Harry Potter One-Shots // (X Reader)

To Heal A Quiditch Player (Harry Potter)

"And Gryffindor takes another win for their house with the snitch caught by their Seeker, Harry Potter!"

You hear the stands rumble from above you, people going crazy for the winners of the newest quiditch game. You role you eyes as you clean off your scaple, listening to the Gryffindor side of the arena go nuts.

You hated quiditch with a burning passion. What was the point of people getting hurt every game just to get fixed and break something again? Well, you guess you couldn't gripe too much, if they didn't get hurt you wouldn't have a part time job. So, there's that.

"Clark," your assistance Allison says as she walks in the room, "Besides the Weasley twins, your next patient is Potter with a suspected broken rib."

"Send him in," you oblige. Potter was in your office at least every game, maybe more for practices. The boy's addiction to adrenaline and daring kept him doing high flying dives and tricks to catch the snitch, leaving him with injury after injury. Every week you tell him to lay off the dramatics, and every week he comes in with another snapped ankle.

Wood comes in, supporting Potter's weak body in his strong arms. The boy's hairline is matted with sweat, and his face was a grimace of pain before he saw you, in which he flashed his usual charming smile.

"What is it this time, Potter?" You ask, slipping on some gloves.

You were a fifth year training to become a Healer at St. Mungo's, and since Madame Pomfrey was tired of being swamped by Quiditch player's after every game, a student studying that area of expertise was given a job as a Healer for the quiditch players after every game.

Being the proud lion you are, you chose you own house; Gryffindor.

"I was diving backwards to catch the snitch, when a bludger hit me square in the ribs - Ow!"

He winced as Wood took off his shirt and sure enough, a huge purple bruise lay plastered on his ribcage. You sighed, shaking your head and putting on some gloves.

"Always the flair for dramatics Potter," you say. You step closer, pressing lightly on his ribs as he cried out a whimper of pain.

"It's not my fault - Oh!" he pouts as you poke him in a sweet spot, "My tricks usually - work!"

You turn back to grab some Skel-e-Grow from a medicine cabinet before turning back to him. You pour a bit into a small cup, letting it fill before handing it back to him.

"For the last time Potter, do as you're told," you say in a slightly exasperated tone. He downs his potion in record time before wiping his mouth.

"Anything for you love," he says, wiggling his eyebrows and winking at you. That was Potter, frisky as ever.

You roll your eyes. "Out," you say, pushing him off the bed and out the door, "I have to clean up the twins."

Potter smiles back at you, clutching one of his ribs and then charming you with his wicked smile.

"Same time next week?"

You chuckle to yourself as you close the door.

Suddenly, you squeal a little as the world goes dark.

"Guess who?" Two identical voices drawl from behind you, their voices carrying throughout the room.

You giggle as you see two tufts of red hair standing beside you, "I don't know."

Fred and George Weasley sit obediently on the examination table, giving you identical smirks. Though, they didn't have any physical injuries, their faces were covered in bruises and bumps. George had a humongous black eye.