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It was all Ronald Weasley’s fault. Hermione would live and die on that nugget of truth.
If it hadn’t been for him attending open Quidditch try-outs, he never would have been recruited by the Wimbourne Wasps as a reserve Keeper. She never would have gone to the team’s opening gala as Ron’s date while Pansy was too sick with their firstborn child kicking her from the inside.
And she never would have noticed Marcus Flint, the Wasps’ lead Chaser, laughing at the bar as he knocked a bottle with another teammate in cheers.
That was two years ago.
In the span of time that her best friend moved out of Reserve and onto the main team, Hermione had more run-ins with Marcus than she would have liked. He and Ron were actually chummy and therefore, Hermione had more than enough time to notice that his eyes weren’t just brown - there were flecks of amber and gold in them. She now knew that his teeth had been fixed after an unfortunate bludger to the face; that same incident had caused a slight crook to his nose that he refused to fix.
“Makes me remember I’m not infallible,” he’d once told her.
Over two years, she retained information about him. She knew he favored roasted duck over steak, enjoyed Ogden’s but preferred to not have alcohol in his system during Quidditch season, and had a small library of books from both Magical and Muggle authors.
He was also a flirt.
It made the usually unflappable witch stammer and blush, since most of his innuendos were aimed at her. She somehow wanted to both slap and kiss the uneven smile he often sent her way. When he was in town, he’d often bring her spiced cider after a long shift at St. Mungo’s, or ask if she’d like to do a book swap with him so they could have discussions.
Now, he had the audacity to let Ginny transfer the newest Weasley-Malfoy baby into his arms during the family Christmas gathering and Hermione felt her insides churn in a way she’d never felt before. The child was so tiny in his arms and she couldn’t help the sigh that left her as she leaned on a door frame.
“You know, you’d put everyone out of their misery if you’d just - here’s a thought - snog the bastard.” Hermione glanced over to see Draco grinning at her. His eyes flicked up quickly before he turned his gaze to what held her attention. “Just a thought.”
He left her then, taking his daughter from his friend’s hold and saying something that made both former Slytherins glance her way. Hermione frowned but quickly schooled her face into relaxation as Marcus approached her, stopping only to swipe two wine goblets from a nearby table.
“Happy Christmas, Marcus.”
A smile broke out on his face. “Hermione, always a treat to see you. Happy Christmas.” He held a glass out to her and she couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling from the glass to ink-covered hands and forearms, to the grey fabric bunched up at his elbows. “Elf-made wine.”
“Thanks,” she murmured.
Their fingers brushed against each other as she took the glass. He took a step closer, not relinquishing his hold, and Hermione caught his gaze, the intensity in his eyes nearly taking all of her breath. Another step, and another, and then he was in the doorway with her.
They both felt it, a shimmer of Magic falling over them. Hermione’s eyes darted up to find the bundle of green plants dancing above them.
Mistletoe.
Marcus grinned widely.
“May I?”
Hermione swallowed a gulp of the wine and nodded. A muscled arm wound around her waist and pulled her close. Her free hand instinctively went to his chest, her open palm finding the beat of his heart.
He lowered his head, his mouth finding the lobe of her ear. “I’ve waited for this day for years. May I kiss you, Hermione?”
“Please.”
It was two years in the making, the meeting of their lips, the sparks of Magic between them. Secret glances, laughs during meals, arguments over books, seemingly simple and innocent brushes of their hands - everything culminated in an explosive kiss that had Hermione dropping her wine with a crash of glass.
“About bloody time!”
“Think they’ll come up for air any time soon?”
“Get a room!”
Marcus laughed against her lips, taking in her tiny puffs of air as she breathed heavily against him.
“What do you say?” he asked. There was promise in his eyes, dark and heavy, and it made Hermione lick her lips. “Should we get a room?”
“Yours, yes.”
Without another word, and with an impish grin, Marcus grabbed the wand resting against Hermione’s hip, and apparated them out of The Burrow.