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Chapter Text

“What do you mean you didn’t get me a ticket?”

Ron’s hand flew to the back of his neck, massaging a red splotch just above his collar, flushing out his freckles. “I mean, I—well, it’s not like you enjoy Quidditch all that much.”

“I went to every match you or Harry played in at school.” 

Soap suds dripped from Hermione’s forearms. Sure, there were spells for dishes, but some things were lost in the magic. Like the quiet symbiosis she watched between her parents as one of them washed and the other dried after every meal. That synergy was an important litmus test for the stability of a relationship, the kind of thing that could be measured by the pH in the water currently sloshing around her wrists. Daily habits made for lifelong experiences.

Ron stopped drying by hand, casting a quick charm as he leaned against the counter, prying his hand from the back of his neck. He looked uncomfortable. 

Good. He should be.

“Yeah, but you didn’t like it. You read the whole time.”

“Not the whole time. And I’ve been to three different World Cups with you. Why would this one be any different?”

She placed another wet plate on the drying rack, washing faster than Ron’s charm could dry. 

“Well since England is actually playing and two players from the Cannons made the team—”

“All the more reason for me to want to go with you. I like the Cannons.”

“You only like them because they’re my team. Look, ‘Mione, it’s a miracle anyone from the team made the national roster. This is a once in a lifetime game for Cannons fan. This whole season has been a fluke. I don’t want to have to explain the game to you the whole time. I just want to—watch. I thought you’d be happy you don’t have to come.”

“Explain the game to me? As if I haven’t figured out the rules by now?” She obliterated crusted lasagna from the edges of her baking dish with elbow grease fueled by indignation.

“No, I—of course you know the basics. But Carrington and Monroe have been using all kinds of obscure plays this season. It’s how they made the Cup team. It’s how England made it to the finals.”

“Believe it or not, Ron, I’m even familiar with less common plays. It’s hard to escape Quidditch in the wizarding world.”

“Yeah? What’s the name of the quaffle return feint they used three times in their last qualifier match?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed in an instantaneous, outrageously uncomfortable heat. A mortifying microwave in her face. “I’m very good at studying. I’m sure I could learn before the match.”

“Of course you could,” Ron said, pushing off from the counter and sliding a hand around her waist. Focus faltering, his drying charm slipped.

A plate dropped back to the drying rack, rattling the other dinnerware there. Luckily nothing broke. 

Up to her elbows in soapy water, Hermione balled her hands to fists, sponge a temporary stress ball. 

“You can’t be serious, Ronald.”

He adjusted his stance behind her, fingers twitching against her waist before he said, “Don’t Ronald me.” His tone landed squarely between amusement and exhaustion.

“You unilaterally decided to go to the Quidditch World Cup without me. What am I supposed to say? It sounds like you don’t want to spend time with me.”

His arms loosened around her middle. She wished she could see his face, but as it stood, she only had his chin resting atop her shoulder. A hint of his nose in profile. A single flash of ginger hair.

“Quidditch is my hobby, not yours.”

“But I go to matches with you all the time.” It sounded pathetic to say, tempered by rapidly cooling dishwater.

Ron sighed and pulled away. “I’m allowed to have my own hobbies, aren’t I? You have your reading. And your—your work and stuff. I just want to do this hobby by myself, alright?”

Logically, objectively, she knew he wasn’t necessarily wrong. Couples—even, and perhaps especially couples who had known each other and been dating for as long as they had (how had she blinked and already she was almost twenty-four)—should have their own individual interests and hobbies. That was healthy. She was fairly certain she’d told him so once upon a time.

Despite all that, the fact that he’d decided she wasn’t going to attend the World Cup with him when his lifelong favourite team had two players on the roster, defying all odds, struck like a mortal betrayal. 

And the only thing she felt was anger. Furious, frustrated anger that latched like grease onto the dishes he still wasn’t drying. Like the flea medication he’d forgotten to give Crookshanks the week before. Like the unpacked suitcase from a convention he’d gone to with George three weeks ago still sitting at the foot of her bed.

—

That evening, per their long standing routine following their midweek date night at home, Ron crossed from his side of the bed to Hermione’s nearly as soon as she closed her book, reading done for the night.

She’d just changed their sheets. Their whole schedule was thrown off by that conference Ron had gone to. Normally Hermione liked to time changing the sheets right after their weekly evening together, but between her schedule and his, everything had been off kilter the last several weeks and she’d been struggling to get things back in order.

He always started with her nipples, lining himself up against her side and tracing them with his fingertips. Over her nightshirt first, then once she gave him a breathy sort of sound they’d mutually agreed was his sign to go on, he’d slip his hand under her shirt and touch her skin to skin.

It wasn’t bad per se. Hermione liked having her nipples touched. Usually. Or at least she used to. She was tired. It had already been a long week. 

Right on cue, Ron began kissing her neck, rocking against her, and generally inviting himself into her space. Well, she supposed she’d invited him with another breathy sigh. 

She let him peel her top off. 

She let him palm her through her pyjama bottoms.

She let him suckle on her nipple in a way that wasn’t quite the way she liked, but he’d never responded well to feedback and so close had become close enough.

She wanted to do more than let him touch her. She wanted to want his touch. She wanted to burn up between her bedsheets, drenched in need. Instead, she felt limp and tepid, a barely there participant in this ritual activity. 

A little effort couldn’t hurt. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rocked against his thigh the way she knew he liked. He liked when she was desperate for him, loved to hear her make little noises that didn’t come naturally to her. But she did them anyway because sex was a two person activity and it was about give and take, compromises. Like any other part of a relationship. 

She whimpered when he slid his hand into her knickers, moaned when he pressed a finger inside her, and begged as prettily as she knew how when he dragged her bottoms down after no more than five pumps she assumed was meant to get her going.

Ron sat back, admiring her as she lay there naked, and then tore off his shirt. Finally, Hermione felt the rush, a flush of heat. It was nice to be appreciated. And Ron had always been good about looking at her like she was something to behold, even if he didn’t always know what to do with her.

His pants came off next and as he gripped himself, Hermione slid her own hands down her body. Ron always underestimated just how warmed up she needed to be. He wasn’t especially long, but gods, he was beefy. Thick enough for it to take work, for her to prefer being on top so she had more control. 

Ron, likely assuming their usual, laid back now that he was naked, still stroking himself. His eyes were glued to Hermione’s hands as she tried desperately to generate the lubrication required to actually enjoy herself. She sank two fingers inside, wincing at the stretch. 

“Come on over here, love. I know you need more than that.”

It wasn’t that she disliked his cock. It was very nice. Covetable, she assumed for many people. Of average length and truly impressive girth, she imagined there were many women who would kill to have regular access to the kind of cock she had in her bed. 

And when it was great, it was pretty great.

Except it wasn’t very often great and she wasn’t very often properly warmed up.

Ron wasn’t very often aware of those things because once their clothes came off he was on a singular mission for penetration. Which made sense. That was the whole point of the endeavour after all. 

Hermione rose to her knees, one hand still rubbing her clit in search of an arousal that had faded when her thoughts ran rampant. She swung a leg over Ron’s hip to straddle him. With his hand still fisting his cock, he positioned it straight such that all she needed to do was lower herself onto him. 

The moment she did, Ron’s eyes rolled back, head against the pillow, mouth hanging open as he groaned. 

Hermione, for her part, had to breathe through the sting, through the immense pressure that made her feel like she might burst.

His hips jerked, inching upward, and it accompanied a sharp sting. The sound she made couldn’t possibly be interpreted as pleasure. 

Ron’s eyes opened and he reached out, sliding his palm up the top of her thigh. “Sorry, Hermione. Sorry. You just feel…” He trailed off as Hermione finally settled against him, fully seated. 

His hands flexed, fingertips digging into her thigh. She hoped he didn’t leave bruises; she didn’t know if they had any salve on hand and she didn’t feel like making a special trip to get some just because he squeezed her too hard. 

There had been a time when she’d liked having proof of their time together on her body: marks from rough loving, face paint from Quidditch matches.

“Are you…going to move?” Ron asked. She hadn’t realised how long she’d sat like that, not exactly looking at him, lost to her thoughts. 

Her response happened entirely against her better judgement, against her explicit permission. It slipped out from a place she hadn’t realised had been holding onto such bitterness. “Are you going to take me to the World Cup?”

“What?”

There was no pretending she hadn’t said it.

“The World Cup. Are you really not going to bring me?”

His hips shifted, like maybe he hoped if they just did this like they always did, her question would dissolve around them. Disintegrate like it never existed. 

“I thought we already talked about this earlier?”

“We did, but I don’t think we’re done.”

“Could we maybe”—he waved a hand between them—“save it for after?”

“After what? You finish and I don’t?”

His hands fell limp against the sheets. “What? You—of course you will.”

Hermione knew her sharp laugh was unkind, but something furious had broken through a locked door at the base of her throat and it kept throwing hidden truths out her mouth. 

“I doubt it. I never do.”

“Yes you do.”

“I think I would know.”

“Hermione, what’s happening?” Almost pathetically, his hips shifted again. It only made her angry.

“I think I’m breaking up with you.” It was a surprise to both of them, because she’d never, not once, really considered doing it. 

She’d fantasised, of course, about the cute man she saw at the bookstore or the life she might have had if she’d never fallen for Ron in the first place. But those were clearly just mental exercises in what ifs. Not achievable realities.

“Because I’m not taking you to a Quidditch Match?”

Hermione thought about it. “Yes. I think so. And for a lot of other things I think we’ve both been ignoring. But that’s the final straw for me, I think.”

“We’re literally having sex right now.”

She lifted herself off of him. He groaned; she winced. “Not really.”

“Hermione, we’ve been together for six years.”

