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Hermione is watching Ginny – only half paying attention, her mind wandering – when a player with a shock of white-blond hair dashes past her on his broom.
Thoughts of what she wants for dinner scatter as Hermione sits up straighter and scans the Quidditch field. Ginny – the Harpies – are playing against one of the Irish teams, the Ballycastle Bats, and their black uniforms had reminded Hermione briefly of Death Eaters and Draco Malfoy. And now she could swear she’s seeing him – chasing after the Snitch, according to the announcer – his white hair flying behind him and contrasting against his black robes.
She’s supposed to be cheering for Ginny – for the Harpies – but Hermione leans forward, wishing she had some binoculars, wishing she could see the Seeker’s face as she tracks him across the pitch. The announcer hasn’t named him – just calling him the Bat’s Seeker – and when he zooms towards Hermione, she can see that the player is wearing a scarf-like mask over his nose and mouth.
He’s so close that Hermione can see his eyes widen as his fingers reach for the Snitch – it’s hovering almost within arm’s reach – and just as he goes to grab it his gaze catches hers.
Silvery-grey eyes. Hermione opens her mouth – his fingers close over the Snitch – and the stands erupt in cheers and boos as the game ends.
Another player almost knocks the Seeker off his broom as they sling an arm around his shoulder. Their shouts are lost under the roar of the crowd, and Hermione watches as the two of them zip away, their robes streaming like wings behind them.
“Unbelievable,” Ginny says, scowling into her mug of Butterbeer. “I’m so sick of those damned Bats.”
It’s tradition – or so Ginny tells her – to go to the nearest pub after a match and drink themselves silly. Hermione usually skips, but today she’s tagged along, her curiosity about the mysterious masked Seeker itching at the back of her mind.
They’re a dark cloud on the other side of the pub – like a swarm of goths – and Hermione can’t stop herself from peeking towards them, hoping for a glimpse of white-blond hair.
“Who is their Seeker, anyway?” Hermione asks, leaning closer towards Ginny. The rest of the Harpies are clustered around the other side of the room, but Ginny had taken pity on Hermione and sat in the middle with her. “He had a mask on.”
She sees Ginny give her a sharp look – twist her lips – and glance away. “They haven’t said.”
Hermione catches sight of his long hair and narrows her eyes. “He looks like-“ The Seeker turns – his scarf is around his neck – and Hermione breathes out his name as he stares at her. “-Malfoy.”
For a moment they stare across the pub at each other. Hermione stands up – her thighs bumping into the table – and she’s not sure if she’s going to run out of the pub or over towards him.
“Please,” Ginny hisses, tugging at Hermione’s arm. “Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not…” Hermione trails off as Malfoy steps towards them, his brows drawn together.
“Granger,” he says, tipping his mug of Butterbeer towards her. “I thought that was you in the stands.” He glances towards Ginny and gives her a nod. “Weasel.”
“Ferret.” Ginny gestures to the seat across from her. “Sit down, the both of you.”
Hermione sits with another tug from Ginny, and Malfoy hesitates for a moment before sitting across from Hermione.
“You – they let you-“ Hermione looks down at her Butterbeer and bites her bottom lip.
“Talent makes up for a lot,” Malfoy mutters as he shakes his head. “And mystery deals with the rest.”
“I recognised him last year,” Ginny says, glancing towards Hermione. “He swore me to secrecy.”
“The Bats would have to deal with a lot of negative commentary,” Malfoy murmurs, his gaze fixed on Hermione. “Even though I was pardoned.”
Hermione takes a deep breath and lets it out in a shaky sigh. It’s been five years since the war – since Hogwarts – since she saw him last. He looks better than she remembers – a little taller, a little less pale and drawn, his shoulders a little broader. Quidditch suits him in a way being a Death Eater didn’t.
“It figures,” Hermione says slowly, twisting her mug between her hands, “that you’d play for a team that wears black.”
“The Magpies didn’t want me,” Malfoy says with a shrug. “I’m lucky the Bats did. I’d look ghastly in orange.”
Hermione snorts and then takes a hasty sip of Butterbeer.
For a moment they sit in silence, and Hermione can feel the weight of Malfoy and Ginny’s gazes.
“I’m not going to make a scene,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. “I was just surprised.”
“Good,” Ginny says, getting to her feet. “Because I need another drink and for you two to not kill each other.” She pats Hermione’s shoulder before heading to the counter.
“It was a good catch,” Hermione says, for something to say. “You fly well.”
Malfoy flashes her a grin. “I fly excellently, Granger, but thanks. Weasel dragged you out?”
