prelude (& a fugue state)
now:
History begets the present begets the future, and then the future becomes the past. That is to say, there was nothing, and then there was this, there is this—and then there will be nothing.
Biblically (ha! he'd love to get into the biblical sense) though—and he can be excused, can't he, his mind is a rampaging hormone-fuelled disaster, or at least that's what his mates' minds are and really, Draco isn't that much different, down to the bone(r)—if you really think about it, if you take 'nothing' as the Shakespearean era, everything comes from women's bits, and returns to women's bits. Which seems accurate (see: hormones), or at least somewhat accurate for the human race.
That is to say: Draco Malfoy, proud Pureblood prat, critic of brooms, Potter, and everything else, really, is absolutely speechless, stunned better than if he'd taken a stupefy to the chest, than if Weasley had hit him with a bludger, than if—
You'll have to excuse him. There's approximately a thimbleful of blood left in his brain right now.
Draco is seeing nothing. The Shakespearean kind. The knickers kind. The Hermione Granger kind.
The kind where Granger is bent over, wearing a Gryffindor-scarlet jumper that has not faded despite the four-odd years from Hogwarts, a cotton-linen blend, that clashes horribly with the mauve of her underwear. He very carefully tries not to breathe. He's not sure his brain could take it right now.
then:
Hermione enjoys watching Quidditch.
No, really. She does. It's interesting (well, sometimes), and her appreciation for the physiology, the chains of strategy and feints and risks, the added dimension of height—her brief time with Viktor cemented it into her. Or perhaps it was Harry's, then Ron's and Ginny's, enthusiasm that really got her into it. It's difficult to not know as much as she does—being Hermione Granger—about Quidditch when her best friends have all been more or less obsessed with it. Not accounting for the fact that, apparently, Quidditch is now under her job scope.
Right now, though, there are several reasons for Hermione to not enjoy Quidditch.
Exhibit A is clutched in her hand, the St. Mungo's recommendation (read: conscription) letter; a too-clean, signed-and-stamped letter by Head Healer Abbott and the Department of Magical Games and Sports director and bloody Minister Shacklebolt, because of course the World Cup is that important. A handful of her colleagues, similar letters in hand, are scattered beside her: Parvati, Bones, Singh, Selwyn. Only Selwyn and Bones are technically sports healers; the rest of her fellows, like her, have been plucked from their respective specialties, all seniors with various qualifications. Deemed good enough to send but not immediately essential enough to remain in Britain, probably.
Exhibit B: the Quidditch players. Oh, the Quidditch players. Jerseys and broom thighs and actual brooms, mingling and chattering and generally getting on Hermione's already-frayed nerves while they wait for the administrators to get on with registration and let them into the stadium grounds and housing—she mourns her comfortable flat, the nest of her bed, the feeling of fresh air without constant recasting of scent-blocking charms and the thick hum of pheromone-dampening wards—
Which are Exhibit C, now to think of it.
It's going to be a long fortnight. She's going to need a good cup of tea. Perhaps some Firewhiskey, once they get into the Healers' accommodations. One thing good about the frankly overfunded, overrated World Cup will be a private room for every official, at least; she can count on some alone time, before the hassle truly starts.
And she has the strangest feeling there will be several hassles...