Quidditch is a grueling sport.

It's even worse to watch, for you. It just doesn't capture your interest.

So, on the Saturdays of quidditch matches, you opt for other things to do than watch the games.

Often, you go up to the hospital wing, and help Madame Pomfrey prepare for the inevitable injuries of the players after.

Sometimes, you help take care of the players, too.

But certainly, you've never had to take care of Potter.

Potter, the Triwizard champion. Potter, the Gryffindor seeker. Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Potter, who somehow, always manages to get himself in trouble.

No, you've never had to take care of him.

Today, though?

Today, there's an influx of ill students, before and after the match.

So when Harry, with a bloody cheek and a bruised arm, is ushered in by Hermione and Ron, who has to take care of him?

You.

---

Harry knows he gets himself in bad situations.

He knows he shouldn't have followed the snitch all the way to the ground, without looking out for bludgers.

And so he took a bludger to the cheek, and a fall to the ground.

And he knows it's his fault.

But still, he does have to go to the hospital wing. So Ron and Hermione escort him there, after the match.

But when he gets to the hospital wing, he doesn't expect to see you there.

You, with your words like knives, that you've always been unafraid to use against anyone who gives you a hard time.

You, with your long black curls, and red streaks of hair dye, and eyes full of passion-

No. No, fuck, he's not doing that.

But, really, in all seriousness-

He's never thought of you as a gentle creature.

He doesn't know you very well, yes, but from first year you've always been very...

Stand-offish.

You don't seem like the nursing type, or the domestic type.

You've never appeared as a caretaker, yet here you are, acting like a mini Madame Pomfrey.

It's interesting.