy seeing you here, Granger,” a voice drawled from the doorway.
She startled, nearly banging her head on the underside of the desk and dropping her stocking as she straightened to face the wizard who stood there, lounging comfortably against the doorframe. With a muffled squeak, she shifted to tuck her bare feet beneath the desk, hoping he hadn’t seen. The man was tall, his dark hair wet like he’d just come from the shower. Between that, and the grey sweatpants he wore paired with a t-shirt emblazoned with the Dragons’ logo, she could only assume he was one of the players she’d just met.
Her brow furrowed slightly. Daisy had made it clear enough that the team wasn’t much for formalities, but this was… alarmingly casual, nonetheless. “Hello,” she greeted politely. “How can I help you…?” She let her voice trail off pointedly in hopes the man might introduce himself. She’d studied the player files, of course, but her focus had been on their medical histories, rather than on putting names with faces.
He laughed, and her eyes widened. “You don’t remember me, do you? You wound me, Granger,” he claimed dramatically, pressing his hand over his heart with a grin.
She couldn’t help the way the corner of her mouth ticked upwards at his antics, and from the way his smile widened, he didn’t miss it, taking it as an invitation to take a few steps into the room. “We were in school together,” he explained. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised Gryffindor’s Golden Girl wouldn’t remember me.” He laughed again as her nose wrinkled at the nickname. “We’ll strike that then. You prefer Healer Granger now anyhow, I’d imagine? Theo Nott.”
Hermione blinked at the abruptness of the introduction as he extended his hand and she reflexively took it, the shake lasting a half second too long as his warm hand wrapped about hers. She flushed and yanked her hand back, combing through her memories, trying to place the man in front of her. The name rang the faintest of bells. “Nott...You were in Slytherin, right? You did that project on Sumerian arithmancy for Professor Vector’s class our sixth year?”
His lips twisted in a wry grin. “Of course you’d remember that. I’d expect you understood it better than I did. Most people remember my Quidditch over my book reports.”
“Oh!” Hermione said, blushing again. “Of course, you’re on the team, you must be very good, I’m sure,” she rambled as she pulled open her desk drawer, rifling through the folders she’d shoved haphazardly in there until her fingers landed on the one labelled with his name. “You’re a…” She flipped the folder open. “A Chaser, of course.”
There was a sparkle in his dark eyes as she looked back up at him. “For the sake of my incredibly delicate ego, let’s pretend you didn’t have to look that up, yeah?”
Hermione couldn’t help but return his smile this time. “Look what up?” she asked, nearly cringing when she heard how flirtatious the words sounded as they came from her lips. You’re here to work, not flirt with handsome Quidditch players, she reminded herself sternly. Even if the way he stood with his hands tucked in his pockets did make the sleeves of his shirt strain against his biceps. Looking back down at his file, she smoothed her expression into one of polite interest as she scanned over his information once more. “It’s good that you dropped by,” she said as she picked up a quill, her tone carefully business-like. “We can go ahead and schedule your physical, unless you have anything immediate you’d like to address now?”
She glanced up again, her quill poised to take down any notes. His lips twitched, and she sighed inwardly, bracing herself for the inevitable suggestive comment about getting physical, but much to her surprise, he simply shrugged. “I’m free any day after practice. We usually end around 11,” he supplied helpfully when her brow furrowed. “You say the word and I’m here. Or wherever you want me.”
Hermione’s gaze darted sharply to him at the words, but his expression was innocent, sincere, even. Her gaze narrowed for a half-beat, but he didn’t flinch. Stop reading into things, Hermione, she chided herself. Really, it was embarrassing she’d even thought he might be implying something different. Even if he were flirting, he seemed the sort that might charm anything on two legs, given the opportunity.
Putting all thoughts of flirting to the side, she found the Dragons-branded daybook Daisy had handed over as part of her welcome packet, and flipped it open to the blank week before her. She wished she’d had a chance to actually review her calendar before she got started with this, but judging by what Daisy had said, getting the players to actually commit to an appointment with a healer would be like corralling an angry horde of Cornish pixies regardless of her plans, far be it from her to miss the opportunity now. “Tomorrow at half-past one, then, if that will work for you?”