“No, I secretly became a huge fan of Quidditch,” Hermione mutters dryly. “She banned me from reading during matches.”
Malfoy shakes his head at her. “So supportive.”
“Hey, at least I show up.” Hermione gestures with a hand. “Not even Harry or Ron make every game.”
“True,” Malfoy murmurs. “You’re working at the Ministry?”
Hermione nods. “Ten years from being Minister. I’m going to do it in five.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow and then nods. “Yeah. You would.”
“I’m going to believe that’s a compliment,” Hermione mutters. “Even if it isn’t.”
“Maybe it was,” Malfoy says. He drains his Butterbeer and sets the mug down on the table. He nods over Hermione’s shoulder. “She’s abandoned you, by the way.”
Hermione twists to see Ginny’s tell-tale shock of red hair clustered with the rest of the Harpies. She lets out a sigh and turns back to Malfoy. “Typical. It’s what I get for never coming to the post-game parties.”
“What made you tag along today, then?” Malfoy tilts his head slightly.
Hermione gives him a pointed glare and then finishes her own Butterbeer. “Guess.”
“I’m honoured,” Malfoy says, dramatically touching a hand to his chest.
“I wanted to see if it was really you.” Hermione fiddles with her mug. “I always wondered where you slithered off to after the war.”
“Seemed better to lay low,” Malfoy says with a shrug. “A lot of people wanted revenge.” He gestures towards Hermione’s mug. “Do you want another?”
Hermione hesitates for a moment. “I ought to get home,” she says, slowly. “Crookshanks will be wanting his dinner.”
“He’s still alive?” Malfoy blinks at her. “That cat’s going to outlive us all.”
“Hopefully,” Hermione says softly. “When are you playing next?”
“We’re up against the Cannons next week,” Malfoy says slowly. “Why?”
“Maybe I’ll come watch,” Hermione says as she gets to her feet. “Unless you’d mind.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Malfoy says, standing with her. “But why?”
Hermione shrugs and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Why not?”
Malfoy narrows his eyes at her and then laughs. “Alright, Granger. Suit yourself. I’ll walk you out.” He tugs his scarf over his nose as he gestures her towards the door.
Hermione flushes as she falls into step beside him. Malfoy opens the door – it’s gotten cold outside as the sun has set – and she shivers and tucks her coat collar up around her ears.
“Here.” Malfoy unwinds his scarf and twists it around her neck. “I’ve got spares.”
“I’m only Apparating,” Hermione grumbles, but she tucks her nose into the scarf all the same. It’s warm and smells like him – sweat and a sharp woodsy cologne – and she can’t help watching him out of the corner of her eye as he tucks his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugs.
“Let me pretend to be a gentleman, Granger,” Malfoy murmurs. His hair whips in the breeze as they cross to the alleyway across the road, long and silver and glittering like snow.
“Alright, Malfoy,” she says with a shake of her head. “Pretend away.”
He smiles at her before gesturing towards the alleyway. “Have a good night, Granger.”
“You too.” She gives him a faint smile as she pulls out her wand. “I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”
Malfoy stares at her – surprised – and she Apparates back home before he can say something.
There’s an owl later that evening from Ginny.
Can’t believe you ditched me after I ditched you.
Draco wanted me to pass this on. I’ll pick you up at ten.
Inside the envelope is a season pass ticket for the Ballycastle Bats – made out to her specifically and signed with a distinctive D.M.
Hermione nuzzles into the scarf she’d never taken off and feels a nervous fluttering in her stomach.
Ginny gives the scarf a pointed look when she stumbles out of Hermione’s Floo on Sunday.
“Don’t tell me you’re switching teams,” she mutters, raising an eyebrow. “After all we’ve been through?”
“I ought to give it back,” Hermione says, fidgeting with the ends. “I didn’t want to forget.”
Ginny gives her a look and Hermione glances away, her cheeks warm. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ginny points out, teasingly. “But you have always liked Quidditch players.”
“Draco Malfoy doesn’t count as a Quidditch player,” Hermione mutters, tucking her chin into the scarf. It doesn’t hide her blushing cheeks, but Ginny just shrugs.
“If you say so.” She holds out her arm towards Hermione and grins. “Shall we?”
It starts raining halfway through the match. Hermione and Ginny shelter under hastily cast charms – as does the rest of the crowd – but the players are stuck in waterlogged misery. She watches the wet line of Malfoy’s hair – a skunk-like stripe down his back – as he soars above the pitch, lazily circling around the stands.
When he flies close to them, he lifts two fingers in a vague wave – one subtle enough not to be remarked upon by the dour announcer, but enough to make a stab of sympathy pierce through Hermione’s heart. Players aren’t allowed any charms that would give them an unfair advantage – she can’t even cast a warming charm on him – but she gives him a smile and a thumbs-up.
