Hi, everybody! I come bearing the first part of a new story! It's a two-parter I wrote for the HP Rare Cliche Fest on LJ. My rare pair was Hermione/Cormac, and my cliche was healer!fic. Also, because Cormac is basically a blank slate, I've taken quite a few liberties with his character.

Rated for language, lots of UST, and moments of drama in the second part. No smut.

A million thanks to kaname's harisen for the beta job, and for being gracious enough to allow me to whinge for the better part of this story's writing process.

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Pain Management

It had never once occurred to Hermione Granger that, upon completing her required six years of Healer training and further three years of placement and rotations, St Mungo's wouldn't have a place for her.

"It's ridiculous, Miss Granger, I'm well aware," Head Healer Clementina told her that morning over a cup of weak, watery tea from the hospital canteen. "St Mungo's simply isn't in a stable enough financial place that new Healers can be taken on. Budget cut-backs mean we're letting go the ones we already have!"

"But I've been training at St Mungo's for nine years," Hermione stressed to the frazzled older woman, leaning forward low in her hard, plastic seat, but not so low that her burgundy, silk blouse – purposefully worn for what she had assumed would be a proper job interview and not a polite brush-off – skimmed the unidentifiable orange stain on the table. She had graduated with honours and high recommendations from all her lecturers only three weeks prior, and her subsequent job hunt was, so far, not at all what she had anticipated. "How can a fully qualified Healer not get a job in a hospital? It's ridiculous!"

"People have become timid and cautious to the point of irrationality, Miss Granger," the older woman explained with a shake of her head and a cluck of her tongue. "War does that to people. Minor injuries are nearly unheard of these days, and major injuries are rare. Basic medical spells are staples in homes now, and we have as many Healers as we need to handle illnesses and long-term patients." Clementina sighed and brushed back a greying strand of hair that had come loose from her functional bun. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but there is simply no room for you. Not just for you, but not for anyone."

"What am I to do, then?" Hermione asked, a little more waspishly than she intended. "Nine years of training, all for nothing?"

"Not nothing, Miss Granger, not at all." The older woman reached out and took Hermione's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "There will always be options. You can travel abroad, for example."

"My life is here, Head Healer," Hermione protested. "I have no intention of uprooting myself."

Clementina plucked another sachet of sugar, tore it open, and upended the contents into her tea. "I can keep your name down," she suggested diplomatically as she stirred the contents of the cup fervently with a little plastic stick. "I already have, though, mind you. That way, if something else opens, you'll be the first to know. St Mungo's would love to have you, Miss Granger – you have proven yourself to be beyond exemplary. Don't doubt that."

Hermione scoffed. "And how long would that be? By the times something else opens, much of what I learned would be completely redundant."

Clementina gave a sympathetic smile. "You have options, Hermione," she reiterated. "St Mungo's isn't the only place where Healers practice, and anywhere would be lucky to have you."

Hermione let out a sigh and sipped the last of her peppermint tea. "Thank you for your time, Head Healer."

"Anytime, Miss Granger. And I'm sorry; I wish I could be of more assistance."

Hermione alighted from her seat and slung her bag over her shoulder. "It's hardly your fault," she said quietly. "Perhaps I will hear from you soon."

Clementina's answering smile was wide and genuine as she stood and proffered a hand. "Perhaps, Miss Granger. Good luck, wherever you find yourself."

Hermione tried to smile in response, but it felt forced and half-hearted. She took the older woman's hand and shook it gently. "You as well, Head Healer."

XXX

The Leaky Cauldron on a Friday night was nothing short of a madhouse. Fights broke out between patrons for tables – Muggle fights, too, no less, as the newly minted Hannah Longbottom had insisted on a blanket ban on drawn wands within the establishment – complaints were petty and frivolous, and the atmosphere was so loud that Hermione could barely hear herself think, let alone hear her friends talk.

For nearly a decade, Harry Potter had, in all his infinite wisdom that could have only come from defeating a madman bent on total world domination, insisted that their weekly dinners with Ronald Weasley should definitely take place in the one venue that wouldn't have been even half as claustrophobic or boisterous on any other night. His logic was beyond comprehension sometimes. What she wouldn't give for even one hour inside Harry's head…

Tonight, though, she was immensely grateful for the remarkable anonymity a loud, crowded pub provided. Her own complaints would simply melt into the din, indistinguishable from the next, allowing her to whine loudly and without restraint, without any thought of the possible repercussions.

