The Quidditch Player
A/N: This story was inspired by Of Quidditch Pants and Persuasion by It's Just Not Flowing.
Chapter 1
Monday, 10 July 2006
Hermione loved Mondays. Really, she did. They were a fresh start to the week no matter how dreadful the past one was. And whilst many of her co-workers looked as if they rolled out of bed and somehow happened upon the Ministry of Magic by accident, she believed professional appearances spoke volumes and helped with internal promotions. She was currently a secretary, a position she didn't mind but had every intention of vacating at the earliest opportunity to pursue a more compelling career.
Once in her office, Hermione set her satchel atop her desk and waved her wand at the window. The curtain parted down the middle and furled off to the sides so that Place Cachée, the Paris equivalent of Diagon Alley, came into view under an early sunrise, the pink and purple clouds like fluffy candy floss in the sky. Hermione mentally thanked Magical Maintenance for being courteous enough to provide her with a little piece of Montmartre. She shrugged off her trench coat, an expensive but worthy purchase from Harrods in Knightsbridge, and hung it in the wardrobe. Once at her desk, she tapped the topmost drawer with her wand so that it barreled open like a train on its tracks.
As she reached for one of the many folders inside, a figure passed by her door, quiet as a mouse. Hermione waited, eyes skirting the outside office area where cubicles were huddled together. She quickly surmised it wasn't one of her co-workers for surely they would've greeted her with the usual Good mornings or Hellos as they were wont to do. It was office etiquette and all. Instead, this was someone who wasn't a department regular. She wondered who it was so early in the morning. She always had, at the very least, an hour in solitary confinement before everyone else started trickling in.
Hermione heard a knock on the door next to hers that echoed in the arrant silence. The knocking came again, louder this time. She wondered whether or not this person had seen her open door when they passed by it. She gambled on the probability they hadn't or else would've stopped and asked if the person they were looking for had come in yet. A third knock rattled her, it being so barbaric she wondered if this person at their food with a fork and knife like a civilised human being. She huffed, planting her palms on her desk and pushing herself upwards. There was absolutely no way she going to let this oaf disrupt her morning, especially when she had it all planned out to the exact minute no less. She had a schedule to stick to, damn it!
She tiptoed to the door, poking her head around the frame. A stranger stood nearby, glancing down at the Bremont watch on his wrist and frowning when he looked around at the empty cubicles. From what Hermione could see, the black hair on his head was extremely messy, as if he woke up with it and couldn't be bothered to run a comb through the disarray. Bedhead, as people liked to call it. The round glasses he wore windowed his brilliant green eyes behind the lenses. And his grey T-shirt was tight on him, his dark jeans fitting his bum like a pillow fitted a person's head at night.
"Excuse me," Hermione whispered, not wanting to disturb the current tranquility. "Can I help you?"
The stranger turned around and looked at her curiously, asking, "Do you work here?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"I was wondering when Ludo Bagman was going to come in," he said, taking a couple of steps forward and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"He usually gets in close to nine."
"Are you his secretary then?"
"Whatever you need, I'm sure I can be of assistance."
"Ludo never got back to me about the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex. I was hoping he had an update or two," the stranger smiled.
Waving him into her office, Hermione replied, "Unfortunately, the proposal has experienced some unforeseen complications." Other unforeseen complications that had nothing to do with Quidditch were the sizzling snares of electricity that surged through her veins because the stranger was rather fanciable when he smiled at her.
"Complications?" he repeated. "What kind are we talking about?"
"One primary one, actually," she said, indicating for the stranger to take the seat opposite her. "It's due to budget concerns. Mr Bagman's request for funding was denied by the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
"Was there any reason given?" the stranger asked, clearly irritated.
"Mr Stump didn't think it was a smart use of funds, claiming nothing was wrong with the current arrangement."
"Everything's wrong with the current arrangement," he grumbled. "It's a complete cock-up."
"There seems to be a bit of tension between the two of them."
"That's not much of a surprise, is it? Stump supports the Appleby Arrows of Appleby-in-Westmorland. They're big rivals of the Wimbourne Wasps and have been for over three hundred years now."
"Mr Bagman played for the Wasps, didn't he?"
"As a beater," the stranger supplied. "You see, in the mid-seventeenth century, there was a controversial game between the Arrows and Wasps. Whenever the Arrows scored, their club supporters shot a load of arrows in the air. Everyone had to dive for cover lest they were wounded by the onslaught. Incensed, beaters for the Wasps conjured wasp nests and started clobbering them all around the Quidditch pitch. The seeker for the Arrows complained of being stung all over his body. The official tried to call off the game when a violent brawl took place. The healers at St Mungo's were overwhelmed by the number of people admitted because of how many times the Instant Scalping Hex was cast. There's still a lot of animosity between them, evidenced by Stump's dislike of Ludo all these years later."
