Chapter Text
Hermione ducked behind a thick wooden column as the Bludger whooshed past.
She was going to kill Ginny.
Her designated best friend in the absence of Harry and Ron had all but dragged her to the first game of the Quidditch season of their eighth year. Alright, it was Ginny’s seventh year.
“You always went to Harry’s games!”
“That’s because I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be a cursed broom or bludger or dementors. Or Malfoy dressed as a dementor.”
“Well, Malfoy will be there, for sure, so maybe you should go!” Ginny wiggled her red eyebrows at her during breakfast that morning.
Hermione ignored the insinuation. “Ginny, I mean it — I am taking nine NEWT classes, I don’t have time to waste on a Quidditch match —”
“Ouch, Mione!” Ginny pouted. “You mean supporting your best friend is a waste of time?”
And with that, Hermione was doomed. Because they could call her anything but a bad friend. She had wasted loads of studying time previously, supporting Harry or Ron in their endeavours. She might as well sit this one out with Ginny.
“I will be taking a book.” She warned a beaming redhead. “ And you have to promise me you won’t be showing off with pirouettes in the sky, the minute you see the snitch, you’ll catch it, alright?”
“I will ignore the fact that you don’t even know I am a chaser and not a seeker,” Ginny said cheerfully while spreading jam on her toast.
“Oh,” Hermione blushed. “Who’s Gryffindor’s new seeker?”
“Martha Clearwater, I don’t think you know her,” Ginny said, her mouth full. “She’s in fifth year… Oh, she’s sister to Percy’s ex—”
“Penelope,” Hermione answered grimly, remembering the other Muggleborn that had been petrified like her in the second year and whose name she used that time the snatchers— She shook her head. There was no use in brooding on past suffering, her mind healer would say.
Hermione still had nightmares every night about that drawing room.
“Er — And is she good?”
“Oh, yeah! She’s great — A bit like Ron, though, you know?” Ginny said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “With the nerves and all that! She’s pretty worried about today’s game — In fact, I don’t see her here…”
Ginny glanced around while sipping on her pumpkin juice.
“Why is she nervous?” Hermione asked. “Who are you guys playing?”
“Slytherin,” Ginny answered. “She’s really scared of Malfoy, you know!”
“Why?” Hermione gasped. “Because he was a Death Eater?”
Ginny snorted. “Oh, no. No one who was here last year sees him that way. He was just another one of us suffering under the Carrows. She’s scared because he’s good — Oh, I see her! MARTHA!” She waved. “Yep, she looks green. I’ll go cheer her up, Mione. Don’t you dare miss the game today, huh?”
And that’s how Hermione found herself on the benches around the Quidditch Pitch, inside the red sea of Gryffindors. It was fuller than any other game she had ever attended, perhaps because of the extra students from eighth year or because like Umbridge, the Carrows had suspended Quidditch the previous year.
It was a barbaric sport: there had already been two broken arms. Madam Pinch would have a long afternoon that day.
As she had no taste for violence, Hermione couldn’t really see the appeal of the game. It was quite boring, with the quaffle jumping from hand to hand or inside a hoop. 10 points to Gryffindor. 10 points to Slytherin. A bludger almost killed Dean Thomas. Another bludger did smashed a Slytherin’s broom. Twice, Martha dove as if she had seen the snitch, but perhaps it was a bluff because Malfoy didn’t bother following her.
Hermione could see it now, why someone would find him a threat. In the game , that is. He had his jaw clenched, his eyes intensely scanning the perimeter. He had broadened up during summer, his arms were thicker, more muscular. He wasn’t burly or hefty, though; his height made him look long, lean and elegant — like a panther or something. She wondered if he bit—
Hermione shook her head and glanced back at her book.
There was no point in simply pining after someone you would never make a move on, Ginny would say. Easy for her to say; she was the boldest person Hermione knew. She saw it, she wanted it, she got it. And she also moved on pretty quickly. After Harry asked her for a break before the Horcrux Hunt, Ginny decided she was done waiting for him like her first-year self. And now she was single and pulling anyone she wanted at Hogwarts — Yes, anyone, not just any boy.
Hermione wasn’t like that.
Not after how badly things went the last time she was forward. A bold kiss on Ron’s lips in the middle of a battle, just because he said something remotely nice about not endangering house elves, had ended up with the most awkward conversation in The Burrow the following day.
“You’re very nice and pretty, Mione… I just don’t see you like that. I think we’re better off as friends.”
The prat couldn’t even behave badly enough for her to bash him.
Hermione would never make a move on another boy.
If anyone wanted her, they would simply need to do what Viktor had done and find her in a library to ask her out.
That was a perfect idea, Hermione thought, as she reread the same line for the fifth time. She wouldn’t look up to seek Malfoy and his perfectly dishevelled flying hair, or his broom thighs or his chiselled bone structure…
Oh, sod it! She would look up, at least for a bit.
She was rewarded with a perfect view of Draco Malfoy.
Perfect, with no obstacles.
Because he was flying full speed towards her.
Really towards her.
Like, dangerously so.
In the blink of an eye, Hermione looked up and saw the snitch just above her head. Oh, bollocks. She hated Quidditch — It was the last thought in her mind before Malfoy crushed against her with all the momentum of an airplane with his high-speed flying.
…
It didn’t hurt at all.
Everything was dark, but she was quite sure that if she made enough effort to open her eyes, she would be able to see.
She tried once, but nothing happened.
“I think she’s waking up! Madam Pomfrey!!” A girl screamed, her voice raspy. She knew that voice. Minnie? Ninny?
She tried again and saw a blurred blend of white. Like marble white, cloud white, cotton white and ferret white.
Ferret white, that was funny. She giggled.
“Granger? Granger!” A male voice asked.
This voice was much better. So low and smooth. She wanted to lick that voice. She licked her lips instead.
“Granger, are you alright?”
She squinted her eyes, and the whites straightened themselves. There was the ceiling of the Hospital Wing, there was some white-blond hair, there was some white skin and… Where was the ferret? Instead of a ferret she could only see pale grey eyes looking at her.
They were beautiful. She told them so. “You’re… beautiful.” Her voice came out airy and weak; he probably didn’t hear her.
“Fuck, Granger! I am so sorry!”
Hermione blinked, and his face came into focus. He looked like an angel. Literally, she was sure she saw his face in a Renaissance painting of an angel.
“I swear! I was sure I was going to be able to stop before you but then — Oh fuck, I’m so sorry!”
No…
It wasn’t an angel.
He was a Greek god.
Yes, for sure. She had seen a statue like that in the Louvre… Or was it in the V&A?
“This has nothing to do with — with before! — I’ve been meaning to apologize for everything, but I was so afraid and now — Fuck, Granger. I swear, I’m sorry!”
His face was contorted in pain. She didn’t like it.
She raised her hand to unfurrow his brows, but it didn’t work very well. She ended up landing a feeble little slap on his cheek.
His skin was warm, so she allowed her hand to rest there.
“Granger?” He looked confused at her and then at her hand. “Fuck, where is Pomfrey?”
He looked around and then back at her. “Are you in pain? I am so sorry, Granger!”
She concentrated a lot to say something very smart, she had a vague feeling that it was something she would normally do: say something smart.
“It’s okay, handsome.” She cooed. “Why don’t you kiss it better?” She winked, attempting to smirk seductively.
She probably said it wrong, though, because the boy blanched — Worse, even. He looked positively greyish. “W-what?”