"And then, she tells me that St Mungo's won't even be able to hire me!" Hermione ranted. She tipped back a shot of Firewhisky and slammed the glass down on the table so forcefully that Harry and Ron shared a not-particularly-subtle wince. "Ridiculous! A hospital not wanting to take on a new Healer! Muggle hospitals should be so lucky to have doctors desperate for work just waltzing through their doors!"

She missed the concerned look Harry and Ron exchanged over her head as their food was brought to them. She let out a deep, contented sigh at the large plate of golden fish and chips that had been set in front of her and took a deep inhale.

"You know, Hermione," Harry began slowly as he metered out a nearly unhealthy amount of salt on his side salad. "I think I might have a solution for you."

Hermione swallowed her mouthful of fish and watched him expectantly. "What is it, Harry?"

"The Tutshill Tornadoes. You know, the Quidditch team? They're looking for a Healer."

Hermione snorted in amusement. Quidditch teams seeking Healers rarely wanted anything less than the Healer's very soul; they were looking for someone who would travel with them to all their games, attend all their training sessions, and be on-call morning, noon and night for any player who required them. Just as she had been about to laugh and call Harry out on his joke, he leaned right forward in his seat, as though he was imparting to her a great secret, his eyes glittering with a seriousness not often seen from her ever affable best friend.

"Ginny reckons they've been having heaps of trouble finding a Healer," Harry informed her over the noise, either purposefully ignoring or woefully oblivious to the heated glare she was sending his way. "Maybe you could see about getting a job with them? You'd get paid great, and you'd have tons of opportunity to travel, plus you'd actually be able to use all that training you got."

"Quidditch, Harry? Really?" she said in a deadpan as she dipped her chip into her tartar sauce and pointed it at him. "You know I hate the sport. The only reason I've put up with it for this long is because of the two of you."

"What does the sport have to do with it?" Harry asked her wisely. He cut a thin sliver from his steak and popped it into his mouth. "No one is making you play, and you'll not go near a broom if you don't have to," he went on after he had swallowed. "You're still a Healer, and you still get to help people. It's just… not in the setting you envisioned."

"I'd have to move, though, wouldn't I, if I truly have to be at their disposal morning, noon and night," Hermione pointed out. "I'm not willing to relocate, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You have this wonderfully handy thing called 'magic' at your disposal, Hermione. Maybe you ought to use it."

"I think it's a brilliant idea, 'Mione," Ron piped up excitedly. "And you could get me and Harry free Quidditch tickets!"

Hermione shot him a cold look. "That is hardly a good enough reason to take a new job, Ronald."

Ron rolled his eyes and shrugged as he took a bite of his sloppy burger. He had becoming annoyingly immune to her glares as of late. She would simply have to step up the intensity. "I'm just saying, there'd probably be some cool perks that you could take advantage of if you did."

"There would be, you know," Harry immediately agreed, his eyes bright. "The Tornadoes are one of the richest teams in the league. If they're as desperate for a Healer as Ginny says, you could ask for whatever you wanted!"

Hermione scowled at her best friends. "You two barely know me at all, do you?" She stood and straightened herself with authority before she turned on her heel and left, leaving Harry and Ron agape at their shared corner table, their forkfuls of food frozen half-way to their mouths.

The idea held fast in her mind, though – all through her walk back to her tiny flat in central London and for much of the week following.

She paid only the barest attention to her interim job in Flourish and Blotts, her usual enthusiasm for the work fading to little more than an inconvenience to her thoughts. Children that flittered through the store on quests to find their school texts were met with scowls as they dropped their purchases with unnecessarily loud bangs onto her counter. Even the bi-weekly trip to Fortescue's that she usually indulged in on her lunch breaks held little appeal. One night, she had tried a new novel only to realise she had spent two hours staring unseeingly at the words on the first page. The longer she dwelled on it, the more she realised that working for a Quidditch team might be her only opportunity to become a practicing Healer, and she would be an idiot of the highest degree if she didn't take it.