“And we’re not married. Not even engaged. Are we even happy? I don’t think so. You won’t take me to the World Cup.” She found her bathrobe and cinched it around herself, busying her hands with the belt so she didn’t have to look at Ron and the consequences of what she was in the process of doing.

Ron sat up in the bed, pulling a sheet to cover himself. “You’re mad. That’s not a reason to break up with me.”

“It is,” she said. “You don’t want to spend that time with me. You don’t think I know anything about Quidditch? Like I’ll be a burden to have with you?” She cinched her belt tighter, almost painfully bisecting her. Tight enough, maybe she could stop the rapid bleed happening in that bedroom. It felt like her whole relationship was laying on the bedroom floor, bleeding out.

And for the first time in six years, she felt no compulsion to save it. She wanted it to die. 

It hurt, but she thought it was the good kind of pain. The kind that told her something was wrong, something she needed to fix, and this was how she fixed it. By letting it go.

“It’s over, Ron.” She huffed a strange laugh, like she couldn’t believe herself. She felt lighter. “Have fun at the World Cup.”

Chapter Text

Spite was a strange and powerful motivator. 

Upon breaking up with Ron, Hermione felt remarkably free. The years of obligation she’d worn like thick layers of wool in a tropical climate fell away the moment she’d decided she was done. And then she moved on. She cheered at the top of her lungs when England (traitor as it made her, she was required to root against those Cannons players) got flattened at the World Cup. It felt like closure. She’d never considered herself a particularly petty person before, but she found herself hoping Ron had a rotten time. 

She hoped he spent the whole match explaining the rules to some clueless stranger nearby when he could have had her sitting right there, genuinely excited for his team. 

She got a new flat. Even when Ron begrudgingly offered to move out of the one they shared, Hermione knew she wanted something of her own, something new. She furnished it exactly how she wanted, maintained it exactly to her specifications, and in a decision that surprised literally everyone she knew, Hermione moved further south after years of complaining how she wanted to live nearer to London. 

Ease of magical transportation aside, Hermione had somehow been convinced that living near The Burrow was ideal, and that had landed her in Devon for the last six years.

On her own, she moved further south, and spite might have played a tiny part in it. From Cannon country to fair Falcon lands. Falmouth was a delightful place to live, she decided. A lovely coastal town with a small but vibrant Wizarding community, it had enough team spirit for the Falcons to fill the entire harbour.

Perhaps she should have let it go, but being made to feel like a burden, like her lack of innate obsession with Quidditch made her a poor World Cup companion, gave her something new to focus on when her relationship fell apart.

Ron could root for the Cannons all he wanted; Hermione had moved into enemy territory. And she’d made it her new life’s mission to learn everything there was to know about the Falmouth Falcons and their exciting prospects for the new season.

Not even news that Draco Malfoy, of all insufferable humans, had been contracted as the team's new beater could dampen Hermione’s enthusiasm for her new loyalties to Ron’s enemy team. 

She memorised statistics while enjoying a coastal breeze, wrapped in a cosy cardigan after a long day at the Ministry. With more than a century of team history clanging around her skull, most of it fairly lacklustre and only slightly more promising than the Cannons, Hermione had to admit the Malfoy acquisition was a legitimate boon for the team. 

He’d been playing with the Tutshell Tornados for the last four years, and while the team had very little success to speak of, his personal statistics were impressive. Enough that she was willing to admit as much while she flipped through game records and fought a wind that seemed insistent on blowing her parchments into the water and her hair into her face. 

She huffed and finally gave up. As inconspicuously as possible, Hermione cast a weather shielding charm so she could read and enjoy the outdoors (and her massive basket of greasy chips) in peace. She looked up to ensure she hadn’t been spotted, only to catch none other than Draco Malfoy’s eye down on the marina.

He looked highly amused, like maybe he’d just watched her struggle against the wind and then indulge in a little magic in a muggle area just for her peace of mind. 

But that was it, a single flash of amusement. A blink later and he’d ducked into a fishing boat. Fast enough that Hermione had to wonder if maybe she’d mistaken the situation entirely; surely there were plenty of shockingly blond men hanging around Falmouth with a beater’s build. 

She looked back down at his statistics. It made more sense, now that she’d seen him, or someone who looked an awful lot like him. Her last memories of Malfoy were from the war, what had been a whittled seeker’s build with a side of emaciation. The man she’d just spotted down by the water definitely had a beater’s body. 

He’d filled out, bulked up. His trunk had looked solid and sturdy and strong. With arms like foundational branches: robust biceps, impressive triceps, inexplicable other muscles that pulled and rippled just as he’d reached out to steady himself against the boat before he’d stepped on board.

Hermione personally preferred a leaner look on men. Or at least, judging by her attraction to Ron she did. But she could theoretically see the appeal of a beater’s build. There was something objectively appealing about the idea of a man who could pick her up and manhandle her a bit no matter how many baskets of greasy chips she ate by the seaside. Because she certainly had no intention of stopping the latter. 

She ate her chips as his boat pulled out of its slip and manoeuvred to sea. She supposed she’d have to get used to seeing him around now that his transfer had been finalised. The magical community in Falmouth wasn’t large enough to entirely avoid someone without conscious effort. 

She’d have to see him at matches anyway. If he helped them trample the Cannons, she could learn to stomach him. It had been six years since she’d last seen him anyway. Physically he’d changed plenty, maybe he was more tolerable too.

Hermione returned to her statistics, suppressing her amazement over Malfoy’s more impressive numbers, and ate her chips with the sea breeze barely tickling her ankles. She liked this new life of hers, and she couldn’t wait for the new Quidditch season to start so she could be the best fan the Falmouth Falcons had ever seen.

If she looked smug while she sat there, it was entirely by chance.

—

She painted her face. 

She wore a jersey (generic, no name).

She downed a pint before the match because for some stupid reason Hermione was nervous to watch Quidditch by herself, to support her new team. To prove she not only knew and understood the sport, but could also enjoy it. 

It was that last part that had her worried. It wasn’t that she’d never enjoyed Quidditch before, but there were parts that bored or disinterested her and it required conscious effort to get herself into it. 

So she snagged a lager from concessions and gulped it while standing near the toilets before she headed up to her box—because her fancy season pass package included box seats, weather protection, and post-match mingling with the team if she felt so inclined. Probably free pints too if she’d just had the patience. But her ridiculous nerves were making her legs too gelatinous to tackle the stairs. 

She sucked in a bracing breath, reminding herself not to rub her face lest she smudge the falcon she’d painted and charmed to soar from one cheek to the other when she cheered. It was a delicate bit of charm work, some of her best.

She would have been lying if she said she wasn’t hoping at least one person would compliment her on it, both as a testament to her skills and her commitment as a fan. 

Her nerves vanished with a ridiculous giggle as she paused by a merchandise stall featuring a reenactment of the last time the Falcons had played the Cannons. There had been an especially embarrassing incident involving one of the Falcon’s broomtails and the Cannon’s Seeker’s face. 

The animated scene made for an excellent mug. She bought it, shrunk it down to fit in her bag, and proceeded to her seat. 

Heart hammering, Hermione wasn’t sure if the thumping behind her ribs came from nerves or excitement as the first round of cheers circled the pitch.

Hermione stood with everyone else, leaning to see down where the Falmouth players were zooming into the stadium on their brooms. Excitement, it was definitely excitement. Because there was something thrilling about knowing the names of everyone on the team: Parks, Cohen, Pierce, Malfoy, Booth, Caroll, and Becker. 

More than their names, she knew their player histories. Their statistics. Their strengths. Their opportunities. She knew what players and plays had held them back last season. And she knew what anticipation over Malfoy’s addition meant for both their offensive and defensive beating. 

Hermione’s pulse ricocheted inside her veins. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to fake a moment of her enthusiasm. 

She cheered with the rest of the crowd.

She gasped at the quaffle release.

Groaned at the first opposing point. 

Screamed when Malfoy sent a bludger so perfectly aimed at the opposing team’s diving seeker that it shattered the third and fourth finger on his right hand in what ended up requiring a fifteen minute time out. 

She screamed again when Cohen rocketed from his lazy idle up by Hermione’s box straight to the opposing goals and the tiny glint of gold glittering there. 

She nearly cried, hugging strangers in her box, at the final score: an impressive win in favour of the Falcons.

And she celebrated with the rest of magical Falmouth, trickling in and out of pubs with several acquaintances-turned-a-strange-kind-of-friend. She’d never before made friends based purely on being excited about the same thing together.

It was nice. It didn’t matter that she drafted legislation all day at the Ministry and the woman next to her spent her days managing a bed and breakfast. Or that the gentleman to their left scooped chips and fried fish by the harbour, probably from the same place Hermione frequented. They were all crammed into a pub, excitedly recounting Cohen’s dash for the snitch, Malfoy’s several saves with well-placed bludgers, and the surprisingly efficient evisceration of the opposing team.

The Falmouth Falcons had just opened their season with a bang and Hermione had picked the perfect time to join the fray.

The next morning, nursing a dim hangover, she drank her coffee from her new mug and smiled at the sports page in the Prophet, delighted to know the Cannons had lost, and badly, in their opening match.

—

Much to her genuine surprise, Hermione enjoyed her new hobby. There was an academic-adjacent thrill to closely following a season. She thrived in her pre-match cram sessions memorising everything she could about the opposing team. Armed with all that knowledge, she saw the strategy in the game, the skill involved, and she understood the overwhelming enthusiasm in watching it all come together.

Halfway through the season, and Hermione had been to every home game and travelled to as many away matches as she could make time for. While it didn’t look like the Falcons would make it to the British and Irish League finals (Puddlemere had seen to that with a swift, astonishingly brutal defeat in the middle of a summer squall), the Falcons were leading the league in both successful offensive beater hits landed and defensive strikes diverted. 

