Hermione shielded her eyes with a hand, blinking against the midday sun, and watched him in the long, slowly descending circles around the perimeter of the pitch that he made— alone— after every match.
She wondered whether the final for the Quidditch Cup would be an exception, but as all of Slytherin House poured onto the field, hoisted the Cup overhead like the carcass of a felled beast in a winter of starvation and disappeared again through the archway leading back to the castle, he remained aloft, a black silhouette in a cloudless blue sky.
She waited for a long time, kicking the toe of one black boot against the heel of the other and periodically shoving a stray hair out of her face, until he was low enough that she could see his expression.
He was— serene.
Behind her back, she grasped the elbow of her left arm with her right hand, and felt the pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth while she watched him pause to rip off his robe and gloves and throw them to the ground with the carelessness of a man who’d spent his entire life believing everything that he damaged would be quickly and easily replaced.
He’d learnt otherwise. And he continued to learn. But some habits took time to change.
He pulled up beside her and glided slowly over the ground while she walked along the center of the pitch.
The stands above them stood empty except for the distant motion of the free elves that Vanished the spilled popcorn and half-eaten candy apples from underneath the seats. The equipment had long since been cleared from the field.
They were almost entirely alone.
He pulled up the sleeves of his jumper, and tossed his hair back from his face. His cheeks were still colored with exertion. “Well?”
She turned away from him, hiding a smile. “Well?”
He scoffed. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
She turned back towards him. “Saw what?”
He dropped his heels to the ground and came to a complete stop, still straddling his broom. She turned around and walked backwards, facing him. He said nothing, only raised his brow at her in disbelief.
“If you mean the Cup winning catch by the Seeker of the opposing team, then yes, I believe I saw that,” she said.
“The ‘opposing team,’ Granger?”
She tucked her hands down into the pockets of her pleated skirt. “Yes, the opposing team. You didn’t think I’d be here cheering against Gryffindor House, did you?”
He shook his head and ground his jaw, rolling his eyes skyward. “Unbelievable.”
“It was,” she agreed. “An unbelievable catch. I shouldn’t be surprised if it was still spoken about years from now. The first years will certainly have something to try to live up to.”
He smiled, then, unable to cover up the flush of pride that stole over him.
“So do I get my reward?” he asked.
Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “A reward?” She pointed back over her shoulder. “But I’ve only just watched your House run off with your reward. It’s in the shape of a rather gaudy silver cup. If you hurry you can probably still charge about the castle hoisting it over your head and shouting without looking like a complete berk. It’s a narrow window of opportunity, you’d best hurry.”
“Granger, you’re the one who said—”
“Oh, that reward,” she recalled. “It’s a packet of Bertie Botts, and I’ve taken out everything but the kind you like best. I’ve left it back in my dorm, I’m terribly sorry.”
His look became cloudy, and despite herself she laughed.
“Oh, come on.” She stopped, then walked unhurriedly back towards him until she stood beside the handle of his broom. She cocked a hip and looked up at him. “Your reward is this.”
She turned so that her back was facing his broom, reached back and grasped the handle on either side of her hips, and hoisted herself to sit on it sideways. For a moment she sat with poise, but then she wobbled and grasped the front of his jumper in a fist. Before she could fall, his arm was around her waist, righting her on the broom and pulling her firmly towards him.
“Well hello,” he said, not letting go of her. “This is a reward.”
“I told you I’d sit on your broom once,” she said. “And this is me sitting on your broom. Once. Are you enjoying it?”
Draco leaned forward, buried his face in her hair, and breathed. “Very much so. I don’t know what to say.”
She pressed a palm against his chest. “Say ‘Thank you.’ And then say ‘I’m hitting the showers.’ You’re drenched, and I hate to tell you this, but you smell like a boy.”
“Thank you. Can I take you up? Just a bit?”
Carefully, pressing her skirt down as she did so, she rotated herself, swinging her left leg towards him until she straddled his broom, facing him.
“Your other reward,” she said quietly, “is that I’m going to kiss you. Here—” she pressed the pad of a finger against the arch of his upper lip “—and here—” she touched his cheek just below the outside corner of his left eye “—and here. ” She gave the downy patch of skin just below his ear a short stroke with a fingertip.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “I’ll have to sit very still then.”
Slowly, deliberately, she pressed her lips against his cupid’s bow.
“There,” she said.
He bent so she could kiss his cheek, just below the eye.
He leaned forward and tilted his head to the side, and she pushed up from the handle of the broom to brush her lips against the space below his ear. She left a warm kiss there, then she settled back down.
