FIC: Quidditch in the Rough (HP, Harry/Pansy, NC-17)

[femme]

Title: Quidditch in the Rough, or How Potter Got His Groove Back
Authors: femmequixotic and noeon
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~17,800
Warning(s): EWE, Quidditch
Summary: A bad breakup. Pudd United's worst Quidditch season in years. Harry's life is on a downward spiral, and just when he thinks things can't get worse, the new team owner arrives: Pansy bloody Parkinson.
Author/Artist Note(s): Much love to pokeystar for her patience, support and fabulous, fabulous prompt. *hugs* Written for the 2011 pphpficexchange.




i. Spring

“Here you go, mate.” The barkeep places three pints of St Austell Tribute on the scarred wood of the bar as I push my way through the Friday night crowd. The Giant’s filling up earlier and earlier as the days begin to lengthen again. In another week, it’ll be April and we’ll be in Peru.

“Cheers.” I hand Jeremy two tenners over the shoulder of a burly blond bloke who reminds me enough of Dudley that I do a quick double-take before remembering that my cousin took a job in human resources--of all careers, Jesus--at the Cadbury Trebor Bassett factory up near Birmingham. Dudders sends enormous boxes of chocolates at Christmas and Easter, fresh from the conveyor line, but Hermione usually nicks the Fruit and Nut and leaves me with the Flake before the weekend’s out. Cow. I’ll have to be more vigilant this year.

Wilda and Oliver are waiting in the corner, their heads together. I suspect Oliver’s attempting yet again to get into Wils’ knickers. Sheer stupidity, that. We all know she’s more interested in tits than prick, but hope springs eternal in a pissed Wood, it seems. And, honestly, he’s not used to anyone saying no, so I suspect he does it just for the novelty of it.

Neither of them bother to help me, of course, and I’ve had too many pints already to cast a proper Sticking Charm, let alone wandlessly, so by the time I make it back to to the table, I’ve sloshed half my beer over my hands.

“Careful, Potter,” Oliver says as I sit down. He reaches for two of the pints--the ones still full, of course--and hands one to Wilda.

I take a sip of my beer, licking the foam off my top lip. “Fuck off, Wood,” I say easily, and lean back in my chair. “So have you two finished bemoaning our new overlord yet?”

Oliver gives me a glum look. “Why’d old Parkinson have to up and have keel over? He wasn’t a bad owner--came to some games, didn’t mess with training, never gave us any guff over the playbook--”

“Never gave a damn what I did as captain,” Wilda mutters. “His granddaughter, on the other hand...” She scowls, then her face brightens. “Well, at least she’s got great tits.”

This is not something I can deny. Pansy Parkinson may be a complete tyrant, but her breasts--at least the parts I’ve seen splashed over the front cover of the Quibbler--are magnificent.

Oliver considers. “There’s that.”

We all sigh. Heavily.

Deverill had broken the unwelcome news after training this afternoon. I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise - we had all attended Parkinson’s funeral two weeks ago, and we knew someone in the family was likely to inherit. Zabini certainly hadn’t been shocked, but then it didn’t really hurt him, now did it? Nothing like one of your best friends taking ownership of your team; he’d looked like the proverbial cat with cream. Still. That Parkinson?

“What the hell does she know about Quidditch, anyway?” Oliver asks, offended. “And now she’s making suggestions...” He glares at me as if it’s my fault. “You know, if you hadn’t ballsed up half of the autumn, moping over Weasley...”

“No, really, Oliver,” I say, sitting up, “fuck off.” Our losing streak after my breakup had been spectacular, and I’ve no desire to think about what it will do to my lifetime stats tonight.

He falls silent.

Ginny’s an off-limits subject. It’d taken three black eyes and a split lip before the team had finally realised that fact. Not to mention my horrific performance during our last match against the Harpies. Even Wilda had been grimly cold to me afterwards, and she’d shagged half their team when she was their Chaser. If possible, the Harpies seem to hate me more than her now. I guess it’s a distinction, if a dubious one.

Wilda gives Oliver a dark look. “Don’t.”

Oliver shrugs and lifts his beer. “I’m just saying. If we’d been profitable, she might have sold us off to someone who knows a damned thing about the game. Or the old man might have given us to her brother.”