It wasn’t even difficult to admit anymore: Malfoy was a thrill to watch. He exuded almost preternatural coordination with his fellow beater, Mitchell Pierce, and he always seemed to have a perfect awareness of where everyone on both teams was at any given moment. On top of that, where both bludgers were too. 

For all the mass he’d put on, he flew with ease and grace. Watching him interrupt plays with a well-aimed bludger had become one of Hermione’s favourite parts of any match. 

He clearly knew as well as she did which players and plays couldn’t be allowed too much room to breathe lest they gain the upper hand. 

Hermione nearly cried when the Falcons pulled out a win in their last match of the season. They still weren’t moving to the British and Irish Quidditch League finals, and months ago, she would have said that didn’t matter as long as the Cannons were out of the running long before the Falcons (which they were, it was painfully clear by mid-season). But now, she genuinely wanted to watch her team play for it all. 

While she was sharing excited and reluctantly disappointed hugs with her fellow box mates in the post-match meet and greet area (she’d never been to one, but she couldn’t deny wanting to thank the team in person for an amazing season, and for whatever they’d awaken in her), she almost didn’t notice when Malfoy walked right up to her.

They hadn’t spoken once throughout the season. Hadn’t even acknowledged each other apart from Hermione’s private admission that he was well qualified for his role and likely had a lot to do with the Falcons’ success. 

In a busy room filled with fans and players, the din quieted. It didn’t feel like Malfoy was standing in front of her with his strong frame and impressive collection of muscles. He felt like an entirely different person. She felt like an entirely different person.

Different people in a different place and neither of them saying a single word. 

Hermione glanced around and realised several sets of eyes were watching them, many of them women. Which made sense. Malfoy had a bit of a reputation as a rake, savoring the sex-related perks of athletic fame. Jealous eyes were watching Hermione like she’d just won a lottery for having Malfoy’s attention. 

Finally, he said something. Speaking casually, simply, and like they didn’t have years of complicated history behind them.

“Want to get a drink with me, Granger?”

She blamed the adrenaline high, still thrilled with an exciting season and the strange rush all those jealous looks gave her, but she shrugged and agreed like she, too, had forgotten everything in their past.

Chapter Text

It might have been a date. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure. She was too busy trying to understand the version of Malfoy sitting across from her in the little harbour-side pub he’d brought them to—muggle places were better after a match, he’d said. More private. 

“I didn’t realise you were a Falcons fan, Granger,” he said, helping himself to a chip from the basket between them. He leaned against the booth, an arm casually thrown over the back, pint in hand. 

He was good looking. Casual. Grinning. And she’d just watched him swing a bat so hard he’d shattered someone’s tibia. It was something she might have found barbaric in the past, but magical medicine was impressive and expedient. Injuries meant less in magical games and sports.

“I’m not really,” she said. 

Malfoy blinked. “Oh. With the bird”—he gestured at her face—“I assumed. What’s it for then?”

She jolted; she wore her trusty falcon face paint to every match. And it was charmed to animate whenever she grinned. She’d already done an inadvisable amount of grinning. “Oh Merlin, this is a muggle pub.”

Pulling a face, Malfoy said, “Probably should have cast a notice-me-not, huh? I’ve got it.” His charm work was…fine, though perhaps a bit heavy-handed. Hermione cast her own to supplement the edges where his borders bled.

 “So, it’s not a falcon?” he asked, returning his attention to her face.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure if he was serious. She’d been facetious, and she thought obviously so, when she’d said she wasn’t a fan. But he was still looking at her with open interest, as if waiting for her to suddenly explain that she’d actually painted her face for a local exotic bird convention and just happened to pop in for a bit of Quidditch after.

Finally, she went with, “No, it is. I am a fan.” 

Malfoy’s head tilted like he was confused, but he simply shrugged and smiled at her again. It was a very nice smile, bearing a kind of infectious, carefree quality that crackled like cosy embers in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. 

“It’s nice magic,” he said, and she felt a rush at his easy compliment. “Think you can make the one on the back of my jersey fly too?”

“Of course I can.”

He sipped his beer, that satisfied smile still pulling his cheeks. “I take it you’re as smart as ever, then?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not about to start making fun of me are you?”

“Don’t think I could get away with it. I want some of that fancy charm work on my jersey. And to keep seeing you cheer from those expensive seats of yours.”

“They have been excellent seats.”

“Good view of the game?”

“Players, too.”

She blamed the high of an exciting season. The warmth of a hoppy beer. That stupid grin on Malfoy’s face that looked nothing like the sneer she remembered. Because she was fairly certain she was flirting with him. And finding it easy. Worse, finding it fun. 

“Notice anything about any of those players?” he asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes at his obvious fishing. “Well some of them have certainly changed a bit since the last time I saw them.”

“Changed? Changed how?”

She chucked a chip at his face. Infuriatingly, Malfoy caught it in his mouth, grinning stupidly as he chewed. 

“Some players have definitely bulked up,” she admitted, determined to be as infuriatingly vague as possible. 

His smile twitched, briefly strained. “Anyone in particular?” A pause. “Though I can’t say I’m especially interested in introducing you to my teammates.”

A flutter rolled through Hermione’s stomach, something like delicate endearment. And a thrill, too. She always enjoyed having the conversational upper hand. It felt oddly powerful, pointedly flirting with the grotesquely attractive man in front of her, fraught history between them or not. 

“He’s the team’s newest beater, much fitter than I remember him.”

Malfoy’s somewhat lazy gaze snapped to hers once her words fully sank in. Or rather, once he’d deciphered them. 

“Why, Granger, I’m so touched you noticed.” He posed, actually posed his biceps right there in the pub booth. “Been nice not having to maintain that scrawny seeker form.”

Hermione reached for another chip, trapped by genuine interest. “That was intentional?”

“Had to keep up with Potter somehow. I’m glad to be free of it. I always liked beating better anyway.” Hermione absolutely, resolutely, did not think about double entendres involving the word ‘beating.’

It was shocking how easily he’d admitted to his rivalry with Harry and the way he’d apparently moved beyond it. 

“It always seemed like the prestige of the seeker role was right up your alley.”

“When I was a snotty little kid desperate for attention, sure. It’s a position that gets a lot of talk and press. But a good beater? Worth way more than a skilled seeker. I can stop the opposing seeker; I can block goals; I can protect my team from interference. Besides, refereed violence? Just enough to feel really fucking alive? You should try it sometime, Granger.”

“I’m satisfied just watching.”

“Are you? Satisfied? I haven’t seen Weasel with you in the stands.”

Hermione flushed, awash in innuendo. “We broke up before the World Cup last year.”

“You mean you broke up with him.”

She paused, beer halfway between the table and her mouth, momentarily caught off guard by how confidently he assumed that. “Yes, I did. How did you know?”

“I think anyone with half a brain expected you to eventually get on with it. I’ve gotten knocked in the head a few times but I’m pretty sure I still have half a brain.”

“Only half?”

“I find it relaxing not needing much more. And I’m good at what I do as is.”

“Well, I’m willing to admit you’re right about that; you’re a very good beater. And yes, it’s had some surprisingly nice effects on your physique.”

He settled into a relaxed grin again, the kind of grin that didn’t hide what looked an awful lot like attraction. “Your physique has had some nice changes too, Granger.”

She swallowed the chip she was chewing, struck by a sudden flare of insecurity. She’d refused to feel bad about a single ounce of food she enjoyed after starving for months on the run with Harry. 

“It’s a compliment,” he said in the lull following her moment of self-consciousness. “I like a girl with some weight on her. Feels real, you know? A real body I can get my hands on.”

She simply could not process how casually Malfoy had just hit on her. She laughed. It was strange to the point of absurdity. And still, somehow ridiculously fun.

“Are you kidding me? That’s your line?”

“I thought it was pretty good. You’re smart enough to know what going out with me after a game means, aren’t you? And it’s not like I have anything to lose. You’ve seen me at my worst. Care to let me show you my best?”

—

Somewhere between Draco Malfoy’s ridiculous flirting and the rush Hermione got with him doing so, she let him take her back to his flat after snogging him in that pub booth right up until last call. 

She’d had a whole season to desensitise herself to the strangeness of being anywhere near him. She’d gotten over Ron and found herself a new hobby she enjoyed both genuinely and out of spite.

She tried not to think too hard about all the rest. He’d called her smart enough to know what going out with him after a game meant. It meant joining the list of witches he showed a good time with that beater body of his. And she’d decided she wanted to be shown a good time. 

She was allowed to have fun with a disgustingly hot professional athlete who also happened to be a bit of an unsavoury character from her past. Especially when he lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulder almost as soon as they crossed the threshold into his flat. 

Hermione gasped. “Oh my god, you really are that strong.”

Malfoy laughed, swatting her arse. He marched her straight to his bedroom and tossed her onto his bed. “You said you wanted me to prove it. I’m happy to oblige.” He stood there, watching her. “Never get tired of seeing a beautiful woman in my bed.”

“See a lot of those?”

“A fair few. Would you believe me if I said you’re the prettiest?”

She snorted, falling back against his pillows. “Nope.”

The mattress dipped, shifting as he crawled over her and pressed his mouth to random patches of her skin as he came across them. He latched onto her neck, sucking hard.

“You’re going to leave a mark.” Hermione hoped she sounded plaintive, but it only came out breathless. This felt so much different than Ron’s fumbled, inconsistent grip. These were marks with intent. A feral, carnal claiming. She should not have been enjoying it as much as she was.

“Good,” he grunted against her skin, caging her in, holding her down. Everything about him felt so massive like this, his whole body eclipsing her own. 

It was nice in an unexpected way, feeling small like that. 

At a pace rivalling Ron’s usual, Malfoy rid them of their clothes. 

Hermione relaxed further into his bed as he wrapped a hand around his cock. She was more warmed up than she had been in a long time, and Malfoy’s equipment was blessedly average in all the right ways. She planted her feet on the mattress and lifted her hips to meet him, shameless in her desperation.