“Your flying was beautiful." She was, at last, in earnest. “I’m tremendously proud of you.”
On the word “proud,” his face took on a wounded look before he grasped the back of her neck and brought his mouth to hers, kissing the corner of her mouth, her lower lip, then her upper, taunting her with tiny licks when she tried to open up to him, and nipping at her chin as though he couldn’t decide what he wanted, before finally sweeping into her mouth with hungry strokes of his tongue.
“Granger,” he murmured, grasping her hips over her skirt and dragging her forward so that her knees bracketed his waist. “Let me lock up my broom, and meet me in our usual spot. I’m going to take you back to my—”
“Draco,” she said with a press of her hand against his chest. She took one of his hands in hers and guided it up under her skirt, traveling along her stocking until it reached her thigh.
“What are you—” He stopped speaking as his hand slid farther up, and then stilled. He brought his other hand down to the opposite side, and pushed it, too, up underneath the hem of her skirt, until both of his hands found the tops of the thigh high stockings she wore, and the gap of bare skin above them.
He searched her face, his clear grey eyes wide, before looking down to watch himself grasp her skirt at her hips and bunch it higher. He slipped his hands back underneath, and ran them up her thighs and around her hips until his fingers kneaded at the bare flesh of her backside.
He looked at her once more. “You’re not—” He swallowed. “Are you not wearing any knickers on purpose? Or did you forget them?” He let a hand fall to her foot, clutching hard at the heel of her boot as though he was afraid she was going somewhere.
Hermione leaned in towards his ear. “Since when do I forget anything, Malfoy?”
He breathed out hard. “When I said I wanted...I never thought that—”
While he tried to formulate coherent speech, she locked her ankles behind his back and began to unbutton his trousers.
"Oh my gods, Hermione."
Once his button was undone, she pulled down his zip, and ducked her hand inside his trousers. She dragged her hand down the already rigid length she found there, and there was an answering tightness in her own abdomen.
While she fussed with the band of his pants, he looked around them to the empty doors to the locker rooms, and up into the stands.
“Hermione, anyone could see. Are you sure you want to—”
She cut him off again by drawing the front of his pants down and grasping his cock, running her fist firmly up and down its length until his eyes fell closed and his breathing became deep and labored.
“I want to," she assured him. "Unless what you told me back in January wasn’t true, and you don’t want to have sex with me on your broom after a match.” She pulled her hand away from his cock and looked at him with mocking skepticism. His answer was wordless, a guttural, almost menacing noise of frustration that came from somewhere deep in his chest, before he gripped his broom handle hard between his thighs.
He wrapped one arm around her waist and used it to lift her up, took his cock in his free hand, then shut his eyes against the exquisite drag as he lined himself up and pushed his way through the tight, wet opening of her cunt, drawing her down towards himself until he was seated all the way inside her.
Hermione gave a slight shudder as she felt her body stretch around him, then slowly, she began to roll her hips, leaning forward until her mouth was against his ear.
“I’ve watched you play every...single...match,” she whispered, punctuating her words with long strokes against him. “And every time I watch you up there—” she pressed a hand to his heart “—I can’t believe—” she gave a short whine as he bottomed out inside her again “—that you’re mine. ”
“I’m yours,” he breathed. “I’m completely yours, Hermione.” He grabbed a handful of the dense curls at the back of her head and took her mouth again, sweeping his tongue past her lips and kissing her roughly.
Without breaking her mouth from his, she placed her hands on the broom handle behind her and used the leverage to lift up once, and again, sighing as she picked up her pace and drew herself up and down in his lap, finding the tempo she knew he liked.
He brought his hand between them, angled down, and began to circle her clit rapidly with his fingers, a gesture he’d honed after months of bringing her— often laughing, sometimes pouting, once, memorably, spitting mad— to his bed.
Her moan was muffled against his mouth, and as her slide along his cock picked up in intensity, she drew back. She was breathing as hard as one of the players who’d just left the field as she shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. This is for you.”
He laughed over his own quickening breath. “And you think feeling you come when I'm inside you isn’t for me?”
Her head fell back and she vocalized openly, choosing to forget the potential for being watched as she took her fill of him again and again and his practiced hand built the tension between her legs into a fierce ache.