“Poor Draco,” Ginny murmurs beside her. “Playing in the rain sucks.”
“Draco, huh?” Hermione mutters as she raises an eyebrow and Malfoy soars away.
Ginny meets her gaze and shrugs. “He’s not his father. And he’s different from school.”
“He was terrible in school,” Hermione says, shoving her hands into her coat pockets.
“We were all terrible in school,” Ginny retorts. “But now he pays for my drinks.”
“Which is all that matters,” Hermione teases.
“Obviously.” Ginny grins.
There’s a ripple through the crowd – the announcer calls that someone’s spotted the Snitch – and she can see Malfoy streaking through the rain, a black blur in the gloom. Hermione leans forward – her fingers slick on the rain-soaked guardrail – her heart in her throat as she watches Malfoy dive towards the ground.
He’s going to crash – he’s too fast and the ground is too close – but instead of colliding with the grass he jerks his broom at the very last second – the end of his broom skims across the ground – and then he shoots towards the sky, his hand outstretched.
The other team’s Seeker – a flash of orange – collides with him. For a second, they seem to freeze in mid-air – black and orange tangled around each other – and then they fall – hurtle – crash into the ground.
“Fuck,” Ginny breathes beside her.
The announcer’s voice fades into a droning buzz as Hermione tears down towards the field – Ginny chasing behind her – her charm dissipating and her hair sticking to her face.
There’s a Healer on the field – the other players clustered around the fallen Seekers – and Hermione pauses for a moment at being the only onlooker on the pitch.
Ginny tugs her along. “Come on,” she says, dragging Hermione over the wet grass. She elbows her way past the other Bats – they glare down at her but let them pass – and Hermione’s heart catches in her throat.
Draco is laying on the ground, his broom broken beneath one leg, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle. The Healer is leaning over him – murmuring as he moves his wand – and Hermione covers a gasp with her hand at the angle of Draco’s knee.
“Broken,” the Healer says, looking at Draco’s leg. “This’ll hurt.”
“Great,” Draco mutters, closing his eyes.
“At least you caught the Snitch,” Ginny points out as she taps her boot against Draco’s uninjured knee. “Good job.”
Hermione glances towards Draco’s hand – it’s there, dulled in the rain, gleaming in his fingers – and she lets out a breath.
“You’re worse than Harry,” Hermione murmurs as she kneels beside Draco in the wet grass.
He slits his eyes open and looks towards her. “I do my best,” he says, his voice tight with pain.
“You can hold his hand, if you want,” the Healer says, nodding towards Draco’s unbroken arm. “Might help.”
Draco lifts his gloved hand towards her and out of reflex Hermione takes it between both of her own.
The Healer waves his wand and murmurs a spell – one of Draco’s bones cracks beside her – his fingers clamp around hers as he hisses out a breath.
“It’s alright,” Hermione whispers, rubbing her fingers over his. “One more.”
“No,” the Healer says. “His ribs are broken too.”
“Oh,” Hermione says softly. She covers Draco's fingers with her own and gently squeezes. “Two more, then.”
Draco closes his eyes as the Healer murmurs again – another crack. His fingers twitch around hers – as though he’s conscious of the fact that he’ll cause her pain if he grips her too tightly – and on the third bone-mending spell he lets out a stifled gasp as he grips her hand.
“Ow,” Draco murmurs weakly, opening his eyes to glance between her and the Healer. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” the Healer says tartly, running another medical diagnosis spell. After a moment he nods and gets to his feet. “Congratulations on the win.”
“Hear that, Granger?” Draco says as he closes his eyes. “Maybe you’re my lucky charm.”
“I doubt that,” Hermione mutters as she untangles one hand from around his and brushes a lock of wet hair out of his eyes. “Unlucky, maybe.”
“Come on,” Ginny says, putting a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “They’ll get him to the player’s tent.”
The other players swarm around him like – well – bats – and Hermione is gently pushed out of the way as they lift him from the ground despite Draco’s weak protests that he can walk, thank you.
Ginny puts her arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Hermione.”
“I know,” she murmurs, leaning into Ginny’s side. “Just scary.”
“I can tell,” Ginny says dryly, lifting her wand towards her. “You’re soaked.”
Hermione glances down at herself and her dripping hair. She hadn’t even noticed.
The mood in the pub is dampened with the rain and injured players. Hermione stares moodily into her glass of water as Ginny talks brooms with the Cannons player who’d come over to say hello, recognising her from a previous match.