He didn’t immediately indulge her, starting with his hands. Which she supposed she should thank him for; she wasn’t used to much foreplay. It was nice that he wanted to touch her a bit first. 

He set a decent pace, grunted filthy things about her cunt she appreciated hearing, and even made passable attempts at swirling his thumb around her clit with some kind of precision. But it wasn’t really doing much for her.

Everything about his touch was slightly off: pressure not quite right, pace a little fast, positioning not exactly how she liked.

It made her want to cry in sudden and sharp disappointment, realising then how much hope she’d pinned on a random shag with Draco Malfoy. He was a professional athlete. He slept with women all the time. This was supposed to be good. Better than good. Validation of her reasons for thinking something had been broken with Ron. 

Maybe it was out of that frustration, or maybe because Malfoy wasn’t someone whose pride she was worried about wounding, she decided to tell him exactly what to do differently, unconcerned if she came across as more shrill than attractive. Ronald had never liked when she instructed him on what she needed.

“The other direction is better,” she said, reaching for his hand where his thumb was still working tight circles over her clit. “And wider too. More around it. Not so much directly on it.”

She kept watching his hand, incapable of meeting his eye. Her whole face had flushed; she must have gone bright red. 

His pace stuttered and he stopped. Slowly, Hermione released her clamp on his wrist, flopping back against the covers. She still couldn’t look up at him, prepared for complaints about how he knew what he was doing, that she shouldn’t ruin the mood.

But then he switched direction, widening his circles around her clit. “Yeah?” he asked. “Like that? What else do you like?” 

That snapped Hermione’s eyes to his. He asked another question. “More pressure?” He demonstrated with his next rotation. “Or less?” He demonstrated again.

Hermione’s voice shook when she answered, finally feeling the kind of rev her engines needed. “M-More.”

Malfoy grinned. “What else?”

“The—this angle isn’t the best for me…for when we—my hips will start to—”

He hopped off the bed and yanked her by the ankles to the bottom of it, backside just barely still on the mattress. He lifted her legs to rest her ankles on his shoulders, one hand firmly gripping her hip, the other already back on her clit. “How about this?” he asked.

Hermione’s eyes rolled. Oh. In all the years she’d been having sex, she wasn’t sure she’d ever tried it like this, and the anticipation alone had her clenching. She nodded, a whimper slipping from her throat.

Malfoy groaned. “I can do more. What do you need? Tell me your dirty little list of desires, Granger, and I’ll make it all happen. Anything you’ve always wanted to try but the boys you let touch you couldn’t manage?” 

He was polite enough not to mention that the boys in question consisted of just one and they both knew his name.

She laughed so hard the volume of her own voice shocked her. “Come?” It was both a statement and a question.

Malfoy stopped moving. “Are you kidding me? You don’t mean you’ve never—”

“Some women have a difficult time—”

“I have excellent stamina.”

She laughed again. “And questionable technique.”

“So teach me, Granger. You’re into that aren’t you?”

He said it like it was obvious. But no one had ever asked her before. And she’d never really been allowed to try. But he wasn’t wrong. She’d enjoyed telling him exactly how to touch her and reaping the immediate benefit of it.

“I need a lot of foreplay.”

“I like foreplay.”

She braced herself to be bold. “With your mouth?”

He grinned and sank to his knees, letting her legs drape over his shoulders instead. “How?”

“I—” She didn’t really know. Ron never spent much time doing it, certainly not enough for her to have preferences. 

“Should we experiment?” She could only nod. “You have to tell me when I’m doing well.”

“I can do that.”

He sucked on her inner thigh first, enough to hurt, enough to leave another mark. He soothed it with his tongue before placing a kiss beside her clit. One side of it, then the other. 

“I don’t feel much there at all,” she said. “The teasing doesn’t do a lot for me.”

He looked up at her. “Not very patient, are you?”

“More like I lose my momentum, actually.”

He seemed to consider that before he said, “Noted.”

And then he sucked her clit into his mouth. Rolled his tongue around it: flicked, kissed, sucked. Added suction when she said to, alternating techniques when she needed. When he pressed his tongue inside her, whole face buried between her thighs, Hermione looked to his ceiling and marvelled at how no man had ever gone down on her like this. 

It was so much she almost needed to get away from him, hide from the jolting pleasure zipping from her core. But he held her hips steady and encouraged her to rock against his face. She nearly couldn’t stand it. 

A whole mental load had melted out of her brain, sizzled by searing arousal. Just feeling legitimately wanted by a man willing to put in the work to get her off was enough to rocket her halfway there. He might not have had it right on the first go but, oh, could he take direction. 

She supposed he was coached all day as part of his job.

Her breath caught, thighs clenching.

“Are you close?” he asked, breath heaving as much as hers, face literally glistening.

“I—yes, but I don’t think I can like this.” His face fell. “No, no. Draco”— Draco?— “that was so good. Literally the best I’ve ever—”

His grin returned, gaze intensifying. “You need more though? What else? Tell me what to do, Granger.”

While he spoke, he’d resumed tracing circles around her clit with his thumb, keeping her just keyed up enough that her thoughts were short circuiting, struggling to focus under his touch.

He leaned over her, kissing up her neck and pausing beside her ear. “Tell me what you want to do and I’ll do it. I promise I can.”

“Can you hold me up?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to…against a wall?”

“Not a problem.” He didn’t sound remotely phased. He simply pulled himself back to the edge of the bed, positioned her ankles at his shoulder again and leaned in to scoop her up. She barely breathed in the two steps it took him to pivot and pin her to his bedroom wall, folded nearly in half and held up like her affinity for fish and chips meant nothing to his strength. 

He squeezed her arse and grunted into her neck. “I’m going to fuck you now, Granger. Alright? And you’re going to tell me exactly how to do it so you end up screaming my name. I caught that little slip earlier. My name sounds good in your mouth.” He shifted his hips, cock dragging across her. “We can experiment with other things in your mouth later, yeah?”

She was so hot and so worked up she only managed a weak nod before pulling him in for a kiss. 

In a single thrust, he slid right in. She knew without a doubt that she had never been this wet in her entire life. There was no discomfort, no work fitting him in. Just a smooth glide that hit exactly where she needed it to. 

“Not so hard,” she whimpered on a particularly hard thrust.

He slowed down.

“No, no. The pace was good. Just not so much slamming.”

His head tilted and he adjusted again. “Don’t like it rough?”

She flushed, partly from the question and partly from the consistent, welcome pace and pressure winding her up. “I do. Sometimes. But right now I really want to…I think I could—”

“Right,” he said. “We’re on a mission.”

“Mmhmm.” Her agreement sounded more like a captured moan, hostage behind sealed lips.

“Don’t hold back now.”

“If you finish me off you can go as hard as you want.”

His replying grin was feral. Entirely too satisfied for his own good. Especially considering this was quite possibly the most vulnerable conversation she’d ever had. “Am I going to be the first man to get you off, Granger?” He groaned into her ear. “Tell me I am. Tell me it’s good.”

“It’s so good. You’re so, so—” Her breath caught, heat surging beneath her skin. “My clit, please.”

He resumed touching her like she’d told him to, thrusting into her just as she’d asked, and still impossibly holding her up against a wall all the while. 

Hermione leaned into the sensation, chasing her pleasure in a way she’d rarely done, or been permitted to do, in the past. His fingers were nice, movements effective; he was already learning. And it was pulling tension tighter through her body, winding her up. But it still wasn’t enough. She let out a disappointed breath.

Ron had told her she was difficult in not quite so many words. Just with a lacklustre commitment and breaks for his sore hands or mouth. Plus an easy willingness to accept it when she said no, she was fine. She didn’t need to finish. She’d had fun anyway. 

She’d half convinced herself it was true. Another half held on, particularly after the break up, to a hope that maybe it was merely an issue of compatibility. That she wasn’t broken or impossible, just in need of some investment from the right person.

“What’s wrong?” Draco’s pace slowed, but didn’t stop, a look of consternation on his face. 

She didn’t have it in her to let him down gently. “It’s not working.”

He frowned. “What normally works?”

“I told you, I’ve never…not with—”

“Not with someone. By yourself. I don’t believe for a second you don’t know how to get yourself off. So what works?”

He shifted to lazy thrusts. Like a car in idle, still on, still working, but not necessarily going anywhere. It kept her warm, feeling loose. And perhaps that was what choked the startling honesty from her. 

“My vibrator.”

She partly expected that to shut him down. Ron was never interested in acknowledging toys as an option.

But Draco had to go and surprise her by smiling. His fingers returned to her clit, moving in a slow, firm circle. “Right here? You need a little help right here?”

It was such an unexpected response that it blindsided her with lust, an almost violent shock of desire shooting up her spine. Her mouth dried out, jaw dropping open with a gasp. She swallowed against the drought in her throat, incapable of speaking. She nodded. 

He lifted his hand and wandlessly summoned something from the nearby closet; it sounded like it tore a drawer open in the process. When Hermione looked down, she saw what looked suspiciously like a muggle bullet vibrator. Draco tore open the packaging with his teeth and it required all of Hermione’s self control not to descend into a lecture about the dangers of using his teeth as tools.

If ever there was a bad time for a lecture on dental care, she assumed this was it: pinned against a wall and impaled on a man’s cock while he uttered another wandless spell that had the small toy vibrating. 

“I like to keep a few of these on hand.” He grinned at her. “Very useful. You can keep it, too.”

Hermione’s giggle gusted out of her on the back end of a particularly languid thrust. “What, like a party favor for having sex with you?”

Draco arched a brow, pulled back, paused, and thrust again. She let out a whimper. “That’s good spin. I like it.” He positioned the vibrator just above her clit. Not quite touching her, but enough tantalising anticipation that her breath caught. “May I?”