He shrugged a single shoulder. “Perfect.”
Hermione nodded, jotting the appointment down. She thought that would be the end of it, surely he had other things to do with his day, but the man just stood there, slouched against the wall, and smiling at her like some sort of lunatic.
“Erm, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mister Nott.”
“Theo,” he corrected automatically, thankfully seeming to take her hint as he pushed away from the wall.
She pressed her lips together in a tight smile. “Theo, then.” He nodded decisively, as if that was all he’d been waiting for, before he turned to leave.
“Pleasure to see you again, Healer Granger,” he said, tossing one last grin over his shoulder as he strode from the room.
Theo paused at the open door, studying the witch with her head bent close over a book, bedraggled quill taking frantic notes. For a moment, they could have been back at Hogwarts, Granger inevitably tucked into a distant corner of the library, her hair frizzing in a halo about her head as she pored through books no one had asked her to read. Not that he paid particular attention, but she’d been hard to miss when she all but put down roots among the shelves.
Her quill paused for a beat, and he rapped at the doorframe. Her head jerked up, her eyes widening in surprise. “Oh,” she said, sounding less enthused than he may have hoped, a small frown wrinkling her brow as she checked the clock.
“I’m early, I know,” Theo answered her question with a charming smile, as if she’d spoken it out loud. She blinked at him in response, and he shifted on his feet, something he may have called nerves rippling through him.
But that was ridiculous.
He was Theodore Nott. Member of the Sacred 28, fabulously wealthy, beloved professional athlete with a different girl on his arm each month. No, Theo Nott was not the sort to be nervous just because a schoolyard crush had come crashing back into his life. Even if her bright eyes did warm as he smiled, the corner of her rosy lips ticking upwards as she carefully marked her place in her book and closed it.
“No, no, it’s not a problem,” she assured him, pushing her notes to the side. “We can get started early. I’ll just meet you in the clinic in a few minutes?”
She was halfway up from her desk when he shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “No, I mean, I don’t want to interrupt your day, I just—” Wanted to see if you were wearing another one of those skirts today.
He bit back the words with a sheepish grin, pink dotting his cheeks as he raised the bag he held. “I didn’t see you come through the canteen, and thought you might not have known about lunch. It’s Greek day, which I promise you is better than the deep fried stuff cook likes to put out most days.” Sure, he’d meant for it to be his lunch, but it was as good an excuse as anything. Last thing he wanted to do was have the new healer reporting he’d lost his mind entirely. Which she certainly would if he blurted out the truth, that it drove him just the tiniest bit mad she didn’t seem to be nearly as intrigued by his presence as he was by hers.
The witch’s brow furrowed and he tensed. Fuck, was she upset he’d interrupted her reading?
His cheeks reddened beneath the tan brought about by hours in the Quidditch arena. “I mean if you’ve already eaten, I’ll just- Or maybe you don’t like Greek? I should have asked.”
Her expression cleared, as if he’d startled her from a particularly deep thought. “Oh, no! That’s actually… very kind of you, thank you.” She stammered out the last bit, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. He took her words as an invitation, pacing forward to deposit the bag on her desk, his wry grin firmly back in place as her gaze tracked him across the room.
“Enjoy, then. I’ll see you in—” He glanced at the clock. “Twenty-seven minutes. Don’t be late, Granger.” With that, he winked and strode from the room, leaving her gaping after him. No, no reason to be nervous at all.
As it turned out, it was exactly as hard to track down the players to schedule their physicals as Daisy had predicted it might be. By the time she’d spent her entire week quite literally chasing after Quidditch players—did they all have to be so damn tall?—trying to get them to commit to spending twenty minutes in her clinic, Hermione was halfway convinced that Theo had been sent as a ploy to lure her in with a false sense of confidence. A theory that was only reinforced by the fact that, despite his unexpected gift of lunch, she hadn’t seen him more than in passing since she’d concluded a quick examination and declared him to be in perfect health.