Draco hadn’t appeared with the other players – the black-robed Bats who’d nodded acknowledgement to her but hadn’t approached. Worry gnaws at her stomach – drives her to her feet and towards one of the players – the tall woman with short blonde hair who’d smiled at Hermione when she’d entered.
“Excuse me,” Hermione says, feeling nervous as the woman turns and raises an eyebrow. “Is Dr- your Seeker – is he okay?”
The woman smiles gently. “He’s fine. Resting upstairs.”
“Oh,” Hermione says. “That’s – that’s good.”
The woman tilts her head slightly and gives Hermione a considering look. “The second door on the left, if you want to find out for yourself.”
“I-“ Hermione swallows and looks away. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she mutters towards the floor.
“You wouldn’t be,” the woman says, touching her hand to Hermione’s arm. “He’d appreciate the company.”
“I- If you say so,” Hermione stutters. “Thanks.”
The woman gives her a wave as Hermione makes her awkward escape towards the stairs. If she climbs them, she can escape the lingering stares.
But she hesitates in front of the second door on the left. Knocks gently and strains to hear a response and then knocks more firmly.
Draco opens the door and his glare morphs into a smile. “Granger?”
“Your teammate – the tall blonde – she said you’d want company,” Hermione stammers out. “And I wanted to see if you were okay.”
Draco opens the door wider and gestures down at himself. “The picture of perfect health,” he says dryly. “I just didn’t feel up to socialising.”
“Oh.” Hermione twists her hands together. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Draco shakes his head. “No, not you-“ He leans against the open door and gestures her inside the room. “You can come in, if you want.”
Hermione takes a breath and crosses the threshold, and Draco closes the door behind her. It feels oddly intimate to be alone in a room with him, and she fiddles with the ends of her scarf – his scarf – nervous with how close he is.
“Weasel – Ginny – she told me…” Draco trails off as he runs his fingers through his hair, tucking it behind an ear. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Ron.”
Hermione swallows. “We can’t all marry our school sweethearts,” she murmurs, looking at everything in the room except for Draco’s face. “How’s Pansy?”
Draco laughs. “Keeping busy. But she was never my sweetheart.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Hermione mutters.
“Apparently I did,” Draco says, leaning towards her and raising an eyebrow. “Are you trying to find out if I’m single, Granger?”
“No,” Hermione says, avoiding his gaze. “I have no reason to care about your love life.”
“Ginny said you were into Quidditch players,” Draco says, leaning back and narrowing his eyes at her. “I didn’t think I’d count.”
“I don’t like Quidditch players,” Hermione grumbles. “Not intentionally.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“You ran pretty fast down onto the field,” Draco murmurs, stepping closer towards her. “Were you worried, Hermione?”
Hermione rolls her eyes, even as her stomach flutters. “Of course I was, Draco. You could’ve broken your neck.”
He reaches a hand out towards her – brushing his fingers over the edge of the scarf. “Disappointed?”
“Relieved,” Hermione breathes, watching as he rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t want to see you die.”
“I’m not getting my scarf back, am I?” Draco’s hand lifts to her curls – frizzed from the rain – and tugs gently on one.
“This one’s mine,” Hermione whispers, glancing towards his face – his silvery-grey eyes focused on hers, his lips curled into a smile.
“There’s a price to keep it,” Draco murmurs, leaning his face towards hers. “Dinner.”
“A date?” Hermione raises an eyebrow. “You’re asking me out?”
“Ginny said I should,” Draco mutters, and his cheeks are turning pink. “If she’s taking the piss-“
“I’d love to,” Hermione interrupts. “You can pay.”
“Alright.” Draco huffs a breath that tickles across her face. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“One scrap of prejudice and I’m telling Skeeter, though.” Hermione touches her fingers to the inside Draco’s wrist. “You better behave.”
“I will.” His face dips closer to hers, his hair slipping against her cheek. “I promise.”
“It’s not because you’re a Quidditch player,” Hermione whispers, tilting her face towards his. “I’m not that shallow.”
“I know.” Draco’s nose brushes against hers. “But it helps, right?”
Hermione presses her other hand to his chest and feels the muscles beneath her fingertips tense. “Maybe,” she admits, closing her eyes to avoid his stare.
His lips brush – feather-light – against hers. An invitation for her to kiss him back, if she wants to.
Hermione inhales through her nose and then presses her lips against his in a tentative kiss.
“I ought to fall off my broom more often,” Draco murmurs against her mouth. “I could get used to being kissed better.”
She gently pushes against his chest. “Don’t you dare.”
“Alright,” Draco whispers, and then he kisses her again, gentle and tender and like he’s never going to stop.