“You’re—okay with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

“I don’t know. A pride thing? Of course I’m okay with it—” Her words stalled the moment her permission had left her mouth. 

Whatever pause in play they’d been engaged in while Draco troubleshot her arousal had clearly ended. He pressed the vibrator to her clit and leaned in to whisper against her neck. 

“Don’t forget I’m a professional athlete, Granger. I know how to be a team player.” He licked a broad striped up the side of her neck, still thrusting into her, still holding the vibrator to her clit. It was nearly too much. “Like this? Right here? Steady or movement? Tell me how to do it and I’ll make it perfect.” 

His teeth toyed with her earlobe in the aftermath of his questions, making it nearly impossible to choke out an answer.

“Just like with your fingers, but with the toy.”

He bit her lobe, just enough pressure to communicate satisfaction with her response. In the space of several thudding heartbeats, he coordinated his circles with the vibrator to the pace of his thrusts, and Hermione forgot how to breathe entirely.

Her body seized, overcome by a need to squirm away, to escape the intensity overwhelming her. But he only held her tighter, kept doing exactly what he was doing. And then his voice was in her ear again. “I know this part. My favourite.”

After that she heard nothing but white noise and her own indignation, body overtaken by an orgasm she wasn’t anywhere near prepared for. She came. A real, partnered orgasm under Draco Malfoy’s touch, on his cock. 

And it was possibly the best orgasm she’d ever had, pulsing pleasure in time with her thudding heartbeat. He’d told her to scream his name, but instead she’d lost her breath, forced from her lungs by the sheer force rocketing through her.

When her thoughts floated back into her brain, she registered him nuzzled against her neck, kissing her gently. 

“I’ve got you,” he was whispering. “You with me?” She nodded. “I’m going to go hard now, if that’s still alright. Fuck, you feel amazing.” Her throat had gone sandpaper rough and she wasn’t certain she could speak, so she nodded again, swallowing hard. The vibrator buzzed quietly somewhere on the floor by his feet.

He let go, pistoning into her. Normally not her favourite rhythm, Ron used to do it like that a lot, thinking she needed something unrelenting. It probably didn’t help the way she used to moan for him when he did it. 

But now, after having just careened through an orgasm, already so warm and lazy, it was like Draco’s steady, punishing pace was already priming all her barely cooled parts. She could hardly believe it, sensing another peak on the horizon.

She dug her nails into Draco’s shoulder, breathing heavily. He moaned. “Yes, Granger. Use those nails. You like teeth? You can bite me too. I want to see you on me in the morning.”

Merely following direction, she sank her teeth into the firm muscle above his pec, feeling his groan rumble against her lips. She flew apart, victim to a totally impossible second orgasm in a matter of minutes.

It sent Draco over too, mumbling a string of obscenities against her skin. When he caught his breath, he leaned back to look at her, still holding her up against the wall and looking barely winded for doing it.

“Tell me I was good.”

“You were better than good.”

He sucked in a deep inhale through his nose, gaze narrowing on her. “Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“You are. It was.” Her head fell back against the wall, mostly in disbelief. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

After he set her down and cleaned her up, everything became unbearably weird. Mostly, Hermione made it weird. At least, she felt like she did, what with the shuffling and failure to maintain eye contact. 

How was she supposed to interact with the first man to actually give her an orgasm, let alone two, when that man also happened to be Draco Malfoy? Between their complicated past and their equally complicated present (wherein he was a professional athlete who shagged fans all the time), Hermione didn’t know how to navigate what was meant to be a one night stand that turned into the best sex she’d had in her entire life. 

She hunted down her clothes while he watched her from his bed, expression caught between concern and amusement. He didn’t stop her from going, but he didn’t help her gather her things either. 

She thanked him, then refused to look at him. Because what was she thanking him for? The beers at the pub? The snog? The orgasms? It was definitely the orgasms but she wasn’t about to admit it. 

“Don’t forget your party favour,” he said with an obscene smirk as he watched her in nothing but the boxers he’d slid on over his stupidly toned thighs and upsettingly trim hips.

She summoned the small toy from where it had landed on the floor, incapable of looking at him. A measure of her pride wanted to leave the toy there, but fuck if it hadn’t been powerful and effective. 

On her way out she mumbled something about owling him, thanked him again, and then wished to vanish right then and there. She did the next best thing and apparated from his doorstep. 

She didn’t owl him.

Notably, he didn’t owl her.

Which confirmed that her one night stand was, in fact, a one night stand as expected.

Apart from all the successive nights she spent fantasising about the genuinely earnest look on Draco’s face as he asked her for direction, followed it, and enjoyed his success nearly as much as she did. 

Hermione made frequent, mortifying use of her party favour. 

It got her through the off season. Through the single time she crossed his path in town, which had been from such a distance she wasn’t obligated to acknowledge him. She wasn’t even sure he’d noticed her. 

And then when the new Quidditch season started, Hermione was right back in her box, having purchased her cushy season pass for another year. No spite involved this time, she genuinely wanted to support the team, even if it came with the unfortunate reality of having to see Draco again. No amount of embarrassment could keep her from the thrill of memorising an entire new season’s worth of stats.

It wasn’t as if she could miss this pre-season scrimmage anyway, not when the Falcons were playing the Cannons. She painted her face again, charmed the falcon to soar across her cheeks, and put on her trusty jersey.

She cheered as the Falcons zipped onto the field, nearly having forgotten the rush of a match, the overwhelming thrum of a cheering crowd. Draco’s blond hair was instantly recognizable, as was the way his head craned to look at her box. 

Like he was looking for her.

Like the first thing he did upon entering the pitch was look to see if she was there. 

He looked quickly away, and it seemed like maybe that was that. Hermione smiled, suddenly sheepish, but incapable of withholding her excitement. 

This was the first shock of seeing someone you’ve slept with again. Nothing more.

Until halfway through the match, the Cannons soundly squashed already and very obviously anticipating a loss, when Draco brought his broom to hover near her box. 

He paused, met her gaze, and winked. He tossed his beater’s bat into the air, spinning it several times, before catching it easily in one hand. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Granger,” he shouted over the roar of the crowd. He winked again and zoomed away, aiming a bludger at the Cannon’s chaser currently handling the Quaffle. The ball moved into the Falcon’s possession.

Hermione kept her gaze fixed on the pitch, refusing to acknowledge any of her tentative acquaintances sharing the box with her, and what she suspected were several curious stares. 

Once the Cannons had been thoroughly, embarrassingly beaten, Hermione decided post-match mingling wasn’t a good idea, all things considered. 

It wasn’t that she was avoiding Draco. It was more that she had no idea what to say to him. Not that her decision made a difference.

He flew straight up to her box as everyone was filing out and down the stairs. 

“How’ve you been, Granger?” he asked, leaning against his broom, head tilted with a smile. He looked drenched in sweat from head to toe, platinum hair plastered to his forehead. 

She laughed. It was a ridiculous opener. “Small talk?”

“Well, not sure how else to break into a conversation where I ask why you never owled.”

“Why I never…what?”

“You said you’d owl. Just curious why you didn’t. Seemed like you had a good time. I like to think I know when a woman is faking it. And what with all that about you not being able to…before. And you said I was good, so I thought that meant it was good for you too?”

He was out of breath, and she was willing to attribute it to the tremendous physical exertion he’d been under for the last several hours. And not that charming little speech. 

“You were. I mean, it was good. You were good. Very good.” A low sound rumbled from Draco’s throat. “I—when you said I was smart enough to know what going out with you after a game meant, I thought you were talking about something casual. A one night stand.”

“Oh. Well, I guess it could be if you want.”

“Is that not what you want?”

He shrugged. “I was actually pretty curious what other things you’ve always wanted to try in the bedroom. I have this feeling you might like checklists. And I still want my jersey charmed.”

—

Hermione did, in fact, have many things she wanted to try. And when presented with the opportunity and the challenge, assembling them into a list—mental for now, but she could easily make him a copy—was easy work. 

They took care of her first line item not moments later. Pitched partially as a joke that Draco took very seriously, a vague interest in having sex in a public place became and easy thing to manage as the stadium emptied.

Especially when the locker rooms were right there.

And Draco needed a shower anyway.

Sneaking her in would be almost too easy; they just had to wait for his teammates to wrap up and leave. Time easily passed snogging in Hermione’s expensive box seats with Draco’s hands down the back of her trousers, kneading her arse as she ground down in his lap. 

Even drenched in sweat he was delicious. “Tell me how you want it.” Words whispered quietly in her ear as they rutted together like teenagers in a slowly draining sporting venue. “Over the benches? In the shower? Both?”

She whimpered when one of his hands found her nipple through her jersey, a firm grip, pinching and holding until she answered. She whimpered again; his grip only tightened. ”You like that too? The right kind of pain with your pleasure?”

“Yes. Fuck. Both. Bench first, from behind. God, I bet you’ll be brilliant at that too.”

He let out a satisfied sound and released her nipple, surging forward to kiss her neck. “I will be. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

He rocked her hips forward, canting her against the firm leather of his thigh guards, unexpectedly effective pressure against her clit. A surprised oh fluttered from her mouth as her eyes rolled. 

“Are you going to finish right here? Just like this?”

She bit her bottom lip, trying to hold in the whimpered sounds clawing their way up her throat. She didn’t know. It felt like maybe. But normally she needed more, something magic or battery operated. She rolled her hips again and that maybe shifted much closer to a yes.

“How do you feel about edging?” he asked, voice dark in her ear. 

“About—”

And suddenly, he held her hips still against him. She whined.

“If you wait, if you hold on just like this until the coast is clear and I can get you into those locker rooms, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Hermione's hands flexed against his shoulders; she tried rolling her hips again. He made a disappointed tsking sound against her ear, descending to her throat. He held her hips more firmly, limiting her to minuscule, unsatisfying movements.

