A Hermione-Marcus beginning. I don't own anything you recognize. I don't make any profit off of posting this. Almost a one shot, except it feels so unfinished. Hermione is in sports mediwizardry and twitterpates Marcus Flint.
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Marcus shook the rain and mud out of his eyes and focused—he was the only beater left fully capable in this scrimmage. And his team was going to win.
Though the Chudley Cannon's had brought up their record and reputation, losing to them in a simple scrimmage was not good for team moral or their own reputation. Even if this was a private event, Marcus was sure that some family in the stands would snitch.
With a snarl he reached out and smacked the bludger away from Casey, giving the relieved team member a nod before chasing the bludger down and directing it to the other team's Chasers.
He pumped his fist when it made the other Chaser swerve, dropping the attempt to harass the Puddlemere Chasers who had the Quaffle.
Puddlemere scored.
Marcus grinned.
One more and they'd win, no matter who caught the Snitch.
"The Snitch!" The announcer cried, Marcus felt his blood freeze, quickly glancing up at the instant replay. With a feral victorious howl he pumped his fist in the air with his teammates as they watched Allens catch the snitch right out from under the opposing seeker's nose.
Ignoring the announcer they did their victory lap before landing to shake hands. Most of the Cannons were good sports about their loss; it was a good clean game. Only two were sulky, the new hire who probably took the loss hard, and Ronald Weasley.
Marcus tightened his jaw and shook the pouting redhead's hand, doing his best to ignore the glare and sulk in what should be a mature man.
The locker room was heady with excitement, the team talking about heading to a pub for a celebration. Marcus decline as he toweled off his hair, putting on his track pants and casual jersey to go talk to the coach.
He planned to see the two team members in the ward. One had been hit with a bludger Marcus hadn't got to in time, and he felt a building tight guilt in his chest. He had to make sure his team member was all right, that he'd play in the next game.
He was the protector on the team—it was his job to make sure the rest could play and do their jobs.
The other beater was in the ward through fault of his own, but Marcus would still check up on him. He was the rookie, and he needed to learn. But to learn he had to be able to play.
Sometimes scrimmages were more violent and dangerous than actual games.
The locker room was empty by the time he had his duffle packed, and he couldn't even hear the team in the halls. Setting his bag against Coaches office, where the room was dark and empty, he set to walk the halls and find coach.
Swiftly was well known for staying hours after a game, going over plays and tidying up their records. He would still be around to be found.
A commotion echoed down the hall, shouts and doors slamming. Marcus snapped his head up just in time for something to turn a corner and slam into him.
Marcus quickly regained his balance and breath, looking down to see a head of riotous curls. His one hand had ended up in those curls, and they were soft and silky, tangling around his fingers as he braced his palm against this witch's back. His other hand had captured her arm, his fingers almost wrapped entirely around her bicep.
He blinked in consternation as the witch sniffled, then clutched at his jersey and started sobbing. He stiffened, feeling the way she leaned into him as if he was the only thing holding her upright. Her sobs were real, and obviously not from running into him.
Marcus scowled and pulled her closer into his chest, rubbing his thumb along her back and searching the halls for anyone to explain this. Whoever this witch was, she'd found his weakness.
He couldn't stand leaving a damsel in distress.
Just as she was getting her breath and sobs under control a wizard stumbled out into the hallway, righting his clothes. Marcus scowled harder at Weasley as he righted his orange jersey. He protectively pulled the witch closer, knowing that the redhead made most situations worse and bumbled things thoroughly.
"Hermione!" Weasley rushed out on a choppy breath as he approached.
The witch in Marcus' hold stiffened, pressing her forehead harder into his chest. Marcus' eyebrows shot up. The witch who'd lost all senses except the instinctive need for comfort and protection was Hermione Granger?
It took a lot to shake the witch who worked the sports injury emergencies at St. Mungos. Wizarding sports were extreme in most cases, and the injuries that did end up at the ward were the worst as most players were too stubborn to accept professional help unless it was very serious.
"Hermione," Weasley had regained his breath, though he was still working on straightening up.
"Go away Ronald," came a watery voice muffled against his jersey.
Marcus blinked and then glared, wrapping his arm tighter around the mediwitch.
Weasley finally straightened, glaring right back. Then another witch came from down the hall, still righting her straps to sit properly under her robes.
Marcus sneered.
"Won-won, I hope you feel better. I remember how much our little comfort sessions helped." She kissed the freckled cheek and then flounced down the hall, a satisfied expression on her face.