One particular night, when the sleeplessness that often came with her rambling, jumbled thoughts became too much to ignore, she tossed her blankets from her body with a scowl and stalked over to her heavy, mahogany desk. She took out a lined notebook from the drawer and proceeded to spend the remainder of the night, and much of the early morning hours, writing up a list of pros and cons in the hopes that it would give her some clarity on the matter. By six o'clock in the morning, she tossed her pen to her desk and flexed her cramping fingers as she glared down at the eight pages of paper, all covered to the point that the original colour of the parchment was nearly unidentifiable under her tiny, yet impossibly neat handwriting.

She couldn't be certain if, in the light of the new dawn, the heavy outweighing of pros to cons was a good or a bad thing.

Hermione's shoulders slumped and, with a great, heaving sigh, she fell back into her pillows and closed her eyes.

She couldn't help but hate herself in that moment for her unending dedication to all things practical.

XXX

The owner of the Tutshill Tornadoes – a frazzled, tired looking man named Terrence – let out a strangled sigh of relief when she appeared in his doorway after a timid knock to his door. She had sent out an owl holding her letter of inquiry about the Healer position at seven o'clock that morning, and had a reply in the affirmative back no less than ten minutes later. Another hour later, and there she was, using a Point Me spell to guide her through the cavernous, maze-like halls of Tutshill Stadium until she had reached the overly opulent door which bore a golden plaque reading 'Owner'.

"You're Hermione Granger," he said by way of greeting, pumping her arm furiously. "I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you in person. Please, please sit down."

"Thank you," she replied hesitantly as she gently extracted her hand from his clammy grip. She carefully folded herself into the proffered chair and crossed one leg over the other, settling her hands on her knee. "I'm here for the interview?"

"Of course you are, dear," Terrence said as he cleared a stack of parchment from his desk and brushed the remaining dust away with his pale, chubby hands. "But it won't be necessary. No, not at all."

"Not necessary?" Hermione repeated, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"You have the job, of course," Terrence said, as though it were obvious. "Can't hardly think of a better candidate than yourself. I mean, who wouldn't want Hermione Granger on board?"

"But…" Flustered, Hermione retrieved a wad of papers from her handbag and fanned them out over Terrence's desk, pointing at each one individually as she listed them. "I have certificates, diplomas, references from former employers and teachers –"

"And I'm sure they're all perfect," Terrence interrupted with a grin that showed a row of yellowed teeth. He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood, revealing himself to be a short, portly gentleman with a coat that was a touch too tight for his round stomach. "Really, Miss Granger, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but we all know exactly who you are and what you're capable of, and believe me, you're exactly who we need. I must say, though, we were nearly at a point where any old Healer would do, then you came along! Perfect timing, I must say, and quite a coup for us, too!"

"Uh, thank you?" she said uncertainly, though it came out as more of a question than a statement. She took her documents from the desk and rolled them up neatly before slipping them back in her bag. "May I ask why you have had so much trouble finding a Healer?" Hermione questioned. "I was told that the Tornadoes were having a rather difficult time, but I can't imagine why that would be the case."

"It's not just us, Miss Granger," Terrence explained as he rounded his desk and came to a pause beside her, leaning against the edge. "You'll find most teams in the league are having trouble finding – or even keeping – a Healer. This simply isn't a path many want to tread anymore. In some cases, for one Healer on their own, the care of one team can be far more taxing than an entire day at St Mungo's, definitely."

Hermione nodded, unsure of what to say.

"I'm not trying to scare you off," he assured her, "Merlin forbid, but I'm not saying that there won't be sacrifices on your part either, Miss Granger, because there will be. But, you can rest assured that you will always be well compensated for your time, and not only in your salary, but with generous bonuses, too. Now" – Terrence clapped and rubbed his hands together before gesturing to the door – "would you like to meet the team?"

"Of course," Hermione replied, standing and brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt.

He led her in silence down a series of halls and staircases she would have thought too narrow to accommodate a team of Quidditch players and their equipment. She glanced about the walls, taking in with mild interest the photographs of various incarnations of the Tutshill Tornadoes team and management from as far back as their inception in 1520. They eventually reached a tall glass door that shone bright with the sun behind it, which opened to an expansive field of lush, green grass.

