Chapter Four:
Bludgers Out

It took Hermione a solid half hour to stifle her gasps with each barrel-roll, twist, and flip that Oliver performed. George had chuckled at her and slung his arm over her shoulders, but soon released her as he jumped up in tandem with the rest of the crowd as Norton Pikely – a chaser on Oliver's team – performed a flawless play, complete with a charge on the opposing team, and scored ten points.

"TEN POINTS TO PUDDLEMORE, AND POSSESSION GOES TO TUCKETT!" The commentator shouted over the cheers and boos of the crowd.

Hermione's eyes remained steadfastly on Oliver; still as he was, playing keeper, the beaters often made attempts to hit him with the bludgers as swiftly and roughly as possible, and the efforts did not escape Hermione's notice. If Oliver were eliminated, none of the players on his team could act in his stead, and would be forced to either keep the quaffle away from their end of the pitch, or watch with outrage as the Falcons scored.

The logic behind it did not escape Hermione's notice either, but that did nothing for her nerves and tension.

Her hands were clenched tightly to the metal railing in front of her – her knuckles pale and cold with their loss of circulation – when she felt George straighten up beside her. She tore her intense gaze from Oliver's somewhat battered form to suss out the cause, and although she'd been warned and had anticipated the possibility, she felt her heartbeat stutter briefly when she turned to find Harry and Ron taking their seats in the row behind them.

Harry nodded at her after a small moment of nothing, grimacing lightly as if attempting a smile that couldn't turn out quite right due to a complete lack of sincerity. Ron's upper lip curled upward in disgust for a harried second, then disappeared entirely as he shouted something at one of the players.

Katie mumbled something under her breath about "gits who know nothing about what's good for them," eliciting a small, if slightly forced, smile from Hermione's lips. George had not relaxed his posture, but Hermione averted her eyes back to the game with some difficulty. Her concerns over Harry and Ron's presence were overridden by her more pressing concern for Oliver's wellbeing. Although he'd handled himself well over the course of the season, Hermione couldn't help but feel as though he were going to injure himself during this match.

Despite her focus on Puddlemore's keeper, she could still feel Fred and George keeping a silent conversation over her head. She could all but imagine Fred hissing at George to leave things alone, and George strongly protesting that their younger brother was being a prat of the highest rank, and needed to be taken down a notch or two.

She wished she hadn't elicited such strain from within their family, but after she'd befriended the twins and had shared her story, they had immediately taken to her side. Ron's story was hardly believable, and Harry merely murmured and shrugged – presumably in agreement with his closest mate, although no one had truly been able to discern what he'd mumbled.

"I'm getting some popcorn," Ron announced from behind them, Hermione doing her best to ignore them, but finding herself struggling to do so after such a long time of adhering to their every word.

"I'll go with you," George jumped up eagerly, glaring in his younger sibling's direction.

Ron sighed and looked heavenward, as if asking for relief from the burden his brother presented, before heading toward the edge of the box and, consequently, the lift. Harry followed, brows drawn together to complete a look of set determination in defense of his friend.

Hermione's fingers clutched more tightly to the rail, if it were possible, clinging to some source of grounding as her head spun at the prospects of what the confrontation would come to. She weakly turned her head in Fred's direction, and he sidled a few seats over until he sat beside her, Katie respectfully keeping her head inclined to view the game.

"He's being rash," Fred admitted quietly, "but it's only in your defense."

She didn't argue with him, as she already knew that. Instead, she said quietly, "I don't want to be the cause of a family disagreement."

Fred offered a small grin, "Too late."

"Fred," Hermione frowned disapprovingly.

He sighed, his grin fading as he nodded his head. "I'll chase after him, then. But don't blame me if he's back with a battered ego. You know how George gets."

"Watch it, Weasley," Angelina warned.

Fred rolled his eyes, his vague sense of humor slowly diminishing as he stood, moving to collect his brother and prevent whatever shouting match or fist-fight was bound to break out between the two disagreeing parties.