It was more likely that he’d simply tried, and failed, to set a good example as the team’s captain, but still. It was suspicious.
She’d managed to snag the majority of the players eventually, though it was all a bit of a blur after a while. She would need to double check her list. There had been a few that were more difficult than others, but word had spread quick enough that none of them would be flying if she didn’t sign off on their physical, and that had put an end to most of their protests.
Should she have run that plan by the coach first? Likely. But the three times she’d tried to stop by his office to introduce herself, he’d either already been with a player or, in the case of her third visit, brushed her off as if she were a gnat in his ear. So as far as she was concerned, he could deal with the repercussions the same as his players. Frowning, she flipped through her stack of medical files, cross checking it against the team roster that had been in her onboarding paperwork. Twenty-one out of twenty-two players. And she knew exactly who her problem child was.
She fought back a sigh as she rocked back in her new chair, twirling her quill idly. The team’s Bulgarian keeper had been avoiding her all week, doing a phenomenal job of pretending he didn’t speak English every time she’d managed to get anywhere near him. Which he may very well have got away with, if she hadn’t spent that summer with Viktor in Bulgaria a few years back, and known enough Bulgarian to determine that his muttered excuses weren’t at all complimentary, regardless of the guileless expression on his face.
Well, let him say whatever he liked. If he was going to be an arse about her being a woman, well, then she’d be an arse about him flying in their first exhibition game next weekend.
It was more satisfying than she’d admit, transfiguring her paperweight into a stamp and stamping a glaring red “GROUNDED” across the front of his file before she added it neatly to the top of the pile and sent the whole lot off to be filed with the team’s head coach. And now she’d wait.
It took less time than she’d expected, what little she’d learned of the team’s coach made it seem as if he wasn’t the sort to put much due in paperwork, but barely fifteen minutes passed before her door flew open and in barged a ruddy-faced man clad in a Dragons tracksuit, fury written across his expression.
“Coach Witten,” Hermione exclaimed pleasantly, folding her hands serenely atop her desk, as if she hadn’t expected just this reaction. “I’ve been hoping to have the opportunity to introduce myself. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to drop by.”
The man glowered at her as he stomped across the room, slamming a folder down on her desk so hard it rattled, a familiar red stamp shining up at her. “What the hell is this?” he nearly shouted.
Hermione blinked placidly up at him. “I’m sorry, were my notes not clear?”
His face grew impossibly red, his eyes bulging cartoonishly as he jammed a meaty finger down atop the folder. “I don’t know who you think you are, swanning in here and thinking you have a say with my players, but—”
It was here that Hermione decided this particular display of testosterone had gone on quite long enough, and she cut him off. “I’m the team’s new Healer, Coach Witten, as I’m sure you well know, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. And I’m terribly sorry if it’s inconvenient for you, but Mister Kolov was warned that if he didn’t attend his physical, he wouldn’t be permitted to fly, same as all your other players. Rules are put in place for a reason, as I’m sure you know.”
“I don’t give a flying Firebolt about your damn rules,” he spat, spittle flying from his lips as he snatched the folder back from her desk, waving it about dramatically. “If you think I’m going to bench one of my best damn players because your feelings are hurt he didn’t come panting after you—” Her shock must have shown on her face because he sneered. “You think I don’t know about Hermione Granger? Every Tom, Dick, and Harry knows you go scrambling after every famous bloke you can find. So you’re bored with Krum and Potter and thought you’d work your way through my team?”
Theo ambled down the hallway, paper cup clutched in one hand, the other shoved deep in his pocket. It had been nearly a week since he’d last spoken to the witch, plenty of time for whatever passing interest he’d felt to dissipate. She was someone new, that was all, a change of pace. Any number of witches were ready and waiting for him, he’d move on to the next soon enough. But it didn’t help that Granger swanned through the halls day in and day out, that arse of hers carefully hidden beneath sensible dark robes, her wand more often than not stabbed through her curls to hold them off her neck and irritation written across her face as she hurried after his teammates. Who could blame him for being fascinated by the witch?
