Title: Quidditch

Author: Erythros

Rating: T

Genre: Romance

Summary: In which all he wants is for her to attend just ONE Quidditch game.

Author's Notes: A ridiculously sappy story, one which I've started weeks back and decided to continue for the sheer fun of it. Incredibly fluffy and is on the verge of senselessness. No plot; merely an idea I got before. :P If you're interested, why not read? Lol. Definitely an AU, because this'll never happen in the books.

Disclaimer: Obviously not mine, because in the books, Hermione gets together with Ron. So sad, so sad… lol.


Slytherin won against Hufflepuff in the third game of the season and they were leading by thirty points with Gryffindor trailing right behind them.

Draco Malfoy, however, was not happy. In fact, when their game had ended that dim, cloudy afternoon, he felt like more of a loser than a winner.

His reason was simple enough.

She didn't come again.

It was already raining when he stepped out of the Quidditch Pitch and saw Zacharias Smith being lovingly consoled by his girlfriend Hannah Abbot. You played well, you really did, he overheard her saying in a soothing, fond voice as she wrapped her arm around his waist in an attempt to comfort him.

The bloody Hufflepuff couple walked back to the castle in brighter spirits and linked arms. And he was left in the rain alone, feeling rather miffed that there was no particular girl running towards him in congratulations for a game well played.


The Head Girl hardly looked up from her book when he came in. Dripping wet because of the rain, Draco scarcely cared when he strode right in front of her still in his emerald robes.

"Congratulations." She muttered absent-mindedly, flipping a page.

He glared at her. "You didn't come."



"Then I'll go to the next one."

"You promised to go to this one, and to my two other games before."

"Oh, Malfoy"—they never really progressed to calling each other by their first names, which was just sad—"You know I don't like Quidditch."

That only angered him more.

"You watch whenever Potter and Weasley play," he countered, scowling.

She still hadn't looked up from the book and he was itching to wrench it away from her hands—only, the last time he did that, she nearly sent him to the Hospital Wing.

"They're Gryffindor," she replied, "And besides, they're my best friends."

And I'm just someone you fancy.

Bloody witch. She knew just how to make him feel unimportant and unwanted. His gray eyes unknowingly faltered in some sort of dejection and he, despite the state of his drenched clothes, felt all the more colder, even if the fireplace of the Common Room was just behind him.

But all of that went away when Hermione Granger sighed, (finally) closed her book, and looked up affectionately at him. Waving her wand, she cast a drying spell on his clothes; she set the book aside, stood up and drew him in a warm hug.

"And I know what you're thinking," she murmured into his shoulder, "But you should know that even if I didn't go to your game, I still very much love you, Malfoy."

And that was enough to satiate his lack of attention from her, especially when she gave him a long, worthwhile kiss.


But of course, even kisses can only last a certain time, and by the next Quidditch game, there was no one to wish him luck before he kicked off into the air (unlike that bloody Ravenclaw Beater who was given a rather passionate snog by his girlfriend before flying off on his broom) and no one to see by the Gryffindor stands looking anxious and worried that he might get hurt.

She hadn't come again!

What was it that made it so hard for her to come and stay to watch him in his glory?

Even Potter and Weasley were there—not, of course, to ogle at him because that would be quite gross—and quite possibly, the whole school population.

All except for her.

He accidentally kicked the Slytherin Chaser on the shins as he zoomed past in search of the Snitch.

What was the point of winning if he couldn't bask in triumph with the trophy—the Quidditch trophy he'd been itching to have since second year—and the one girl he'd allow to share it with?

Forty minutes and a won game later, he was trudging back up to the castle, dragging his Firebolt 3000 Series on the dirt, intent on looking for her. He didn't even stop to look at Goyle being excessively kissed on the face by Millicent Bulstrode, nor did he watch Crabbe receive a congratulatory handshake from Susan Bones.

All he was asking for was that she be there in time to have her with him after a game, because after all, Quidditch was his next best love after her. He sighed.


He found her in the school kitchens, conversing cheerfully with a group of house elves.

Them she makes time for!

He now had more reason to despise stupid, lowly house elves.

Clearing his throat rudely, he stepped right between the creatures and the Head Girl, who was, he noticed, looking quite disheveled and exhausted. A trace of flour was on her nose and on her forehead; she was wearing a muggle apron and, cascading messily behind her back was her tumble of bushy brown hair. (But despite all of that, he found her even more appealing than any of the girls in Hogwarts—but that didn't matter, because he was far too annoyed.)

Draco crossed his arms in irritation.

"How was the game?" She hardly looked guilty when she looked up at him with cheery autumn eyes.

"You were here the whole time?" he demanded to know.

"I'm supposing you won?"

"What? Of course I did—you didn't come again."

There was a ding.

Hermione stood up, rounded the table and bent down to the oven to retrieve whatever it was that was baking. "Ravenclaw doesn't stand a chance against you, do they?"