It was just as he was leaving that Hermione released a strangled sound from the recesses of her throat, then a choked sob before she barreled past him, shoving him aside and racing down the stairs, apparently deciding that the lift moved far too slowly for her purposes.

Hermione felt the ground beneath her slipping away, although she was far more prone to believe that it was being pulled from her, and not that she was sprinting from it. Her pulse thudded discontentedly and rapidly in her chest and echoed through the tips of her toes and fingertips, spreading its panic throughout her body by way of her veins and arteries.

She saw colors – hundreds and thousands of them racing around her as her world shifted at an abnormally quick pace around her. She was oblivious to all but the colors, and the thought of Oliver – her Oliver – being thrust from his broom by a heavy bludger to the stomach, then being followed by that very same bludger and stricken at his shoulder blades.

She could hardly say how she ended up on the pitch, nor could she explain the utter contempt she felt as she realized that she had arrived before the Pitch-Healer had. She couldn't recall the spells she used to sustain him, nor could she have repeated the endearments she'd whispered in his ear, despite his unconscious state. And she certainly held no memory of being transported to St. Mungo's along with Oliver Wood's cataleptic body.

Hermione had immediately been ushered into a private room while a Healer swiftly attended to his most pressing injuries, of which he curiously found there to be only a few. He then called in a Mediwitch to aid him as he ran several tests, and nicely, albeit urgently, asked her to take down the words that he muttered in secret tones.

She had been informed that, as she was neither bound to Oliver by legal means nor by blood, they could tell her very little, but she needed no Healer's word to notify her that Oliver was not well; his pale, bruised face and bloodied body sufficed quite well enough.

Abruptly, Hermione felt a typhoon come upon her, leaving panic, anger, and an awful wave of shakiness and labored breathing in its wake. The Healer – Kildroy, he called himself – hastily ordered the Mediwitch to pour her a glass of water and calm her down, but Hermione waved the kindly witch back toward Oliver, promptly dismissing herself from the room and slinking down the wall outside of Oliver's ward.

Everything was a blinding shade of white. Hermione threw her head between her knees, attempting to block out the reflections of the light that reflected off of the colorless walls, as heartbroken, frantic sobs crushed her chest as they fell forth. Her hands tangled in her hair, holding the nape of her neck as she tried to level herself out. She reminded herself that Oliver had been hurt before, and he'd been perfectly alright; she reminded herself that Harry and Ron had been in similar situations, and they'd survived just fine; she reminded herself that there were masses of talented healers collected in this hospital, and that it was the best in Europe for good reason.

And although those thoughts helped regulate her breathing, they did not crush the anxiety and utter fright she felt on behalf of Oliver's frail health.

Ten minutes had gone before Hermione pulled herself together enough to reenter Oliver's ward, and found Healer Kildroy and his Mediwitch assistant finishing up their diagnoses and rubbing various balms and salves into Oliver's bluish-blackish skin.

She hugged her arms around her midsection tightly, and watched with weary, worried eyes as the trained professionals performed their given tasks. When they finished, she expended her last remnants of energy on propelling herself to the chair aside of Oliver's bed. "He'll be alright," she looked to them pleadingly, forming the should-be statement into an unintentional question.

"He'll be a few days to come to, I believe," Healer Kildroy nodded, shifting his square frames on his nose slightly and looking uncomfortable with her ill-composed form. "But I see no reason why he shouldn't recover in his due time. We'll keep him well looked after, of course," he rushed to say.

Hermione nodded silently, taking Oliver's calloused hand into her own. "Thank you," she murmured quietly, not sparing another glance his way.

Absently, she reached up and brushed a strand of sandy brown hair from Oliver's forehead, her fingers brushing lightly over unnaturally cool, pallid flesh. She kept her hand tucked in his hair and scraped her nails across his scalp lightly, closing her eyes as tears threatened to overcome her once more.