“Forget the locker rooms,” she panted, sliding a hand into the fine, damp hair at the base of his neck.

“I still need a shower. And you said locker rooms, so we’re doing locker rooms. The only question is whether or not you want one average orgasm now, or a much better one in fifteen minutes when you’re so worked up you don’t even remember your own name.”

The question of what type of orgasm, or when or where or how, had never been an option before. Prior to her one astonishing night with the man whose thigh was presently holding her steady at almost there, the question of Hermione’s orgasms had always been in ifs. 

And if was generous with such an unsuccessful six year track record.

“Do you promise?” she asked, breathing through the steady pleasure weighing her down. 

“Promise to get you off? That it’ll be good?” He scoffed. “Yes, Granger. That’s the only way we do this. I won’t come until you do.”

Her hips shifted without her conscious permission. His fingers dug into her skin as he dragged his teeth across her clavicle. 

“Okay,” she panted, eyes rolling back as he rocked her once against his thigh.

“Tell me every time you’re close.”

—

He hadn’t been exaggerating about barely remembering her own name. By the time the stadium had quieted and the coast was clear, he apparated them to the locker rooms and had her face down on a bench before she could so much as beg for relief.

Which she was absolutely, shamelessly, prepared to do. 

She gripped the sides of the bench, face cushioned on her discarded jersey, not totally certain how it ended up there, whimpering between sounds meant to mean yes, just like that and no, not quite, and oh my god, right there as Draco endeavoured to perfect his technique. 

He was relentless. Willing to try anything, to work with repetition, to try and try again until her ability to communicate that he was on the right path had been reduced to a grunt shuddered into a pile of polyester. 

She came quietly, an acoustic accompaniment to the electric orgasm she’d had the first time she was with him. Acoustic, but no less intense. Vibrant in an unfamiliar way, her body seized as pleasure rolled in hot waves beneath her skin. Her eyelids fluttered. Her breath rasped. She let out a surprised oh as awareness resurfaced from the hot slush in her head.

She’d had only his fingers on her clit as he fucked her steadily from behind. 

Draco pulled out, a hand landing on her arse and squeezing. He made several pained sounds Hermione would investigate when she regained control of her limbs. He smoothed where he squeezed, fingers dipping briefly to toy with her. He laughed when she whined, twitching. 

“Almost had me there,” she heard him say. “But I promised the showers too.”

And in the process of finally washing off a whole afternoon and evening of exertion—Hermione could only marvel in how little she’d cared about his sweat, how unexpectedly she’d liked it—she found herself introduced to shower sex for the first time.

Real shower sex, not just awkward fumbling, incompatible angles, and persistent fears about slipping. No, this was the kind of shower sex where no measure of water or soap could make her feel unsteady as Draco held her up and fucked her against a tile wall. 

It was astonishing. Exhilarating. And enough of a thrill that by the time another surprising, languid orgasm dripped through her veins, she asked him to put her down so she could then sink to her knees.

“How do you like it?” she asked, flipping his script on him as she stroked him gently. Water misted around her, most of the spray blocked by Draco’s broad shoulders and sturdy torso. 

He reached out to stabilise himself against the wall. “You’ll find I’m a very simple man when I’m allowed to let go.” His other hand sank into her drenched curls. “Am I allowed, Hermione?”

She kissed the strong length of muscle at the top of his thigh, turning her eyes up to him with her lips pressed to his skin. She pulled back. “Please do.” And without further preamble, she moved her kisses to his cock: opening for him, letting him rest on her tongue, slide into her mouth, and finally let go.

Chapter Text

“My fitness coach is cross with you.”

Sex with Draco required little notice, no planning. Often a simple look or a quick owl was all it took. That they would make use of Hermione’s box seats after every match was a given, to the point that her extremely conscientious box mates made a point of disappearing quickly at the end of each game. It made casting privacy charms (hers) and melting into each other quick, easy work. 

On this particular day, over halfway through the season and after enough partnered orgasms that Hermione no longer considered them a novelty, but an expectation, they’d wound up in his bed. Hermione’s long day at work ended the same way as Draco’s long day of training: together, blowing off steam. Slowly, he traced a line down the center of her spine while she drew in a deep breath against his soft sheets. 

He rocked into her steadily from behind, and she, face on the mattress, arse in the air, bounced forward gently every time his hips met hers. 

She swallowed, cheek pressed into a luscious thread count. “Why is that?”

Her voice came out breathy, panted, punctuated with gusts of air following each thrust. He slowed, hands meandering her backside. 

“I’ve bruised my ribs.”

“Bruised your ribs?” If not for her limbs feeling like jello, she might have propped herself up to look back at him. But as it stood, he’d had her hanging over the precipice of an orgasm for the last several minutes and she wasn’t handling the anticipation well. If he didn’t touch her properly she might throttle him just for the sake of some kind of satisfaction.

“Mmhmm.” His humming agreement was accompanied by his fingers dancing down her spine again, kneading and rolling the flesh of her arse as if discovering it for the first time. There had once been a time when the size of her arse and the weight she carried around her hips had been a source of subtle but persistent self-consciousness.

But Draco held onto those parts of her like an anchor, squeezed and rubbed and massaged and groaned over them as he gripped her. 

“It’s your fault,” he said, finally slipping one of his hands around her hip and sliding her clit between two fingers. Some contact, but nowhere near enough. 

She would kill him if he didn’t get her off soon.

“How do you figure?” She arched. Leaned. Pushed back against him and rolled her hips so his fingers gave her a single jolt of the pleasure she sought.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished, removing his hand completely. “And it’s from when I almost dropped you the other day.”

“You said you were fine.” This time, she did twist to look at him, rising onto her elbows.

“Thought I was. Besides, I think it’s a pretty impressive accolade, don’t you? Fucked Hermione Granger so hard I bruised my ribs.”

“Will it affect your playing?”

“Worried about the team more than me, are you?” 

“Worried more about your prospects with the preliminary Cup team scouting starting soon. You could play for England. Your stats this season are good. World Cup qualifying good.”

Draco grinned. “They are, aren’t they?” His fingers wandered back to her arse. He paused, expression shifting, shuttering with a darkened look. “Tell me, have you ever thought about trying anything here?”

She would have asked for more elaboration if not for the way his thumb suddenly brushed very gently against her arsehole, lingering there with a light, steady pressure. 

“I—I haven’t really thought about it, no.” She had to look away, pressing her face into the sheets again. A sudden eruption of heat had her feeling flushed and overwhelmed and completely incapable of eye contact. She took a breath. “Have you?”

His thumb pulsed against her. “A bit. Bit more so—with you. Especially when you’re like this. I bet I could make it good.”

Her breath whooshed out of her, almost damp and humid trapped between her face and the sheets. “Could you?”

“Yeah. Yeah I could. Just like this.” He added more pressure. “Do you want me to?”

Hermione fisted the dishevelled comforter beside her. Her face felt bright red, skin about to burst open. She was a tomato left on the vine too long, ready to rupture. Assuming said tomato also had its arse in the air at the present moment, she supposed.

“Yes,” she finally croaked, begging. “Please.”

Draco’s answering groan told her how desperately he’d hoped for that answer. He muttered a spell and the pressure at his thumb was suddenly warm and slippery. On her next breath, stalled somewhere deep in her chest, he was pressing his thumb inside her while murmuring quiet encouragements. 

She had little left in the way of coherency, so desperate for release, that she wasn’t certain if her oh my gods were happening in her head or spilling out her throat.

But Draco resumed thrusting, slow deep strokes while he kept his thumb pressed inside her arse, just there. “I know,” he said. “I know.” Either answering or anticipating her. “You’re a dream. You feel that? Feel how full you are? Full of me.”

She did. She felt it. And she didn’t know how to articulate it. Her arms had completely given out. And by the time his other hand found its way back to her clit, this time with her favourite vibrator handy, she came with a cry into the mattress and a surge of white-hot pleasure exploding bright behind her eyelids. 

Draco lasted exactly one-point-five more strokes, collapsing onto the bed beside her almost as soon as he’d finished. With hazy vision, she watched him wince as he landed, palm pressed to his ribs.

“They couldn’t heal you?”

“Stuff in the torso is trickier. Requires a little more rest.”

“Then why aren’t you resting?”

“I’d much rather be fucking you.”

Hermione snorted a laugh, still limp against the bed. Sparkling pleasure hummed beneath her skin.

“You’ll be at the match tomorrow, won’t you?” he asked.

“I haven’t missed a single game this season.”

“I know.”

“So why would you think I’d miss this one?”

“I don’t. Just wanted to make sure. You’re my good luck charm.”

Hermione felt herself grinning, emerging from her feel-good blur. “Am I?”

“You are,” Draco agreed. “And winning tomorrow means good things for my standings in the World Cup qualifiers, as you know. So it’s imperative my good luck charm is there.” A brief pause. “Preferably without any knickers on, luck is a tricky thing.”

Hermione laughed, too deliriously sated to challenge his cheeky request.  

He rolled to his side, leaning into a kiss, and lingering with her in an uncommon way. They usually kissed leading up to sex, during it, but after? After was for catching their breath and cleaning themselves up. They didn’t often luxuriate.

Body still buzzing, wedged between the bed and his solid form, Hermione found she didn’t mind a little lingering.

—

The next day, she cheered and screamed and unironically rooted for the Falcons (and Draco, specifically) as they faced off against the Montrose Magpies, ultimately flattening them. 

Drunk on post-match adrenaline, Hermione peered over the balcony as she waited for Draco to join her. She grinned as his grey blur zipped from the ground where he’d been celebrating with his teammates. He threw up a privacy charm as soon as he confirmed the box was empty and then pulled her into a startlingly aggressive kiss, hands tangled in her hair, broom falling to the floor with a thud. She broke away briefly to perform her own privacy charms, laughing as he shook his head at her.