Ronald Weasley cleared his throat, "Hermione, what are you doing with Flint? Come on let's go."
Granger made a whimpering noise and shook her head against Marcus, her curls tangling further in his fingers. Marcus growled and tightened his hold on the witch again, stepping slightly to the side in case Weasley tried to grab her.
Weasley scowled—looking pale and petulant. "Hermione! Come on. We're going to be late for dinner."
"No Ronald!" she said in a watery voice, pulling her head up only to look over her shoulder and glare. Marcus stared down, a little impressed, at the tiny witch so obviously heart broken but still defiant.
It was such a contrast to her soft hair and skin, her pale dainty features and feminine clothes…that strength was admirable.
"Hermione," Weasley murmured, mopping a gangly hand down his face. "Really, we can talk about it on the way. We'll get it settled and have a good night yeah?"
Hermione growled.
Marcus almost smiled, his lips twitched briefly instead. That sound was impossibly cute coming from such a little thing still hiding in his arms.
"I don't want to go with you Ronald, I'll make my own plans for tonight."
"With Flint?!" Weasley roared.
Granger sniffled and blinked wet eyelashes as she finally looked up at Marcus, her whiskey eyes taking him in. "Sorry," she mumbled before turning to Weasley. "No, without you. It's no longer your business what I do tonight, or any night for that matter."
"Hermione," Weasley strangled out, torn between rage and despair.
She stuck her chin up. "You were saying we should take our time before committing—that was such a good idea. Now I'm not committed to staying with a wizard who cheats!"
"Well I wouldn't bloody well have to if you'd only—!"
"Don't finish that sentence!" she yelled back, her hands gripping Marcus' jersey tighter.
"Men have needs Hermione," Weasley said in a condescending voice.
"Real men treat their witches right," Marcus interjected, making Hermione gasp and crane her neck to look up at him. But he was glaring at Weasley. "Real men," he growled, "keep their word, and respect their witches. I don't see a man in front of me at all."
Weasley stepped forward, squishing Hermione between the two men and getting in Marcus' face. Hermione gasped and pressed further into Marcus. "I don't know what you think butting into our business, Flint. But butt out. You Slytherin trash don't know anything about real men anyway."
Marcus carefully adjusted Hermione so that she was out from between them, putting her behind and slightly to the side of him. He kept his arm in front of her just in case Weasley did something stupid, and he felt her small hands grip the fabric of his sleeve.
"Watch it Weasley, walk away. The lady already made her choice."
"She didn't choose you!" Weasley shrieked, getting right into Marcus' space. "And she's still coming with me! Hermione is mine!"
Hermione made a sound of outrage and pressed forward, but Marcus kept her back.
"She chose to leave you—and your philandering. Get out of here," Marcus growled; hunching his shoulders and getting right back into Weasley's space.
"What's going on here?" came the authoritative voice of the Puddlemere Manager. Swiftly was an older wizard with the ideals of gentry—he'd been the one to spot Marcus, spot something in him, and mentor him on his path to the Puddlemere first string. The wizard had taught him beyond sports too—things the elder Flint should have taught his only son and heir.
"A minor disagreement," Marcus murmured, not wanting to embarrass the witch.
Weasley snarled and undermined that effort, "Flint is stealing my girl! Tell him to get his filthy hands off her!"
Mr. Craven scowled, "Mr. Weasley, witches cannot be stolen as they are not possessions. Ladies make their choices. Miss Granger is also a witch known for her own power and magic—I don't think she'd let anyone steal her."
"We're sorry to be making a scene, Mr. swiftly," Hermione piped up, leaning over Marcus' arm with earnest eyes. "I'll be leaving shortly."
"Hermione!" Weasley shouted and whined in one breath.
She sniffed and tossed her curls, dismissing the redhead. Then she turned those whiskey eyes back up to Marcus, "Thanks for your help, I appreciate it."
Mr. Swiflty started smiling under his moustache as the woman walked the short hallway to the apparition point. Weasley tried to follow her, but Marcus caught him with a firm grip on the back of his neck. The redhead made a fuss, but both Mr. Craven and Marcus waited for the telltale sound of disapparition before letting him go.
The Chudley Cannons Keeper used some inappropriate language before turning on Marcus and Mr. Craven. "Look what you've done! Now I don't know where she's gone and I have reservations tonight!"