"See how much luck my kisses are?" She murmured to him, chuckling lightly to herself and taking her fingers from his hair to sweep her tears away, replacing her small, soft hand at his jaw, grazing some light stubble until her fingers cupped his chin carefully, as if afraid she might injure him further. Any other time, the action would have prompted Oliver to lean into her touch similarly to the way that Bowie did, when he wasn't feeling overly rambunctious and destroying her house with his excess vigor. But Oliver remained still, and Hermione steadied her reaction to the realization with a deep breath.

He'll be fine, she chanted to herself, not nearly as convincingly as she might have hoped. But the Healer had said the same, and had assured her of their frequent visits, and so she slept in the chair beside his bed, or paced the length of the floorboards beneath her feet to relieve herself of her troubles, despite that the actions did very little for her fretting, and in fact were often seen to encourage minor panic attacks.

It took three days for Fred and George to haul her from the hospital and back to her home for a shower.

"Honestly?" Fred began, a twisted expression marring his face. "You're beginning to smell, Granger."

"And not of flowers and sunshine," George contributed, although both twins were entirely aware that they were exaggerating the situation greatly, because they were concerned for Hermione and her health, and merely wished her to shower and take a few moments for herself.

"Sunshine doesn't have a smell," she rebuked inarguably, but it lost much of its conviction among her feeble tones.

"Well if it did," George pressed, "it would smell nice."

"And you wouldn't smell like it," Fred concluded needlessly.

"Just a tiny splash in the tub, Granger," George coerced.

Hermione sighed, hardly able to deny that she needed a quick rinse, and stood stiffly, arching backward to stretch the muscles in her back, and lifting her arms above her head to do the same. "A quick one," she conceded.

She seemed more than slightly unwilling to leave him, but gave in and walked with them down the white, sterile corridors of St. Mungo's. When they'd stepped back into the lobby, they Apparated silently to her home. Bowie had been fed and played with in her absence, as she'd asked Fred and George to pop in and give him a scratch or two while she'd been gone, but he nevertheless cast a hurt glance her way as she padded quietly to her rooms and the twins collapsed effortlessly on her couch.

"Bowie, love, I haven't forgotten you," she swore, bending down to pick the small, cozy, black kitten up and cuddled him against her chest. He purred contentedly, but scowled at her as if the soft noises he made were made against his volition.

"Ollie was hurt, Bow," she whispered softly against his fur. "He was hurt rather badly, and he hasn't woken yet. I know you don't like to share," she admitted, "and I know he's been encroaching on what's yours, but even you have to admit he's been trying to gain your approval. I know you're a bit stubborn in your staunchness on most occasions, so I'll ask you nicely to forgive me and hope that you'll accept my apology," she said sincerely, appealing to his faithful, pardoning nature.

As expected, her tiny kitten rolled his furred head beneath her chin, as if pressing a hug against her in the only way he knew how, and released a smooth mrring noise that only a kitten could be capable of, as if asking what had happened to her beau.

"He's been knocked around pretty roughly," she inhaled a deep breath, stalling tears that had repeatedly knocked against her eyelids and she closed the door on them roughly. "He was playing Quidditch, and then he was on the ground. He fell from his broom after he was hit, and – though the bludgers hit him hard – the landing was… it was quite unpleasant, Bowie."

And that was an understatement.

Fact was, Oliver was lucky to have survived that fall, despite the cushioning charms that surrounded the floor of the pitch. They were always applied as a precaution, but the velocity gained through a fall from that height was incredibly difficult to ward against, and his speed itself had gained him at minimum a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder.

"I'm supposed to be showering," Hermione disclosed, giving her cat one last scratch behind the ear and lowering him to her bed. "And I should be getting back to Oliver soon. Don't be upset with me, Bow. I promise I'll be home after he wakes."