“Mine are fine,” he said.

“If you’re into exhibitionism.”

He reached out, twisting his fingers in the hem of her jersey and pulling her into him again. “And what if I am?”

“You have my list. You’ll have to give me yours.”

He grinned. With light fingertips, he traced a path across the bridge of her nose, sweeping down her cheek, and descending her neck where he paused at the hollow of her throat. “Your bird’s flying.”

“It always does when I smile.”

“You smile a lot around me.”

“Stop being so smug and come find out if I wore any knickers.”

He did, backing her up against the nearest wall and frantically slipping his hands inside her jeans. “Come to the gala with me,” he ordered between kisses. 

Hermione tore her jersey off, tossing it on the ground and gasping when Draco descended to drag kisses across her chest.

“Gala?” she asked, on hand threaded through his damp hair. 

“A poncy meet and greet for shortlisted World Cup qualifiers. It’ll be horribly boring. There will be schmoozing, very dull schmoozing. It won’t be any fun at all.”

“And why would I want to attend that?”

“I’ll be there. And I’ll put on my best dress robes for the occasion. And you can wear a gorgeous gown that I’ll take off with my teeth once we’ve survived.”

She agreed with barely a second thought, canting against his palm as he sank two fingers inside her, pinning her against the wall. He smelled like a Quidditch pitch, like sweat, like leather and broom polish and World Cup qualifying beater. 

It wasn’t until later that she realised a gala might qualify as a date, their only one beyond that initial night at the pub before they’d slept together the first time.

Much like kissing him without an endgame in mind, she didn’t dislike the idea of getting dressed up and spending time with him, time in public. She liked it almost as much as she liked the idea of him. More and more.

—

Her dress was scandalous. She barely convinced herself to wear it. It plunged low in both the front and back, clinging aggressively to her hips and arse. A deep navy blue with magically glinting stars scattered across it, she felt like a goddess of the night sky.

And she only had the nerve to wear it in public because she’d looked her reflection dead in the eye and dared herself to do it for no other reason than to see Draco’s face when she met him at the venue. She liked the idea of surprising him in public since his schmoozing obligations meant he had to arrive several hours early to engage the press. 

She wanted him to wonder what she’d wear. She wanted him to anticipate it. He’d promised to take it off with his teeth, after all. 

His reaction did not disappoint. She walked into the magically converted convention space and immediately felt Draco’s gaze snap to her like a physical force. His eyes dragged along her curves, conveniently on display, in a way that sent shivers shooting across the surface of her skin. He crossed the room in an instant: smile predatory, eyes dark. 

He looked delicious enough himself, all broad shoulders and trim waist fitted into impeccably tailored dress robes that made him look strong enough to carry her over his shoulder and toss her onto the nearest horizontal surface with little effort.

She would know. He’d done it more times than she could count. 

His hands landed on her waist as he bent to kiss her cheeks, evidently unfazed by the ongoing flash photography around them.

“This dress is a crime,” he whispered against her ear.

“So are your robes.”

He laughed and led her to stand with him out of the flow of mingling bodies. With his back facing the wall, he directed her to stand in front of him. 

“Why am I—” she glanced down. “No. Draco? You’re kidding.”

“Your fault.” He shifted with a casual attempt to adjust his prominent and obvious erection into a less apparent position. “Just give me a second. Actually, could you turn around?” She did, and laughed when he spun her again. “Never mind, your arse is just as deadly as those tits. I swear to Merlin, Granger. If you’d have told a younger me I’d go hard the moment I saw you at what is technically a work event because of the way you look in a dress, I…” He trailed off, shifting again.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. There wasn’t really an end to that sentence, just a lot of very publicly inappropriate thoughts. Though I think I’d believe it. Considering how you looked at the Yule Ball.”

“Please. You didn’t think a single kind thought about me in fourth year.”

“I didn’t have to like you to acknowledge you were the most stunning witch in that room. Come to think of it, you were on a Quidditch player’s arm that night too.” His tone shifted, closer to the one he used when pressed up against her neck, whispering filthy things in her ear. “Do you have a type, Hermione?” He leaned low to utter the question against her skin. She felt his tongue flick out, tasting her. 

“Of course I do.”

“And what type is that? I’ll be upset if he doesn’t sound exactly like me, just so you know.”

With her hands on his forearms, she squeezed his muscles. “You know, I fought it for a long time. It felt so…basal? It seemed like I should want an intellectual type to match me. Stimulating in a cerebral way.”

“And?”

She squeezed his arms again. “Gods, I just really like a man who can pick me up. Who I can laugh with. I don’t think I need intellectual debate from a partner. I can find that in other relationships in my life.” She nearly cringed. She’d effectively just called him intellectually unstimulating. He didn’t so much as bat an eye.

“You want to feel good,” he supplied. “Happy.”

She nodded. “Yes. And that involves an element of physicality, I’m willing to admit.”

“You’re in luck.”

“Am I?”

“In addition to making you smile and making you feel good, I can dance too.”

—

Draco hadn’t been exaggerating; he danced beautifully. Between the dancing and the drinking and the strange high of not especially caring how many photographs were taken of them together, not when being with him meant feeling this good, Hermione was having a wonderful time.

It was surprisingly easy to simply spend time with Draco. And because of how lusciously drunk she’d let herself become over the course of the evening, she could already picture the warm, lazy kind of sex they’d be having later. The thought alone had her clinging to him, eager. 

And then a flash of red hair changed everything. Ron had appeared, joining her and Draco at the bar.

“I—didn’t know you’d be here,” she said dumbly, her hand overlapping with Draco’s where he was in the process of handing her another glass of red wine. 

Theoretically, she knew players and fans of all the British and Irish League teams could potentially attend via invite or purchase, but she’d framed this whole evening in her head as a celebration of Draco’s shortlist status that little else crossed her mind. 

Ron’s face was flushed—embarrassed, overheated, drunk, or something else—she couldn’t tell. His voice came out quiet, so low she almost had to lean in closer to hear him. “You’re with Malfoy? Really?”

“She is,” Draco answered before Hermione had so much as blinked to register Ron’s question. A startlingly confident proclamation too, considering she and Draco had yet to discuss anything formal about their relationship.

He was assuming a lot, and it wasn’t necessarily misplaced or unwelcome, but it looked mostly aimed as male posturing, squaring himself up against her ex.

Ron frowned. “Well,” he started, “Gin says I should tell you I was wrong.” His words came out a little slurred, suggesting an alcohol-based origin to the flush beneath his freckles. “Guess I was. Wrong. Can’t imagine you two would make it very long if he had to explain the game to you.”

“You were wrong, Ronald.” Hermione straightened her spine as she said it, leaning into Draco’s palm pressed against her lower back.

“Yeah. Got it.”

“I even memorised the stats of every player in the league,” she continued. “I’ve been to almost every match for two seasons just to prove exactly how wrong you were.”

Ron made a noise caught somewhere between a derisive sneer and a scoff. “Of course you did. Hermione Granger has to prove everyone wrong—”

“You what?” Draco cut in. “You weren’t just cheering us on because you liked us?”

Hermione’s focus shifted to Draco. His hand had fallen away from her back. “Well, no, not at first. But—” she broke off at the severe look that crossed his face.

“Why the Falcons?”

“Well, you rival the Cannons, so it made sense—”

Draco stiffened, genuine hurt commingling with the surprise on his face. “So I’m just part of a revenge scheme against your shitty ex-boyfriend? Don’t like his team so you root for mine? He can’t give you an orgasm so you get me to do it?”

“What the fuck?” came Ron’s sputtered exclamation.

“No, I—” she turned from Draco to Ron and back again. “I did pick the Falcons because they rival the Cannons, yes, but everything with you has been…” She trailed off, the idea of saying real felt so flimsy and cheap she couldn’t bear it. She was a tragic caricature of bad decisions and too-strong emotions. 

Ron shook his head, puffed out a low breath, and left without another word. Gone as fast as he’d arrived to ruin everything. Or perhaps the ruining had been all her own. In his absence, she stood alone with Draco by the bar, clutching her glass of wine. 

Draco picked up his own glass, scowled at it, and then looked back at Hermione. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“Okay. I believe you.”

“You believe me?”

“Yes. I don’t have any reason to think you’d lie to me.”

It was true, he didn’t. But that didn’t stop an unwelcome, unbearable guilt from climbing the length of her spine throughout the rest of the evening. 

Draco could barely be relied upon to remember a privacy charm on any given day, but the moment an internal crisis turned Hermione’s limbs to stiff, uneasy boards, his observation skills suddenly skyrocketed. He mentioned it while they danced, steps feeling performative in the wake of the easy dancing they’d done before. He brought it up again as the gala wound to a close.

“You’re tense,” he said. “I’ll help you work out those knots back at my place. I’ve learned a lot of handy spells in physio.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t come over.”  She’d declined his invitation before she’d even realised she planned to. Her skin crawled, pricked with mortification and guilt and a disquieted feeling that couldn’t stomach his easy understanding of a half-deceit that felt so enormously shameful.

“Oh. Is there—okay.”

She thought, in the span of a beat, that he planned to ask why. But he held back, giving her space. That was their arrangement: no expectations.

She didn’t owe him an explanation, but it felt like he deserved one. 

They parted ways at the apparition point, awkward and uncomfortable. Upon landing back in her flat, Hermione had to steady herself against her bookcase, heartbeat thudding painfully behind her ribs. 

—

She stood inside her home feeling like gravity had abandoned her. Her insides flipped and floated, rising and sinking as if her biology couldn’t decide if she felt more mortified or guilty, regretful or longing. 