The stranger frowned when he finished, defeated the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex had run aground. At the present, there was only one Quidditch pitch in Exmoor for the thirteen teams part of the British and Irish Quidditch League to use. They had been advocating for their own Quidditch pitches many years now.
"He plans to appeal," Hermione said, "Mr Bagman, that is." She supposed sharing a bit of hope, no matter how small, didn't extend beyond her job requirements. If it did, such job requirements could sod right off.
"When's he going to do that?" the stranger asked, his fanciable smiling returning in all of its splendour and glory.
"Next week," Hermione answered. "He's actually put me in charge of the revision process." She tried not to sound too haughty but considered this to be a huge opportunity to advance her career within the Ministry of Magic hierarchy. Of course, that would be wholly dependent on whether or not the motion was passed.
"What's wrong with the original draft?"
"Once again, funding," Hermione said. "The previous bid for the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex would use up a majority of the budget allocated to the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The project would be rejected immediately."
"Is there another way around that?" the stranger asked, resting his ankle on top of his knee.
"The funding would have to come from somewhere else," she replied, trying not to stare at the stranger's black crew socks that were pulled high on his leg. It was her Achilles' heel if there was any. "If that's not possible, the budget for the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex would have to be severely diminished."
"But the space needed only works with how much money was requested," he countered.
"I understand. However, it's just not practical. Funding for the department is distributed between its divisions equally. It would be improper for the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters to take any necessary money away from the Ludicrous Patents Office or the Official Gobstones Club to use for our own personal gain."
"What if they lent the money out? They could be paid back with interest, right?"
"Excuse you, but we are not a bank," Hermione said, wanting to kick the stranger in the shins for being so obtuse.
He scowled at the floor, drumming his fingers against his leg as if it was a minefield of pressure points.
After a minute he murmured, "I suppose I could put in a good amount. Wood could as well. I'll have to ask the rest of the lads if they're willing to match-,"
"I beg your pardon," she interrupted. "Are you suggesting paying for the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex with your own money?"
"Mine and a few others," he nodded, serious.
Hermione felt like laughing as she said, "I suppose you have one of the bigger accounts at Gringotts then?"
"Pretty sure they're all the same size," he said, completely missing the sarcasm.
Hermione tried again, but this time jailed the irony.
"I mean, do you honestly think you're going to be able to afford the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex? It costs a shedload!"
The stranger only shrugged, "You make a lot playing Quidditch."
This made Hermione pause. A curious thing too as very little baffled her into complete silence. Yet, this stranger's admission surely did and quite easily on top of that. Scrutinising him a little more carefully, she now saw more of him than upon her first inspection. His shoulders were wide, his biceps closely resembling a mountain range. He had a clearly defined chest that stretched down to a flat stomach. And his narrow hips were a provocative gateway to his long legs. To put it simply, he looked good. Very good, in fact. She tried to keep from drooling like a ninny. Because even though Hermione thought it was shallow to judge someone based solely on their physical appearance, this was a particularly special case. Books not looks! Hermione used to tell herself at school.
"You're a Quidditch player?" she asked.
"I thought you knew."
"And how was I supposed to know that?"
"Everyone here does," he said. "We're in the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters after all."
"I'm well aware of where we are, thank you," Hermione snapped at him. She didn't appreciate how belittled she felt, no matter how fit the stranger in front of her was. "It isn't an obligation to be a fan of Quidditch to work here."
"I'd imagine anyone who wasn't a fan of Quidditch and happened to work here would find it a bit dull."
A small smile slid its way across Hermione's face, one that didn't come close to reaching her eyes.
"Contrary to that absurd belief, I enjoy the work I do very much."
"You're not a fan of Quidditch?" the stranger asked, genuinely surprised.
"If you must know, I'm not much into flying," she huffed. "Thus, I don't like Quidditch in the slightest."
"Don't like Quidditch?" the stranger repeated, scandalised. He shook his head as if trying to clear Hermione's nonsensical acknowledgement that had cobwebbed somewhere deep in the recesses.
She pursed her lips, annoyed beyond belief this stranger was playing her like a twit just because she didn't like Quidditch. She hadn't been around Quidditch players often enough to conclude if they were brilliant and masters in the art of flying or if they were brainless, one-eyed trolls who could barely string together coherent sentences for polite conversation. She thought the stranger across from her was more of the latter, fanciable smile or not. He was apt to believe the other divisions in the Department of Magical Games and Sports would be more than willing to loan their money out and they could be paid back with interest. What as asinine thought to have!