The small chat with her familiar had disheartened her more than it had lifted her spirits, and her shower did nothing for her, either. If she'd had hopes of it clearing her mind or easing the pain in her joints, they had quickly been dashed. She slipped from the steaming water as quickly as she had been able and wrapped herself in a fluffy, peach-colored towel before changing into an old pair of sweats and a hoodie sporting the mascot for the Merlin Institute – a blue and green dragon trapped inside the magical landmark of Stonehenge, smoke huffing almost humorously from the dragon's nostrils in his aggravation.

She opted for comfortable, as the chairs in Oliver's room were anything but, not that she paid very close attention to that detail, as it would not stop her from staying with him.

"That's got to be a record," Fred announced as she stepped from her room wearily.

"Honestly, it has," George enforced. "You're intelligent, right Granger? What's the record for fastest shower known to wizard?"

She shrugged listlessly, and slipped her socks and shoes on silently. "You're welcome to stay," she assured her two friends. "Bowie would appreciate the company, I'm sure."

Fred and George nodded as she passed them, understanding the implication just fine. She wanted to be with Oliver just now, and as much as she appreciated their humor and company, along with their concern for her wellbeing, she did not like being away from him, and did not want to be cheered up by anyone else but him.

"Hey," Fred called gently, standing and embracing her tightly, whispering in her ear quietly, "you know where we are."

"We'll be there in a jiff if you have want for us," George informed, taking his turn for a hug.

"Thank you," she said back, squeezing them each tightly, pulling away and offering a quick piece of advice as she went. "The remote's under the couch somewhere. Bowie 'hid' it from me, but I'm afraid he didn't manage a very good job."

The two dove under the couch immediately, each snatching at the small, black clicker, and Hermione smiled a small bit before she closed the door shut on her home and Apparated back into the frustratingly dull hospital. She'd long ago memorized her way back to Oliver's room, but she wordlessly questioned her sense of direction when she opened the door and found a sobbing woman at Oliver's bedside.

She slid in quietly and took the woman in, noting with dawning comprehension that she had Oliver's eyes, and his nose. Tears flooded the back of Hermione's lids once more and she covered her face, laughing slightly hysterically as Oliver's mum – or who she presumed was Oliver's mum – turned around, startled.

Hermione removed her hands from her face, wiping her tears away as they went. "I'm so sorry," she breathed, exhausted. "I must look a fright. I didn't – Well, of course I didn't mean to startle you," Hermione informed. "I – Oh, look at me. You haven't a clue who I am, and I'm here, ranting – crying, to boot. I'm Hermione Granger; I sent you a letter several days ago. I – "

"I know who you are," the woman assured softly, her Scottish burr eliciting a new torrent of tears from Hermione, as she so very much missed hearing Oliver's own Scottish tinge. "You've been the only thing poor Oliver talks about for a month or so now," she laughed gently, accepting Hermione's offered hand and taking it within hers lightly. "I've never seen my Oliver so besotted with anyone in my life. You must be some special sort of treasure, dear, as Oliver's had more than a woman or two make moves on him."

Hermione flushed and turned away from the woman, facing Oliver instead. She reached for his wrist and, as she'd done several times before, measured his pulse against her sensitive fingertips. It was slow, as it had been for three days, but its strength was growing, and that pleased her.

"Have they told you of his health?" Oliver's mother asked, carefully scrutinizing the girl's actions with her son.

"No," Hermione shook her head, a slightly sheepish expression befalling her countenance, "but he has a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and," she paused, taking her hand to her mouth as she listed off his ailments with great difficulty, "he's got some internal bleeding. I think they've taken care of most of it, but I doubt it'll go without pain, and internal bleeding usually takes a bit longer to heal than the rest."

Stuck on the first bit of imparted knowledge, and too stunned with her son's injuries to comment on the rest, Mrs. Wood asked, "How can you know if they haven't told you?"