She hadn’t exactly been doing something wrong all this time. The genesis of her new Quidditch hobby might have been forged by spite, but everything that came after had been a delightful, genuine surprise that swept her off her feet.

Just like a fucking broomstick. 

But still, her chest cavity still felt untethered, swooping and soaring. She felt bad and she couldn’t fully identify why, not beyond a deep, instinctual desire—of all things—not to hurt Draco’s feelings. He’d been nothing but good to her, unexpected as that was. Loyal and straightforward and simple in a way few things in her life were.

She sucked in a breath, tried to steady her shaky nerves, and changed out of her gown. With regret, she remembered Draco’s promise to take it off her with his teeth. She let her dress land in a puddle of fabric on her floor as she slid on a simple pair of sweatpants and a Falcon’s jersey emblazoned with Malfoy’s name. She’d finally figured out the perfect charm to send the mascot on the back soaring in graceful loops around the letters of his name before perching proudly on his player number. She hadn’t even shown it to him yet.

Wearing his jersey felt a bit like having him with her, but it was nowhere near enough. She shouldn’t have run from her strange and unexpected guilt. Her Gryffindor qualities were nowhere to be seen. 

She glanced at her clock. She’d barely been home a quarter of an hour. It already felt like far, far too long. A panicked decision didn’t have to be her final one. 

So before she could talk herself out of it, she scrambled around her flat filling her arms with all variety of bric-a-brac: her mug commemorating a Cannons defeat, the wad of stubs from her season pass tickets she kept pinned to the corkboard near her door, the Falcons branded whirligig Draco gave to her in a bouquet of flowers to thank her for travelling to a particularly distant away game, and the plush Falcons throw she’d been using to practise her fabric bird charming skills. And her party favour vibrator, of course.

Loaded with memorabilia, she apparated from her flat in search of the only person she wanted to spend her evening with. 

Draco answered his door sweating and shirtless, which was impressive considering how little time he’d had to work himself up into a sweat. Just long enough for Hermione to have a small crisis and come to her senses. And long enough for him to—he ushered her inside with barely a pause of consideration—begin lifting weights in his home gym, apparently. 

“That was fast,” he said, dropping a kiss to her temple before returning to his bench presses. 

Funny, she’d been thinking the same thing. About him. About herself. About all of it. 

“Why are you working out right now?” Hermione couldn’t help but ask, shifting with her armful of belongings. It was late and they’d done some fairly heavy drinking. It seemed like a strange decision to exercise.

“Well, I didn’t do any weights this morning because I was banking on getting a workout with you tonight. A more fun one than this too.” He paused mid-rep. “Should I stop?”

Instead of answering, she gusted a half-laugh and asked, “You consider sex part of your workout routine?”

“I think I should get credit for all my hard work. Don’t you?”

Hermione came to stand closer to the bench, watching Draco’s chest—perhaps with too much fascination—as he finished another set.

“I came to apologise,” she said, gesturing helplessly with the stuff in her hands. 

“So I should keep working out?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. Are you upset with me?”

“Why would I be?”

“For all the spite stuff Ron mentioned.”

“I told you I believe you. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine doesn’t usually mean it’s actually fine. So I wanted to apologise anyway.”

“Again.”

“Yes, Again. And I brought all this.” She finally unloaded her knick-knacks onto one of his other workout benches.

“Did you raid a merch stand?”

“No, I—I just, I don’t know. I wanted to show you that this has been real for me, since the beginning. I’ve got my first ticket here.” She held up her wad of season pass stubs, expecting more of a response than his slightly befuddled brows. She switched to the whirligig, blowing pitifully to send the falcon’s wings spinning. “This is the one you gave me. These things—I always hated Ron’s Cannons merch.”

“In your defence, orange is a much more offensive colour than grey.”

If she’d been wearing her face paint, the falcon on her face would have taken flight just then.

“I felt like I needed to provide evidence of how much this means to me,” she said.

“You didn’t. Come here.”

It was a simple order, but enough to feel dangerous. “Maybe you should keep working out,” she said.

“I’m going to.” 

She’d stepped closer without fully realising it, close enough that Draco hauled her into his lap. And before she knew what was happening, he’d manipulated her such that his next bench press didn’t involve any of his actual weights, only her.

“Draco—what are you—” Her protests came out sputtered as she tried not to squirm lest she fall directly onto his face. The man couldn’t just pick her up and bench press her in lieu of letting her properly apologise. 

“This counts as working out with you, doesn’t it?”

“You’re unbelievable,” she said.

“And strong.”

“Still unbelievable.”

“Come on, Granger. We have fun together, don’t we? I’m not upset. It’s none of my business why you became a Falcon’s fan, I’m just happy you did.”

After another few reps, Draco twisted them with astonishing ease as he rose to sit, gently guiding Hermione to straddle his lap.

“You’re really not mad?” she asked, suddenly eye level with him as he looped his arms around her waist.

“I don’t understand why I would be. Aside from you robbing me of the opportunity to take that dress off you tonight. Not that I mind you wearing my name across your back.” 

“I finally got the falcon flying. It’s perfect.”

“I knew it would be.” He pinched her bum and smirked.

“I’m not accustomed to things being so…uncomplicated.”

“Simple things can be good. Good for us, even.”

“I would have spent days twisting myself into knots trying to figure out how to apologise to Ron. And he would have spent double that time punishing me with the silent treatment.”

“Well you don’t have to do that with me. And I wouldn’t do that to you. Days? I can’t go that long without kissing you, for one.”

“That’s…really nice.”

Draco smiled. “Yeah. It is. And it could stay like that. If you wanted to be with me. You know, in a way that isn’t just sex.”

Hermione melted against him. “I do. Very much. Though I’m still interested in the sex.”

“Good,” he said, standing suddenly, holding her easily in his arms. “I don’t think I’m going to finish my workout.”

She agreed as her back connected with the nearest wall.

Chapter Text

Epilogue:

One Year Later: The World Cup

Hermione sipped champagne from her VIP box in the World Cup Quidditch stadium. Draco had already shattered three finger bones (two opponents, one of his own), a wrist (not his), and a decade’s long record for most offensive bludger strikes in the first half of a World Cup match.

The English National Team had already annihilated all expectations by qualifying for two consecutive World Cups, and was now well on its way to what looked like an astonishing win. And in no small part thanks to Draco’s skill with a beater’s bat. This impending victory was both a thrill and vindication wrapped into one. Hermione’s heart fluttered wildly in her chest as she watched.

She knew Ron was probably in the stadium somewhere, likely straining through omnioculars from seats that simply could not be better than her own. Not a single member of the Cannons had made the national team. But Hermione? She was going to see a player from her team— her player—win. Then she planned to take the World Cup star beater home and fuck him within an inch of his (and her) life.

It was a little bit petty, not totally independent of the initial spite that put her here, but as it turned out, Draco enjoyed a little spite too. And he really enjoyed celebrating his successes with a little extra physical activity. 

As England’s seeker dove for the snitch, Hermione jumped to her feet, screaming at the top of her lungs with the rest of the crowd. So thunderous, she couldn’t even hear her own voice as it flew from her throat. Her champagne flute toppled to the ground and she didn’t care in the slightest, eyes locked on the zooming blur near the opposing team’s goalposts. Exactly six seconds later and the match was over. England had won in the most impressive point delta between a World Cup loss and World Cup win by a single country in over two hundred and seventy-five years. She’s done the research; she knew.

After another six seconds, Draco flew straight up to Hermione’s box.

He was on her in an instant, pinning her against the balcony with his sweat-drenched body. The shimmer of a privacy charm sliding into place coincided with his kiss, hungry and desperate and full of the pent up adrenaline wrought from the high of winning a Quidditch World Cup.

“Your best one yet,” she said. She felt no compulsion to supplement his magic with her own privacy charm.

“I’m good at things when I want to be, Granger. I just don’t often want to be.”

She hummed against his lips, sliding her fingers through the damp hair at the base of his neck. Her body bowed, seeking every feasible point of contact between them.

“You just require the right motivation,” she said, gasping as his fingertips gripped her arse and squeezed. 

“That’s right. And do you have any idea what delicious motivation you are?”

“I do, gods, I know. Do you—do you not want to celebrate with your team?” Hermione asked between gasps, arching against him.

“I want to celebrate with you.” 

He dropped several pieces of his quidditch gear to the ground, practically tearing it off with Hermione’s assistance. A second later he had Hermione’s skirt flipped up, fingers walking up her thighs.

A breath later, one he stole with a kiss and a groan, those same fingers slid beneath her knickers, toying with her, warming her up while she squirmed and shuddered and struggled to remain upright.

He’d learned so much; he required no direction, not anymore. He smirked anyway, pulling away from their kiss with ruddy lips and a heaving chest.

“I know I’m doing well—gods, you’re practically panting, and I already won the World fucking Cup—but maybe you could remind me?” He grinned as he asked, taking her for everything she was worth.

Hermione whimpered when his fingers curled inside her in emphasis of his question. Like a slow roll to a boil, her bloodstream warmed under Draco’s precise touch. She tightened her grip in the hair at his nape, demanding a groan in exchange for her whimper. Draco complied beautifully, peppering her jaw with rough, hot kisses. 

“Like hearing how good you are, do you?” she asked.

“From you? Yes. Very much.”

“Pick me up.”

He did.

“Fuck me.”

He did.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

“So good. So, so good.”

“Am I the best beater you’ve ever seen?”

Hermione laughed and moaned all at once, wrung out by pleasure and delighted by the man delivering it. “Yes, Draco. You’re the best. The very— oh, gods, I—”

“That’s right, I am.”

“Been drenched all night just watching you.”

He grunted into her shoulder, biting through her jersey. 

“You know what the best part of this whole night has been?” she asked, tightening her grip around his shoulders as he slowed his thrusts, taking his time with her. “No one had to explain a single thing to me this entire time.”