The click of Hermione's sensible shoes echoed from the walls of the dimly lit corridor. She walked quickly wanting to get this meeting out of the way as quickly as possible. Her job as a PR hardly ever required her to make visits; usually it was just Floo calls, or meetings in her office. But this particular client was especially awkward and claimed that due to his busy schedule, the only time he could meet was straight after his Quidditch practice, in the changing rooms. Much to her dismay.
She stopped at the door to the locker rooms, straightened out her grey suit and patted her hair to assure that it was still in its neat bun. Hermione took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
'Hello?' she called. 'Oliver? It's Hermione. I'm here to talk about your...predicament.'
She entered the changing rooms fully and marched into the centre of the room. She heard the sounds of the shower and sighed. Of course he was in the shower. Hermione wondered if he was purposefully trying to make this encounter difficult. She sighed and strode over to the shower, trying to steer clear of the steam.
'Mr Wood?' No answer.
'Mr Wood!' Still no answer. She was beginning to get rather frustrated.
'MR WOOD!' Her shout echoed of the walls.
She heard the squeak of the tap and Oliver popped his head out of the cubicle.
'Ah! Hermione! Ah' was wonderin' when ya' were gonna show up!' He grinned, Hermione grimaced. 'Let me jus' get a towel an' ah'll be righ' with ya' lass!'
For some reason, his Scottish accent grated on Hermione's nerves.
'If you could please hurry, Mr Wood. I have other commitments to attend to.' She whirled and marched back to the centre of the room. She was tempted to sit on the benches but decided against it. It wouldn't do to get her suit muddy.
'Ah! Ah'm feelin' much better now. Ah' love a good shower after a hard Quidditch practice." Oliver Wood strode confidently towards Hermione in nothing but a towel hanging loosely around his hips. Hermione's eyes grew wide as she took in his body. His shoulders were wide and his arms were big and muscled and he had ridiculously toned abs. He even had that sexy 'V' disappearing beneath the towel, something only truly dedicated athletes were ever blessed with. Hermione rather thought a body this amazing should be made illegal.
Oliver cleared his throat and smirked. Hermione jumped, well aware that her gaze had lingered for far too long, and tore her eyes to his face, a blush burning across her cheeks,
She cleared her throat.
'Listen Mr Wood, I am a very busy woman, and I have an appointment scheduled with Ginny Weasley in...' she glanced at her watch. '…half an hour. So please, we need to discuss this.' She reached into her handbag and pulled out today's copy of The Daily Prophet. She slapped it on the bench, looking at the offending article with a look a pure disgust.
The front page showed a picture of Oliver 'cavorting' with a very young looking fan girl outside of the famous wizarding nightclub, Cauldrons and Wands. The young girl had bleach blond hair, bright red lips and her clothing left little to the imagination. Oliver sighed and sat on the bench.
'Ah, right. Tha'...' he rubbed his hand over his face.
Hermione looked at him pointedly. She pointed to the newspaper and shook her head.
'Well? What the bloody hell is this Wood? Merlin! My job is hard enough as it is, without you cavorting with witches in public - who look dangerously young by the way! What am I supposed to do about this?' She ranted shaking an accusatory finger between Oliver and the newspaper. It wasn't the first time Oliver Wood had found himself in a messy situation, and relying completely on Hermione to clean up after him. She was about ready to burst. Hermione was absolutely sick of doing this. After all, Oliver was not her only client, she had other responsibilities! 'Come on, Wood! How many times have we had this conversation? You say 'Acgh! Ah' shan't do it again!' and I say 'Okay Mr Wood'. And then the next bloody day I pick up a paper and there you are, with another bimbo.'
Oliver glanced up, his mouth slightly agape. If she wasn't so furious, Hermione may have found this quite endearing.
'Wha' are ya' talkin' about? This is yer job after all! I make the mistakes; you fix 'em.' He was beginning to worry. If Hermione quit, he'd be royally screwed. She was the best PR Guru around. And with the messes he got himself into, he thought glancing down at the paper, he needed the best.
'This!' Hermione shrieked, snatching up the paper and waving it in Oliver's face. 'This is not my job! My job is to worry about your public image! Not to allow you to sleep with every Tom, Dick and Harry and then cover it up for you! Merlin, Oliver! You're a bloody superstar! The press can manage to dig up enough dirt by themselves, but you, you, just hand it to them on a silver bloody platter!'
Once her second mini-rant of the day (although Oliver would hardly call that mini) was over, Hermione took a deep breath and raised a shaky hand to her forehead. She suddenly had a pulsing headache.
Oliver thought it was high time to put her at ease. After all, this wasn't the first time Hermione had screamed and shouted at him; however it was the first time she had threatened to quit...
'Listen, this is nought!' Oliver stammered, hurriedly. 'And ah' swear after this ah'm not gonna get into messes! Ah' swear ta' ya'!'
Hermione shook her head and sat next to him. She put her head in her hands and heaved a weary sigh. 'I'm sorry, Mr Wood. But I can't do this anymore.' She whispered, so quietly Oliver had to strain to hear her. 'I'm afraid you're going to have to find a new PR. I'll stay until you find a new one, of course, but this is it. I spend more time working on your life than my own. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go.'
Oliver watched as Hermione stood up and left the locker rooms. Now he was screwed
A/N: This happens to be the very first fanfic I have ever posted *cheers*.
Please, just review it! I really want to know whether this story is worth continuing.
Srsly though guys, I'm nervous, so be nice! (:
Oh and I'll apologise now for Oliver's accent. I think this is Scottish, but I'm not too sure (which is terrible, since I live in Britain and should know the accents by now).