"Legally," Hermione said, offering a small shrug and an ashamed glance toward Oliver's mum as Healer Kildroy and Healer Parks – a female Healer who had been asked to assist in Oliver's recovery – entered the room, "they can't tell me anything. But – "

"But that hasn't stopped her from analyzing every potion and salve that's been administered to your son," Healer Kildroy cast an affectionate, sympathetic smile in Hermione's direction. "I'm Healer Kildroy," he offered a hand, and shook hers when she presented it to him.

"Annabelle Wood," the woman proffered.

"Your son's been well seen to," Healer Parks said, placing another balm at Oliver's bedside, "and I don't exclusively mean the healers."

"Madam Granger has scarcely left his ward in the three days since his admittance, much against my attempts to send her home," Kildroy tucked a hand into the pocket of his robes as he casually spoke with Annabelle.

Hermione avoided looking at Oliver's mother at all costs, refusing to be embarrassed for being concerned, but all the same hoping that she hadn't left a rude impression on the older woman.

"He mentioned you were smart," Annabelle struggled to keep up with the pace within the room, but couldn't refrain from complimenting her intelligence. "He clearly neglected to mention that you'd been to the Merlin Institute, though. Really clever, are you?" She asked curiously, noting the design on Hermione's hoodie.

Hermione kept her eyes locked on a bruise at Oliver's cheek but shrugged in response, not aching terribly for praise unless it fell forth from Oliver's lips; she didn't especially yearn to hear his praise, either, but anything from his lips would be a blessing to her, at present.

Shocked, though, Healer Parks asked, "Haven't you heard of her? Especially in Scotland, I'd suppose, considering her Hogwarts record!"

"Pardon?"

Kildroy cleared his throat, noticing a stiffness in Hermione's back that had increased in the past few moments – not that it had been terribly relaxed before, as he'd noted on several occasions. "Madam Granger sped through her time at the Merlin Institute in a single semester, and graduated valedictorian with a Masters in Charms and a Minor in Potions. Quite the accomplished witch she is," he couldn't help but dote, as the girl had so much reason to be proud of her successes, although she seemed to derive very little pleasure from them.

But, he thought again, perhaps that was due more to the current condition of her boyfriend than an actual lack of personal joy. He rather doubted it, but that was not meant to be his concern, despite his recent fondness for the girl.

Hermione ignored the conversation around her, taking up her resident seat at Oliver's bedside chair and lifting his hand to press it lightly against her cheek as she rested her eyes for a moment, more to avoid the discussion than anything else. Oliver would know to divert the attention away from her; he would know how much she detested it.

But, at this very moment, she detested nothing more than the fact that he was not there to chuckle at her and sway the topic of discussion elsewhere.

"That's quite impressive," Annabelle commented lightly.

"Thank you," Hermione tried to tinge her gratefulness with a smile, but it waned slightly, in tandem with her thoughts of Oliver.

"I'm afraid there's little else we can do here," Parks declared decisively. "As I'm sure Madam Granger has already told you, there was a spot of internal bleeding that's still being cleared up, and there's going to be some pain to accompany his recovery as his body accommodates the newly mended bones, but he should be fit to leave soon after he regains consciousness."

At the dismayed look on his patient's mother's countenance, Healer Kildroy – as was his custom in the face of wavering emotions – shifted awkwardly and said, "It might've been quite a bit worse, Mrs. Wood, if Hermione hadn't reached the field as early as she had. He'd be regaining blood for a month – or quite possibly more – if she hadn't worked her charms on the deeper lacerations before carting him off here.

"You've quite a talent for our business, Madam Granger," Kildroy reported contemplatively. "You might consider a career as a healer. Trainee work is typified by wonky hours and lectures on incompetence by the senior Healers such as myself, but I find myself doubting that you would be intimidated by the implications of it."

Startled by the fact that the notion did not at once seem to dispel her, Hermione said nothing.

"I'll go ahead and make an offer of that, actually," Kildroy announced almost giddily. "I've no doubt that my superiors would approve of you, as the competition to have you is well-known to every wizarding business in Europe, to be honest, Madam. I'll make no promises to make glamorous offers to sway you – not that you're in need of it, as you're quite well off on your own – but I'd still appreciate if you could consider it."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "I appreciate the offer."