"Not everyone is here today," Terrence told her as they stepped out onto the grass. Hermione immediately set her gaze skywards to watch the shots of blue streak through the sky. "Only the Chasers and the Keepers. You'll meet the rest soon, though. Seeker and Beaters come in tomorrow, then full team practises both days of the weekends. Keepers are the worst for injuries – so many unnecessary dives and reckless stunts you'd think this were a choreographed performance and not a dangerous spectator sport – you'll probably have to see one before this meeting is out."

As Terrence spoke, a figure near the topmost hoop took a daring dive, nearly spearing the ground with their broom as they pulled up sharply to avoid the crash. Hermione gasped, and Terrence let out a little chuckle as the flier came back up to the hoops and circled them with practised ease.

"Show boaters, the lot of them." He smiled fondly and beckoned for her to follow him again. "They won't be done for another hour at least by the looks of things. Can I show you your office?"

"Sure," Hermione said, but her eyes were still focused on the sky, where the same Keeper was trying another risky manoeuvre. She sucked in a hiss through her teeth when the figure lunged forward too far and too fast, nearly sliding off the end of his broom.

"I reckon they know you're on board," Terrence said, shooting her a wink. "He wouldn't be so stupid otherwise."

"Don't I feel special," Hermione muttered to herself. "You mean that actually is unusual behaviour?"

"Not overly so, but definitely far more daring than he would be under normal circumstances." He pressed a hand to her upper back to guide her back into the building. "Come along, Miss Granger. We have some forms for you to sign as well."

She made to follow, but chanced one glance back at the pitch. The Keeper pulling the ridiculous stunts – a male, she was sure of it – seemed to be staring right at her before performing a series of small, then progressively larger loops in the sky. Shaking her head, she turned away with a tiny smirk on her lips. Playing Healer to a Quidditch team didn't look like it was going to shape up any differently to looking after Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasleys after their silly little scrap matches on Sunday afternoons.

XXX

One week into her new job, Hermione quickly learned that Harry had in no way been exaggerating the team's affluence; the Tutshill Tornadoes were almost inappropriately wealthy, and that fact was demonstrated to perfect effect by her office. Or, rather, the small ward she was given run of.

Hermione had been granted a large, oak desk which sat at the window end of a long, rectangular room, obscured from view by a pretty, albeit plain floral-patterned partition. The walls were painted a stark, clinical white, and were mounted with colourful, abstract paintings that reminded her of the 'magic-eye' pictures her parents had hung in their dental clinic when she was little. Fourteen beds, seven on either side, lined the length of the room (a contingency for something Hermione didn't even want to consider), and were surrounded by clean, green curtains. Each bed had a small side table which held three copies each of different Quidditch publications, and a vase full of fresh daisy blooms, all charmed not to wilt and die.

"You have free rein in here," Terrence had told her the previous week before he left for the day. "Add your own touches, make it yours. We want you to be comfortable here."

Two bookshelves full to the brim with a combination medical, fiction and non-fiction texts, some photos, seven scented candles and a few personal effects later, and she definitely thought she would be.

All things considered, working with a Quidditch team wasn't the painful experience she had expected. If anything, she watched out her window to where the team was training with a bizarre sense of pride, not unlike what she had felt watching the Gryffindor team play over the years.

She jumped at a loud, persistent knock at her door which didn't let up until Hermione managed to cross the unnecessarily long length of the room to hoist the heavy double-door open.

"Cormac McLaggen?" Her eyes widened to the point of discomfort and her jaw dropped as she ran her stunned gaze up and down the muddied body of a man she hadn't set eyes on in well over a decade. All things as they were, he didn't look terribly different to the teenager he had been: same golden blond curls, same bright blue eyes, same lithe, toned, tall frame, same arrogance, same cocky strut, same sultry gaze and upturned smirk that had her mind wandering to places it ought not go. He had grown into those features that had made him rather cute back during their shared Hogwarts days. Now, he was a man, and a devastatingly handsome one at that. Her stomach felt as though it had been wrung out like a rag as the same, all-encompassing wave of attraction that she had felt as a sixteen-year-old washed over her again, this time leaving her with a powerful feeling of awareness that positively blazed through her.

"What are you doing here?" she finally managed to stutter out.

Cormac held his broom out in front of him so it was a scant inch in front of her nose and waved his Keeper gloves at her. "You're the Healer, Granger. Guess."