Yes, he could have tried harder to rally his team to take part in her scheduled physicals, he’d heard the rumblings of them conspiring to avoid it. But he’d rather they haze her a bit, like they would any other new team member, rather than staring after her with the flickers of lust he’d seen on her first day. Or at least, he thought that was the preferred option, except he suspected she might be avoiding him because of it, and that simply wouldn’t do.
So tea it was, a peace offering of sorts. Short of intentionally hurling himself off his broom, he couldn’t see much other way to capture her attention.
As he drew nearer to her office, the sound of raised voices echoed down the hall.
He rounded the corner just in time to catch the last of Witten’s words as he loomed over the witch’s desk. “ …you’d work your way through my team?”
Fury flashed across Hermione’s face, and, before he could think better of it, he knocked at the door frame, interrupting before she could speak, or worse, hex the coach across the room. “Everything alright here?”
Her gaze spun to him, fire bright in her eyes and, for a moment, he regretted putting himself in the direct path of that wrath. “Everything is fine, Nott,” she bit out, her voice tight as she tapped one finger against the scarred wood of her desk. “Coach Witten was just leaving.”
The coach swelled as if he were going to continue, but Hermione cut him off. “You need to leave,” she ordered, her tone unwaveringly certain. He sneered at her and Theo opened his mouth to interrupt, but she continued, her voice hard. “I quite frankly don’t give a damn how you feel about me or my personal life. It’s my responsibility to ensure that your best damn players don’t suffer from entirely preventable injuries before the season even starts. And if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the front office.”
Theo’s eyes widened at the vitriol in her tone, before the meaning of her words had even truly sunken in. A muscle twitched in the coach’s jaw, his face an unfortunate shade of red, meaty hands balled at his side.
“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?” Theo pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps into the room, positioning himself between his coach and their healer before they could come to blows.
Hermione’s gaze sharpened as she bit out an explanation. “Coach Witten seems to disagree with my plan of care, particularly when it comes to your Keeper.”
Theo’s brow furrowed as he glanced between the two. “Kolov? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” Witten spat. “She just doesn’t want him to fly.” He leaned around Theo to glower at Hermione. “You can kiss the Dragons goodbye. You think you’re just going to waltz in here and ruin this team’s chances at the Cup? Fucking—”
“Hey,” Theo cut the man’s words with a sharp slash of his hand. Fucking hell, what had he walked into? “I’m sure Healer Granger has her reasons, right?” He glanced over his shoulder at the witch, whose eyes narrowed even as she gave a terse nod.
“Right then, I’m sure we can sort this all out easy enough. We’ll just go to Malfoy and—”
“To who?” The witch cut him off, her chair screeching angrily across the floor as she pushed to her feet. Theo looked back at her, surprised by the sudden anger written in her tone as she rounded her desk, but Witten answered before he could.
“We’ll damn well take it to Malfoy like I said,” the coach sneered. “He’ll put a stop to this, owner’s not gonna like it if his team doesn’t make money because some jumped up healer thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”
Hermione simply stared at him, mouth agape, and a look of mean victory spread over Coach Witten’s expression, no doubt convinced his threat had been enough to silence her.
For a moment, Theo was certain he was going to watch the witch violate several international statutes as her fingers twitched near the pocket he suspected housed her wand. But instead, she remained silent for a moment, fire snapping in her gaze until finally, deceptively calm, “Go right ahead, I’ll look forward to our discussion.”
Coach Witten glared, clearly furious he hadn’t won the last word, but he simply scoffed, turned his back to her, and stomped from her office. Hermione stared after him for a moment before turning slowly to face Theo, shaking hands fisted at her side.
“Fucking Malfoy?” she shrieked.