With no witch in the vicinity Marcus snarled, "Why don't you get in contact with your floozy then?" He shoved the wizard away from him. "Miss Granger deserves better treatment than that, and she ended it. Only a cad would press her now."
Mr. Swiftly glowered, "Doesn't your team contract forbid scandals like this? I thought the Cannons were doing everything to improve their image…"
Weasley went ruddy with an ugly shade of plum, adjusting his uniform again. "Lav came on to me, it hurts a witch when you say no," he excused himself. "Besides, you men should understand…"
"I don't," Marcus growled, his fists clenching. If he had a witch like Granger, with those soft curls and big eyes, he'd do everything in his power to keep her happy and get rings on her finger.
Weasley snorted, "I doubt you have the issue in the first place."
Mr. Swiftly stepped in before Marcus could lay hands on the berk. "He's famous, wealthy, and educated. But he's a gentleman." At Weasley's blank look he elucidated, "Wizards are meant to protect the modesty of their witches—you'll find no agreement from me about your behavior or opinion. Get cleaned up and out of our stadium, Weasley."
The redhead rolled his eyes and grumbled but did so.
Marcus flexed his tense fingers, breathing out slowly. He still struggled with his more violent tendencies, and Weasley pressed more than a few of his triggers.
He mastered himself and looked up, only to spot Mr. Swiftly smiling and stroking his beard. Marcus straightened and frowned, considering his mentor.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
Mr. swiftly snorted a laugh, "Aren't you going to go see to the witch?"
"…she apparated away."
"The sports mediwizardly contact for today was Miss Granger. The assigned mediwizard or witch is required to file reports in the office after the game—we had three serious injuries…"
Marcus blinked and straightened.
"Well?"
Marcus grinned and nodded sharply, then spun on his heel and walked the short hallway to the apparition point. From there he apparated to the other side of the stadium and walked to the medical office.
Sure enough, the door was ajar with spell light glowing from within. And the distinctive mutterings of an angry witch came through. Marcus cleared his throat and knocked before pushing the door open (never surprise an already angry witch).
Hermione looked up, her quill in hand.
He nodded his head and stepped in—"Miss Granger."
"Mr. Flint."
"Are you alright?"
She laughed, "Fine. It's not the first time he's embarrassed me."
Marcus scowled.
She blinked at him with her doe eyes and tilted her head. Her curly hair swung over her shoulder, and Marcus' gaze fixed on it—he wanted to tangle his fingers in the spirals again. "Did you need something Mr. Flint?"
He cleared his throat and snapped his eyes back to hers. "I wanted to check on my teammates…and apologize.'
"Well your teammates are jus—what?" She started with a pleased smile and then her eyes went wide.
Marcus stared into the fascinating amber color before clearing his throat and scratching his neck. "I…I wanted to apologize," he began slowly, thinking through his words.
"Marcus, whatever for?" she asked in a concerned tone.
He grumbled. "I didn't react fast enough."
"In the game? From what I saw you are an amazing Beater, you do your job of protecting your teammates. I'm sure they'd agree—" she started to work herself up.
He grinned and leaned forward with his palms on her desk. She stuttered to a stop and stared right into his eyes. He couldn't help it—she'd been watching him. She'd been impressed. It was a start. "I mean in the hallway," he clarified.
Apparently the witch had already switched her consideration entirely on to work and needed to be reminded. That was almost cute—that single-minded focus.
"Oh…again though, I don't see any reason to apologize. In fact I'm so sorry I just clutched on to you like that and you had to witness the whole thing. That was terribly awful of me…"
"Hermione," he murmured, ducking his head a little to catch her eyes. "I should have stopped Weasley sooner instead of letting him embarrass you. You were in distress, I should have stepped in."
She swallowed and sat up straighter. Then she cleared her throat and her eyes flicked to her paperwork. "I am a capable witch, Mr. Flint…"
"You are…but that doesn't mean you should face your trials alone."
Hermione sucked in a slow shaky breath and bit her lip, her eyes darting between his and examining him. Then she whispered very quietly, "Thank You."
Marcus smiled and gestured with his head over to the side ward—where his teammates were resting for the last of the potions affects. She smiled and he felt her eyes on him as he walked through the door and rumbled a greeting to Smithson.
When he had finished visiting Hermione was bent over her paperwork, quill furiously working to fill out the many forms to document the game's injuries. Marcus quietly left her to it with a small salute when she briefly looked up.