She rolled her eyes. "I know what you're doing here… but –"

Cormac interrupted her with a loud, dramatic sigh as he set his broom against the wall. "I left Hogwarts, was immediately recruited and have been playing ever since, though there was a trade or six somewhere in the middle – I've lost track. And some school, but that doesn't matter right now. Does that answer your question?"

"Perfectly." She narrowed her eyes at him, and at the mess of mud and grass he was trailing over her pristine white floor as he limped inside. No wonder nothing had ever transpired between them at Hogwarts. Never mind how in love she had been with Ron during their sixth year, or even the fact that a relentless, evil wizard had been at their door at the time – not even one minute into meeting Cormac again, and he was still the same arrogant, condescending prick, bent on his own devices as he had been back then!

"Why do you still have your gear with you?"

He winced and settled himself on the bed with a groan. "Didn't exactly strike me to leave it all behind." He crossed his arms behind his head and shot her a somewhat pained grin. "So, the rumours are true, I see."

"Rumours?" she questioned as she took her wand from her pocket and rolled up the sleeves on her robe.

"Caris, one of our Beaters, said she saw you down on the pitch. Imagine, Hermione Granger, acclaimed war heroine and Brightest Witch of the Age now works…" He paused for effect, "for a Quidditch team." He wrinkled his nose. "Sounds rather anticlimactic, don't you think?"

"That I would be working in a field that I have wanted to work in since I was a child?" Hermione sniffed haughtily. "I'd hardly call the fruition of a dream to be anticlimactic."

He let out a laugh, and it was exactly as deep and melodic as she remembered. She scowled at the memory and filed it to the deepest recesses of her mind to be dealt with at a much, much later date. "I doubt very much that your childhood dream involved working as the hired help for a team playing a sport you hate."

Hermione's grip on her wand tightened painfully, her nails cutting into her palms as they wrapped around the length of vine. "You don't know me at all, McLaggen," she spoke icily, "and I'd thank you to stop making unfounded assumptions about me."

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Just an observation, love. I never expected to see you here, you know?"

Her shoulders slumped and she let out a sigh as she ran a hand over her hair. "Nor did I, but you would still do well to remember not to irritate the person on the other end of a wand. You never know how they might react." She left the threat hanging and brushed down her skirt, putting on an air of professionalism. "So, what can I do for you, Mister McLaggen?" she asked in her most prim and proper voice.

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "No need for formalities between us, love; I think you and I are beyond that." He lifted his leg from the bed so his boot-clad foot hung in the air, nearly level with her chin. "I think I rolled my ankle. Maybe broke it, I don't know. Hurts like a bitch, though."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the profanity, but elected to ignore it; she had heard worse a thousand times over from Ron alone. Harry wasn't really one for swearing, never really had been once the novelty of magic had been revealed in all its glory to him. The last time Harry had been injured, he had elected to take his wand in hand and blast the closest tree from its roots, leaving little more than a smouldering stump as any indication that anything had ever been there before.

"Can you remove your boots?" she asked as she held her wand above his proffered ankle.

"Tried that already. Can't even inch the boot down my foot."

With a wave of her wand, the boot was gone, revealing a swollen expanse of ankle that was quickly blooming a violent shade of purple. Another wave of her wand had a cooling charm placed upon her hands. She set her wand down and, as gently as she could manage, she wrapped her now icy hands around his ankle and gingerly felt for the bones.

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" Cormac hissed, jerking his foot away with a low groan of pain and a wince. "Give a man some warning, would you?"

"I'm sorry!" She took up her wand again. "I'll cast a numbing charm."

"No!" Cormac pulled himself upright. "Your hands are cold, that's all. I was surprised."

"So you don't want the numbing charm?" she clarified.

"No, it's fine."

"May I ask why?"

"It doesn't hurt that bad."

"Your moans and grimaces tell me otherwise."

His answering glare was a curious one; annoyed and far more brassed off for reasons Hermione couldn't pinpoint. "What was that you said before about unfounded assumptions?" he snapped.

Hermione fell silent, her lips pulled taut in a thin line. Cormac's stubborn nature was nearly enough to rival her own. "Be quiet and let me do my job, McLaggen."