A small shift beneath her fingers and a soft groan from the bed below gave Hermione cause to inhale a sharp breath, and hold it in. She wouldn't put it past her exhausted mind to drag up some illusion of Oliver's recovery, and so she waited with bated breath until he shifted again, grunting in pain.

"What the hell happened to me?" He mumbled blearily.

"Language," Hermione breathed quietly, all thought processes forgetting to filter her words as he came to. Her hand tightened around his and he looked up at her curiously, attempting to lift his right arm, but instead grimacing in pain as he found it to be sore and achy, the bones grinding against one another.

"We'll come back in a couple hours to discuss your condition, Mr. Wood," the healers excused themselves politely, aware that there were no dire injuries to be addressed that could not wait until the lad had greeted his mother and girlfriend.

"You look awful," Oliver chuckled dryly. "What on earth is wrong?"

"You idiot," she cursed him lightly. "You've been in this hospital bed for three days!"

"Have I?" He asked, relaxed. "You look as if you haven't slept in just as long. Miss me, love?"

She didn't answer, but ducked her head as she began to cry. "Of course I missed you," she said softly.

Oliver watched her silent tears as they danced a graceful path down her pale cheeks. The dark circles beneath her eyes attested to her fatigue, and he could all but feel the rigidness of her back; he happened to know that her back was the very last of her muscles to tighten when she was stressed, and although he hated that she had been so emotionally strained over his condition, he felt a slight twinge of pleasure at the thought of her being concerned for him.

"Come here," he murmured softly, taking his good arm and carefully pulling her toward him, unsure of where all of his injuries resided. He lifted his mouth slightly until she covered the distance that he could not, her mouth cautiously drawing his lower lip between her teeth. She sighed softly, the gentle kiss being more than enough for her at present.

Her eyes were closed as she rested her forehead against his. A slow smile slid over her face. "I suppose it would be too much to ask you to never get on a broomstick again?"

"Probably," he laughed. "But I'll endeavor not to fall off again, if it helps."

"Because you had every intention to be knocked off the first time?" Hermione asked sarcastically, swallowing the block in her throat that typically accompanied the tears.

"Of course," he said seriously.

"Oliver Wood," his mother chimed finally, unable to keep from breaking the moment any longer, "that's about the most awful thing I've ever heard you say, and you'll not do so again. Am I clear?"

He blinked twice, then stated blandly, "My mother's here."

"She was plenty kind before you woke up," Hermione teased him lightly, stepping away and apologizing to his mother profusely for forgetting that she was in the room, without actually stating that she'd forgotten the older woman was in the room.

"Cease your worrying," she said tenderly, eyeing Hermione with a practiced maternal eye. "You've committed no crime."

"That's up for debate," Oliver muttered cheekily.

Hermione silenced him with a glare. "Hush, you. I'm going to go get some coffee. Would either of you like anything?"

Oliver shook his head, winking at her, and he watched as she walked out, her eyes watering again. He suspected she needed a good cry, and he wouldn't deprive her of it, but he frowned at the idea that he had caused the tears.

He averted his gaze back to his mother, glancing her over suspiciously when her eyes glinted at him knowingly. "What?" He demanded.

"She's quite a woman, I hear," Annabelle mentioned softly.

"Mm," he hummed softly, and sped off on a tangent about how the two had gone to school together, but never spoke, and had met up once more after her graduation from the Merlin Institute.

Annabelle listened with care as her son spoke of his girlfriend with tenderness and, even if he was unaware of it, love. She resolved to invite the two over for supper after he'd been released, as she yearned to know the girl on a more in-depth level, and she wished to thank Hermione Granger for keeping watch over her son whilst she had been stuck at the Ministry of Magic in Scotland for three days, pleading desperately for a Portkey to be at his side.