"Yes, well, isn't it a shame we don't all like Quidditch?" Hermione said.
"Flying, too," he pointed out.
"I have a perpetual fear of heights!" she said shrilly. She was getting agitated, and it wasn't even seven in the morning. If this kept up, she would have to leave work early which would only increase her workload for tomorrow.
"The only way to overcome your fear of flying is to keep at it," the stranger offered.
"I don't have any need to fly. I'm more than content to keep my feet firmly on the ground."
"Suit yourself," he replied coolly.
His indifference on the matter had Hermione itching to break his glasses. She would love to see him trying to fly around a Quidditch pitch without them.
"Anyway, do you have anything else to bother me about?" she asked him none too nicely. "I'm rather busy at the moment."
"So early in the morning, are you?" he asked, making a point to look at his watch.
"I'm an early riser."
"As am I," he responded.
"I know," Hermione said. "Why else would you be here if it wasn't to distract me from my work?"
"I'm not sure if you remember, but you weren't anywhere on the itinerary. I wanted to speak with Ludo about the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex, something that's a touch important, only for you to ignore it completely."
"I'm not ignoring anything!" she said angrily, her hands balling into fists. "I just find your visit to be completely irrational!"
"How?" he asked.
Before she answered, Hermione took deep breaths. The last thing she needed was to have a shouting match with a stranger so early in the morning. Because she noticed he, too, was riled up, his voice having risen considerably.
"You could've sent your inquiring with the owl post. I answer all my mail before the end of the day."
Though his jaw was tense, the stranger seemed to let out a breath he'd been holding in. Hermione assumed he had his own calming mechanisms to employ under heated situations.
"I was up anyway," he finally let out, leaning against the back of his chair. "Quidditch practice," he added as an explanation.
"At this time?"
"The Quidditch World Cup is only a month away. We're playing Bulgaria, and Viktor Krum, the team's seeker, is phenomenal. But don't you see? The English National Quidditch team is using the British and Irish Quidditch League's only pitch in Exmoor. The other teams, including the team I play for, Puddlemere United, is complaining they don't have anywhere to practice without violating the International Statute of Secrecy. Those cocky bastards at the Improper Use of Magic Office have fined us plenty of times before. That's why we need individual pitches for each team. That way, there isn't any fuss."
"Listen, I know the problems that the British and Irish Quidditch League have. I read the proposal several times already. Aside from the ridiculous Arrows-Wasps rivalry, the only delay it faces is funding." After hesitating, she went on, "If it means anything, I'd give the approval, no questions asked."
"Why's that? I thought you didn't like Quidditch?"
"I don't," Hermione confirmed. "But I do like practicality. And for thirteen teams to share one place to practice isn't exactly reasonable."
The stranger nodded in agreement, and any resentment she felt towards him melted away like ice on a hot day. They finally found some common ground, a place where judging one another and their ideas wasn't part of their unspoken of treaty. Perhaps they turned a corner so to speak, an understanding they had of each other that was absent minutes prior. And a subtle nod of his head was all it took.
"So, you're on the English National Quidditch team?" Hermione asked.
"And Puddlemere United."
Glancing at him skeptically, she asked, "You're not the seeker by any chance, are you?"
"How do you know about the seeker position?"
"Oh, honestly! Just because I don't like Quidditch doesn't mean I'm completely oblivious to it!" she rolled her eyes. "I went to a school full of boys who talked about it constantly!"
"Hogwarts, right?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer but then realised she hadn't introduced herself to the stranger in front of her. At the same time, he hadn't introduced himself to her either. It was very unlike Hermione to withhold an introduction from someone she didn't know and considered why it slipped her mind that morning. She ran upon two possibilities of what may have hindered their accommodation. Firstly, she didn't expect their conversation to last as long as it did. Secondly, the opportunity didn't come to fruition. In her opinion, both options were likely.
"I didn't go to Hogwarts," she said.
"Were you taught at home?"
"No. I studied at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France."
"You're French?" he asked.
"I guess you could say that," Hermione laughed, suddenly feeling rather shy. "But I'm originally from London."
"The Smoke's a big place."
"Crouch End," she told him. "My parents own a dental practice on the Broadway. They moved back during the summer but kept their flat in Paris so they could go there on holiday whenever they wanted."
"That's north London, isn't it?"
"It's a beautiful place that has an iconic clocktower," Hermione smiled.
"Do you still live with your parents?"
"Not anymore. I don't even live in London. It's much too busy for me."
"Where did you settle down?"
"A village in West Country," she said. "Godric's Hollow. Have you heard of it?"
The stranger's mouth dropped open as he stared at her.
"Are you taking the piss?"