She bent back down towards his ankle, only faintly aware of the movement of his body as he leaned further forward to watch her work. His face was close. Too close, even. She could feel his warm, peppermint-scented breath against her ear while she worked. She swallowed the sudden lump that had grown in her throat and tried to ignore him, to focus on the task at hand. She waved her wand over his injured ankle, murmuring the necessary incantations that would allow her eyes to see through his skin to the internal damage within to mend it. Slowly, the swelling decreased, and the skin returned to its normal colour.

"You really are brilliant, you know that?" Cormac said softly, his breath teasing the shorter lengths of hair that rested against her neck.

"Bone mending was a first year unit, Mr McLaggen," she informed him without moving her gaze from his ankle. "There's nothing impressive about it."

He chuckled quietly to himself. "Still can't take a compliment, I take it?" He leaned even further forward and whispered close to her ear, "You couldn't back then, either, no matter how many times I told you that you were beautiful. And you were beautiful that night, Hermione. Stunning."

"You're finished," she said quickly, purposely evading his statement. She hadn't quite known how to deal with his advances then, and she wasn't sure she knew how to now, either. She quickly stood and returned to her desk, pulling out her chair and producing her quill. "There might be some residual internal bruising, but I've dealt with it as best I can," she spoke as she scribbled furiously against her parchment. It was all nonsense, of course, lyrics to a Muggle song she had heard earlier that morning that she couldn't get out of her head. "You'll be fine again tomorrow, but I can prescribe a mild pain potion for tonight if you think it might be too much?"

He stared at her for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head. "Won't be a problem, Healer Granger."

She turned her head at the formal address and cleared her throat. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Alright, then." She nodded with forced authority and tried to tamp down the odd, sudden wave of disappointment that assaulted her. She poured a tiny measure of Skele-Grow into a small cup and rose from her chair to give it to him. He stared the acid-green liquid smoke for a moment before he looked at her oddly. "In case I missed anything," she clarified. "It's not going to harm you if there's no damage, but it will repair any tiny breaks I may have overlooked. Just drink it and you're free to go."

Cormac gave one stilted jerk of his head as he took the small cup from her grasp. "As if you would overlook anything," he accused her with a suspicious look. "I'm sure you just want to see me squirm." He quickly tipped the potion back with a look of disgust. He squeezed his eyes shut and smacked his lips together, then let out an odd, throaty groan before hoarsely saying, "Tastes like shite."

She gave him a wan smile. "So I've been told."

He quickly stood from the bed, gingerly testing out his mended ankle as he did so, and made his way through the door.

"Oh, and Cormac?" she called after him.

He paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Yes, Healer Granger?"

She sighed and turned back to her desk. "I realise it's a difficult request in your line of work, but… Just try not to hurt yourself anymore, alright?"

He quirked a brow at her, his expression completely unreadable until his lips curled into a wicked smirk. "Never mind me, Hermione."

XXX

One week – or one broken nose and one pulled hamstring later…

"Knock, knock, love," an irksome, irritatingly familiar voice called out from beyond her closed doors.

"Cormac?" she responded, her quill never once faltering in its frantic pace over the piece of parchment before her. "Is that you?"

"No one else on this team has shown such interminable dedication to your office. Would you let me in? Please?"

She shot a quizzical look towards the door. "But it's unlocked."

"And if opening it weren't an issue, I never would have asked."

Muttering to herself, Hermione lifted from her plush chair and crossed her office space to the door, cracking it open an inch to peek out, then pulling it out the entire way.

"You've dislocated your shoulder," Hermione stated on seeing the strange angle of his arm.

"I can't imagine what gave you that idea." Cormac held his elbow tight to his body and hobbled towards one of the beds. He let out a great, heaving sigh as he carefully sat himself down and gingerly held his arm out. "There you go."

She quirked a brow at him. "Your generosity is truly astounding." She gently grasped his forearm and straightened it so it hung loosely by his side.

"You haven't dislocated your shoulder before, have you?" Hermione questioned.

"No. Why?" he questioned with a slight wince.

"No reason." She lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "You just wouldn't be in so much pain if it had happened before. People tend to become accustomed to it, and it's a fairly common injury amongst Quidditch players. I can't tell you how many times I've reset Ron's shoulder."