Draco's eye twitched. "Stop changing the subject, Granger, you traitor— and I thought your lot was supposed to be honorable—"

But he couldn't finish his sentence because soon enough, a brownie was launched into his mouth. Swallowing, he gaped at her and realized that she was holding a tray of freshly made brownies.

"I figured you'd get mad, so I made them for you." She set it on the table, cutting another piece and holding one out to him. Her cheeks were tainted pink when she said, "I'm no mother or anything, so please excuse them if they're horrible."

And she smiled; she smiled that smile that made him sigh in relief that she was his and that that smile was especially reserved just for him. Bloody brilliant smile—he hated it.

There was a very weird feeling spreading through his chest, the best and the worst feeling in the world he felt at the same time when she did this. Doing these sorts of things—making him feel like he was the most special person in the bloody world. He should've really just hated her… especially when she broke yet another promise of attending his game.

But seeing her here, holding out that brownie…

He sighed and took another one.

To hell with the game.


But the brownies, Hermione's one and only labor of love, were soon devoured and they were back to where they were. There was a Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw game that afternoon and she was on the other side of the Pitch (right where she belonged) while he was on the opposite side, hardly paying attention to what was happening, because all his attention, as it supposedly was, was on her.

He felt strangely indignant.

There she was, her hair in disarray, her hands clasped together in anxiety as her eyes were focused upon Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. His gray eyes narrowed in irritation because, far apart as they were, he could clearly see—and practically feel it emanating from her like some sort of vibration—the worry and fear in her eyes for the sake of those bloody idiots.

No, he was not jealous. He was just bloody resentful. And hateful toward the gits.


And now he was infuriated with Hermione when she deliberately looked for her best friends after their game and gave each of them a peck on the cheek and a trio hug.

Ugh. Draco was positively sickened.

It was just too unfair!

If she didn't come for the last game—and she was sure to, anyway, because the last game was with Gryffindor—he wouldn't know what he'd do…


And for the final time in his stay at Hogwarts, Slytherin lost seventy points to Gryffindor—Draco Malfoy would never taste the victory of winning over Harry Potter in Quidditch after this and he was positively miffed. The silver cup was glinting from the distance and the bloody Boy-Who-Lived and the rest of the Gryffindor House were celebrating as they walked back to the castle. She was probably there along with them, barely making time to make sure he was alright.

His mood darkened all the more.

His teammates wore identical looks of anger, jealousy, quiet rage and irritation. All of them were trailing back after the euphoric crowd, an almost visible dark cloud hanging above them while they were at it. Draco didn't follow; he opted instead to stay back on the pitch and wallow in his pitiful state—no Quidditch Cup, no glory, no Hermione Granger.

And as if things couldn't get any worse, it began to rain, as if the sunshine during the game was only for the Gryffindors and now that they were back in the castle, it withdrew its light and disappeared entirely, leaving only hefty gray clouds and a lot of water vapor all ready to condense.

He kicked the dirt beneath his shoes and cursed.

And then—

"I thought you'd be here."

An exasperated sigh.

Draco looked up and saw, in the distance, a girl with familiar bushy hair, slightly tamed because of the rain. She undoubtedly had a crimson and gold colored tie and a noticeable badge pinned onto her robes.

His heart was unnaturally beating in that quick, jolly sort of rhythm.

She was smiling ever so slightly as she approached him; he could not in his life remember a time when he felt like he was soaring. She was here. She was here. She was here!

Perhaps he was just imagining it because this had never happened—she was here after a game (after a Gryffindor game!) and she was here to see him. It was ridiculous how happy he suddenly felt just by the sight of her, but he didn't care because she was here.

For him!

In an attempt to scowl, he said, "What're you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be celebrating? You just won the Quidditch Cup—again."

She merely raised an eyebrow and smirked. "You'd rather I be there than here?"

It just so happened that he blushed.

Her smirk grew into a familiar, haughty grin. "I thought so."

"It's just that—you're here."


"You'd rather be here than read in the Common Room? Or go down to the kitchens? Talk to the bloody house elves? Celebrate with those two bloody gits you call best friends?"

"I figured that I'd come and congratulate you this time."

Draco frowned. "But it's not like we won, Granger."

She shrugged and reached up to brush away the wet hair from his face. Her eyes softened and, smiling that incredible smile, replied, "But you don't really care, do you, Malfoy?"

"And why do you think that?"

"Because I'm already here."

He stared at her.

And then she smiled even more.

What happened next was the only thing he remembered that day: she drew nearer and, taking him by surprise, placed a soft, gentle kiss upon his lips. It was short-lived, if anything, but it was the best thing he'd ever felt right after a Quidditch game.

That was enough to make him smile broadly despite his loss and his drenched state.

To hell with the game.

He grinned, feeling all so elated and all so silly, and then drew her in for a well-earned kiss, his arms entangled around her and her own hands running through his wet hair.

Slytherin lost seventy points to Gryffindor that day, but Draco Malfoy felt like he had come out a winner.