Hermione sniffed, "I assure you I'm not because I haven't any reason to." To be honest, she couldn't help but feel a little offended the stranger thought she would have time for such comedy.
"I live in Godric's Hollow," he said. "I have for the past several years now. Never seen you there before."
"It's probably because I moved there at the beginning of the month. I live at the end of Church Lane, near St Jerome's Church." Hermione wasn't sure why she was telling a complete stranger this, especially one who lived in the same village. For all she knew, he could be a madman, a possible escapee from Bethlem Royal Hospital in Monks Orchard. The odds weren't in favour of him being a total nutter, but you can never be too sure. "Where are you in the village?"
"All the way on the other side," he answered. "A good distance from you."
"Godric's Hollow hasn't always been as big as it is, has it?"
"It's expanded recently. Not sure if I like it to be honest with you."
"I do," Hermione said, elbowing the desk so she could rest chin on top of her fingers elegantly. "It's quiet regardless. I prefer it to London any day of the week."
"Sure, but it was quieter before."
She shrugged, "It doesn't bother me. There is such a thing as a village being too small."
The stranger seesawed his head side to side, trying to decide if he agreed with the sentiment. As he did, Hermione saw a scar shaped like a lightning bolt that veered down the middle of his forehead. This answered the question of who the stranger was.
"Why Godric's Hollow?" he asked. "It seems a bit random if you ask me."
"It's not!" she defended. "There's so much history there!"
"And you like history, do you?"
"Yes," Hermione said.
"You would've done well in History of Magic."
"As a matter of fact, I got top marks in History of Magic." The stranger looked puzzled. "They offer something similar at Beauxbatons," she explained quickly. "I don't know if you know this, but Godric's Hollow was founded by Godric Gryffindor in the Dark Ages. When the Peverell brothers were born a couple of centuries later, the village comprised of around one hundred people. Bowman Wright was one of them. He forged the very first Golden Snitch."
"Are you sure you're not a fan of Quidditch?" the stranger asked, amused. "How else would you about Bowman Wright? Hell, I bet you half of the English National Quidditch team doesn't know who he is!"
"Once again," Hermione said, smiling despite herself, "I don't like Quidditch."
"What is it then?"
"I read a lot," she told him.
"And you read about the history of Godric's Hollow, have you?"
"There are loads of books to choose from," Hermione replied. "Did you know Albus Dumbledore once lived there? It's where he met Gellert Grindelwald of all people. Madam Maxime had an earful to say about him when she returned from Hogwarts after the Triwizard Tournament."
"You weren't at Hogwarts for it, were you?"
"I was too young to enter, not that I wanted to."
"How old were you?"
"Almost a year older than you," Hermione said quietly.
Realisation dawned across the stranger's face like sunlight swelling over the British moors in the morning.
"You know who I am?" he asked.
"I didn't at first," she said, wiping her hands across her desk as if there was a smattering of crumbs. "But it eventually came to me."
"When was that?" He uncrossed his ankle from his knee, deciding to lean forward and stare at her. Hermione grew warm under his piercing gaze.
"You told me you're the seeker the English National Quidditch team and Puddlemere United. That narrowed it down. Then, you mentioned Wood's name. That cut the list down further because you don't seem to be one of those narcissists who refer to themselves in the third person. But the most telling was this," and she traced the lightning bolt-shaped scar down her own head to mirror his.
"I should've known," he said. Reaching over the desk with his hand outstretched, he introduced himself. "Harry Potter, seeker for the English National Quidditch team and Puddlemere United."
Gently shaking it, she said, "Hermione Granger, Mr Bagman's secretary." Her hand fit in his like a glove, and she quite liked the feel of it. That was why she inwardly frowned when he let go.
"It's nice to finally meet you," Harry said.
"Finally?"
"We've only been talking for a good part of the morning, and I didn't know your name for most of it."
"We got distracted," she laughed, eyeing the clock on the opposite wall. "But now that you do know my name, do you mind leaving? I've got work to do."
"Hang on," Harry said. "Are you kicking me out of your office?"
Hermione might've imagined it, but he seemed disappointed.
"Yes," she admitted. "I'm sorry. I have a schedule to keep with Mr Bagman and can't afford to fall behind."
"You have a lot to do?"
"Always," she sighed. "Sometimes there aren't enough hours in the day to keep up with everything that's required of me."
"I know the feeling," Harry acknowledged. Hermione didn't have to ask him for clarification, especially with the Quidditch World Cup looming ever closer.
"Because I'm in charge of revising the proposal for the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex, I'll try to do all I can to think of a way we can fund the project."
"Can you come up with something?" he asked, getting to his feet.
"I'll try my best," she said.
"Will that be enough?"
Hermione worried her bottom lip and replied, "We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"
A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.