He muttered something under his breath about shifty gingers and shook his head. He needed a haircut, she idly observed. His curls bounced and fell over his eyes in a manner that was just far too distracting for the workplace.

"Can't say I've ever had the pleasure before now," he replied tightly.

"I can guarantee you now that you will again in the future. Do you want a mild pain potion? I'm told the resetting of a limb can be quite uncomfortable."

"Unless you think it's going to kill me, I think I'll be fine."

"Are you certain you don't want any pain relief? I'm not exaggerating, you know."

"I've had worse." Cormac wiggled his shoulder then let out a low, pained groan. "Have at it, love."

She pulled a chair to sit in front of him, settling herself nearly in between his legs. "I hate to tell you this, but the Muggle way is far more reliable. The joint is less likely to pop back out within forty-eight hours." She passed him a leather strap. "You might want something to bite down on."

He took the strap and eyed it with disdain before tossing it to the bin in the corner. "I'll be fine."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Fine, but don't blame me when your teeth are cracked and broken.

"Take off your shirt, please," she bade him in her most professional voice.

His answering smirk was a dangerous thing. "Are you propositioning me, Miss Granger?"

She rolled her eyes. "I thought you would be smart enough to tell the difference, Cormac. It's far easier for me to heal you if there are no obstructions."

"Oh. Well, in that case –"

As though performing a slow, seductive striptease, Cormac fixed her with a devious grin and stood. He pulled his grass-stained Quidditch jersey off with his good arm and carefully inched it down the other. At the first glimpse of his taut, toned and tanned expanse of stomach, she blushed and quickly turned around, offering him a small amount of privacy to preserve both of their modesties.

"You're a bloody Healer, Hermione," he said with a laugh. "Too late to go all shy on me."

"Pardon me for wanting to keep a respectable distance." She turned back with a huff and nearly choked on her breath of air.

"Merlin," she breathed. Her eyes trailed over his firm abdomen, tracing the contours of his muscles and the lines of his body. She felt the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him to find out firsthand if everything was as warm and firm as it appeared, but she quickly fought it down. Her gaze lingered over the vee of his pelvis and his muscular thighs before she heard a chuckle.

"Take your time, love. I've got all day."

Hermione's head snapped back up, and she felt her cheeks flush with heat. Cormac only grinned at her, and she turned back to her desk with a little squeak, feeling absolutely mortified.

"Hermione? Love, it's alright – no need to be embarrassed. It's only fair that you stare at me."

"Why?" Hermione hissed, spinning on her heel to see his stupid, smug, smirking face again. "Because you think you're so bloody good looking that the female population is obligated to ogle you?"

Cormac shrugged, looking oddly unaffected by her outburst. She was starting to get rather tired of people simply ignoring her when she was trying to make a point. "I was just going to say it would make us even." He looked at her pointedly, the same, unreadable look she had noticed the week prior back in his eyes. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, love? It's rather painful after all."

She gestured towards the bed and Cormac sank down, his eyes never wavering from hers.

"Just relax," she murmured as she settled in one of the plastic chairs before him. "Sit up straight, and tuck your arm by your side." She slid her hand down his arm to firmly grip just below his elbow and felt a jolt of smug, inward satisfaction; his skin was exactly as warm and smooth to touch as she imagined. "Take my arm like I've got yours… that's it… and take a few deep breaths for me.

"This might be a little bit uncomfortable," she warned his and she brought her spare hand up to lightly massage behind his neck. "Don't forget to breathe and relax. Try talking to me if it gets too much."

"What on earth do you want me to talk about?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I don't know. Tell me something about yourself. Something no one else knows."

He was quiet for a long moment as she kneaded his muscles and gently manipulated his shoulder back into its socket, and she thought he wasn't going to say anything at all. She focused on her task, keeping a careful eye on his face for clues. His eyes were closed, his mouth pulled tight, and there was an odd sort of pink glow about his cheeks.

"I play the piano," he admitted suddenly. "And the violin."

Hermione paused and looked up at him. "Do you really?"

He opened one eye and smirked down at her. "Seems a dodgy thing to lie about, don't you think?"

She smiled and moved her hand lower to massage his bicep. "I suppose it would be. How old were you when you learned?"