“Oh, gods, Hermione,” he groaned, looking between them and watching her take him inside herself, her body gripping him hard under the strain of her mounting need to come. “It’s so fucking good. Every time. I don’t—” He lost the plot as she went even faster, bringing a hand around to clutch at the sweat-damp front of his jumper as her moans became a series of little whining affirmations marking each incursion of his cock inside her. “I don’t understand how it’s always this good.”
“Draco,” she breathed. She sped up even farther, her knuckles white at the handle of his broom and where her fist was tangled in his jumper, and looked at him with a furrowed brow, as though she was utterly lost and he was the only thing anchoring her to where she needed to be.
“Yes.” He carefully thrust up against her each time she came down on his cock, cycling the pressure of his fingers hard to soft in the way that always made her come undone. “That’s it, Hermione. Come on.”
Her voice cut off abruptly and her eyes opened wide.
“Fuck, oh fuck, ” he hissed, sucking in a breath as he looked between them again. She bore down on his hand and his cock, biting down on her bottom lip, and her legs began to shake.
He reached up and pulled at her lip with a fingertip. “No, be loud for me. Please. Please. ”
She let her mouth drop open, and cried out as her climax rocked her frame, her body shuddering involuntarily against him. His jumper was now twisted around her fist, stretched and misshapen.
He watched her and listened until the tension in her body began to ease.
“Lie back,” he ordered, pushing her away and down until she was laid out on her back along the length of his broom, her knees on either side of his waist. She clutched the broom handle over her head as he leaned forward and began thrusting into her with rough strokes, one hand holding his broom steady and the other holding her hip.
She felt half dazed as he fucked her hard and fast, muttering indecipherable obscenities at the same time that his face took on a look of pure adoration, his eyes shifting between the fall of her hair beneath her, the still-covered curves of her breasts, the skirt bunched around her waist above where he remained moving inside her.
“Hermione,” he said hoarsely. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”
And then he came, his groan a perfect blend of desperation and relief as his hips jerked against her, his cock pulsing deep inside her.
For a while, he was nearly still.
“Come here.” Without pulling out of her, he took her hand and pulled her up so that she was sitting in his lap again, rolling her hips as he shuddered through the little aftershocks of his climax.
They kissed, lazy and imprecise, smiling and satiated.
“So,” she said quietly, pressing a small kiss into the corner of his upper lip. “You’re in love with me?”
His hands had been grasping and stroking at the bare skin of her thighs, but they stilled.
He looked up into her face, his expression unreadable and his eyes tracking between hers. Finally, he shrugged as though he’d been caught out, and there was nothing to be done about it. “I am. I hope that’s alright.”
She brought her fingertips to his chin, and gave a half shrug of her own. “I suppose it is. You've managed to realize your broom fantasy without rolling us both over and upside down, which indicates a certain level of skill."
He laughed. "You do know they don't roll over unless you want them to, or if you're very, very bad at flying, right?"
Hermione lifted her chin defiantly. "I was complimenting your skills on a broom, Malfoy, you should accept the praise gracefully."
He arched a brow. "My skills on a broom?" He slid his fingertips back over her and made tentative circles over her clit. His cock twitched inside her, still hard.
She shifted her hips slightly. "Mmm. I'm inclined to chalk it up to beginner's luck."
"I'm— oh !"
"What was that? I didn't quite catch it."
Hermione threw her arms around his neck, lifted up, and began to move over him again. "You're incredible," she said against his ear. "You're well aware that you are."
"And my Quidditch skills?"
"And do you love me?"
She began to pant for air, her face buried in the salt tinged skin at the side of his throat. "Of course I love you. I absolutely adore you."
He hummed in approval.
"But you need—"
"What do I need, Hermione?" He was breathing hard again, his hands at her waist, pulling her down against him.
"You need—" She let out a petulant little moan. "A shower. You smell like a zoo."
"You love it."
"I do," she whimpered, defeated. "It gets me so fucking hot."
"My hair's wet Hermione," he whispered in her ear. "I'm that sweaty."
Whatever she said to that was entirely incoherent.
In the stands, an elf wearing a Gryffindor Quidditch t-shirt and a pair of tan workman's trousers looked over the railing.
"What are they up to down there?"
His compatriot, his green Slytherin scarf draped over a navy blue polo shirt embroidered at the breast with the words Hogwarts Custodial Staff , followed his line of sight.
"Looks like a flying lesson."
"Why are they laughing like that?"
"Dunno. Maybe it tickles your back end."
The Gryffindor supporter shrugged. "Well. Good on them. These kids are all such hard workers." He bent over then stood again, something glinting between his fingertips. "Hey, look. I found a Galleon."