"I grew up in a pure-blood household, Hermione – a rather relaxed one by all comparison, but just as focused on all the social niceties and trivialities as the Malfoys or the Parkinsons. I was playing instruments and learning other languages almost as soon as I could walk and talk, so Mother could parade me about in front of her lady friends and brag about what a smart, cultured little boy she had."

"Are you any good?"

His answering smile was as smug and conceited as ever. "I am brilliant, Hermione. What sort of question is that?"

"Do you still play?"

"I do."

"Privately or publically?"

"A little of both, actually."

"Anywhere interesting?"

"On occasion."

"Careful, Cormac. I wouldn't want you to divulge too much."

"I just…" He paused, looking apprehensive and conflicted as he focused his gaze on the sky beyond her window, where his teammates were still practising. Hermione had to blink twice to make sure she wasn't imagining things; she had never seen Cormac look so unsure or unguarded.

"I've never told anyone. Literally, anyone," he finally finished, looking back down at her with hardened eyes. "I glamour my appearance and give a false name when I perform. No one knows it's me."

"It's alright," she told him as she rubbed soothing circles back over his shoulder, almost forgetting her professionalism. "You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry for pushing."

He blinked at her, then let out a loud laugh that completely changed the charged atmosphere of the room. "Don't apologise, Hermione. I probably should tell someone. Hell, I should definitely tell you –"

"You don't have to tell me," she reiterated. "Really, Cormac, if it makes you uncomfortable –"

"Hermione!" he broke in loudly. He brought his free hand up to halt her movements, his fingers brushing over hers in a way that made her shiver. "For the love of Merlin, just be quiet for a moment."

He drew a deep breath and hesitated, dropping his gaze to the floor in a show of vulnerability she had never seen from him before. "I play in the Janus Thickey Ward on Sundays," he eventually said, and Hermione felt her jaw drop in surprise. "When I'm in the country, of course. Some of the long term patients are more relaxed and susceptible to their treatments when they're listening to music, apparently, or so the Healer on that ward told me. They seem to prefer Muggle classics, oddly enough, especially ballet scores. Must be a nostalgic sort of thing. I've never thought to ask."

"I've seen you!" Hermione exclaimed, shooting up from her seat and pointing at him accusingly. "I've seen you there before! You're the man with the black hair who always plays wearing a Muggle suit, aren't you?"

His cheeks flushed a bright pink as he stared hard at the floor, busying his fingers with a loose piece of thread on his robe. He didn't need to say anything to confirm her suspicions.

"I saw you when I was doing rotations in the Janus Thickey Ward," she said, softer now. "Why do you do it? Not that it isn't a wonderful thing to be doing… but why?"

He shrugged with his good arm, but never lifted his gaze from the floor. "I'm sure my whereabouts during the war was the absolute last thing on your mind back then, but before the beginning on seventh year, my mother took my sister and me, and we fled to Austria. She has family there." He let out a sigh and tugged the thread free, watching it flutter to the floor. "Believe it or not, but I've always felt guilty that I didn't contribute more back then. Some bloody Gryffindor I turned out to be, huh?"

He cleared his throat and shook his head. "But I digress. Not much I can do about it all now."

"I had no idea," she whispered.

"There's quite a bit you don't know about me, Hermione," he replied quietly. "I'm not the same arse that took you to Slughorn's party that night. Well, I sort of am, but I did grow up somewhere along the line."

"I believe you," she whispered as she gently pushed his arm up, hearing the soft click she had been waiting for. "And you're all finished."

He looked surprised. "Is that it?"

"Yes. All done. Roll your shoulder for me. There shouldn't be any pain now."

He did as she bade, and let out a small noise of surprise. "There really isn't."

"No need to sound so shocked," she teased. "You're a good man, Cormac," she told him, sobering. "Don't doubt that. Whether or not you fought doesn't matter, but what you do now does, and you're more than making up for it."

He was quiet for a long moment before he met her gaze again, this time with a wide smirk pulling at his lips. The quiet, vulnerable moment they had was completely gone with that one expression. "I'll keep that in mind, Hermione." He hopped off the bed with surprising energy and stretched his arms high above his head. "Till we meet again, darling."

AN: Hope you enjoyed this first half! Leave me a review, and I'll have the second part out tomorrow.