“I didn’t know Parkinson had a brother,” I say, suddenly curious. I’d never known him at school, at least, although Hermione would say that didn’t mean anything as I didn’t seem to know half of Hogwarts. Bit hard to get on a first-name basis with people when a madman’s out to murder you and take over the world, but that doesn’t seem to be a good enough excuse for Hermione.

“He’s that great lump who came with the grandfather sometimes, solid chap but not really one for personality. As in, not sure he has one, come to think of it.” Oliver muses fuzzily for a moment, then returns to his beer.

Wilda nods. “I think he actually knows less about the game than she does. But he would have left us alone. He does something in the City. Never seemed too keen to be at matches.”

I ponder, mentally reviewing the usual occupants of the owner’s box. “Flash dresser but a bit podgy?”

Oliver snorts into his beer. “That describes all the male Parkinsons.”

“The women however...” A predatory glint lights Wilda’s eye.

We all exchange a look, then burst into laughter.

“So,” Oliver says, leaning towards me, arms on the table, “fancy a flutter on who’ll be England captain come June? We’ve started a pool.” He looks at Wilda. “You’re excluded.”

“From captaincy or betting?” Wilda sits back in her chair. She looks amused.

“Both,” Oliver says bluntly. “Shouldn’t have slept with one of the Selectors.”

Wilda’s small smile widens. “Viola was worth it.”

“I’m not interested,” I say, my shoulders tensing. Not a damn chance I’ll even travel with the team to Spain. Ginny was capped for the qualifiers last fall, and frankly, she deserves it. I’ve played for shit this year, and we all know it. An uncomfortable silence settles over the table.

Wilda turns her glass between her palms, then lifts it to her mouth. She drains it. “Next round’s on me, boys.”  She pushes back her chair with a scrape of wood against wood. As she walks by she squeezes my shoulder.

Oliver watches her swagger through the crowd. “I bet she’s worth it,” he murmurs.

“Like you’ll ever know.” I pick up my beer.

“I can already tell,” he says. “But I wouldn’t mind further proof.”

“Daft bugger.” I toast him and take a long swallow.

We all have to have our dreams.

***

“Sit,” Deverill says, and I sit. The chair’s creaky and uncomfortable, and I’m half-certain it’s trying to pitch me forward into Deverill’s paper-strewn desk. I grip the arms and suppress a faint wave of nausea. I’ve been around Pudd United long enough to know its never good to be summoned to the manager’s office. I quickly catalogue everything I could have done wrong in the past two weeks, but for once we’ve been winning. Sometimes. I guess the exhibitions in Tarapoto were a bit of a rout, but I haven’t been in the press too much, for better or for ill.

Deverill remains standing behind me and I have to fight the urge to turn around. After raising my hackles--on purpose, as we players all know--he hefts his bulk around the corner of his desk and drops into his chair with a grunt. He’s twice my height nearly and twice my girth, and not for the first time I wonder if he’s got giant blood in his family tree.

I eye Deverill warily, looking for some clue as to what this is about.

He steeples his fingers and presses them to his mouth, watching me from under heavy salt-and-pepper brows. In the body language of Philbert Deverill, this is bad. Very bad. It’s not quite as bad as outright shouting at the beginning, but that’s usually over sooner. Shit.

With a deep sigh, he leans back in his chair, half-looking out the open window. There’s a beautiful view of the pitch from here. I can make out Zabini and Seamus hovering near the far goalposts, idly bandying a Bludger back and forth. Or rather Seamus is striking it idly. Zabini’s trying to take his head off with the return. McIntyre, our new defensive coach, shouts at them from the ground, and Seamus pauses, only to have Zabini nearly knock him from his broom with the next blow.

“Potter,” Deverill says finally. “Did you know that Viktor Krum is looking to play in Britain?”

“I’d heard there was something in the Weekly Quaffle,” I say. “A blind item, but Krum’s pretty hard to disguise.”

Deverill nods. “It’s more than a rumour. His manager approached us last week.”

“Really,” I force myself to stay calm. “How did he take the rejection?” The United have deep pockets, but we players also have handsome contracts and Pucey wasn’t cheap to lure away from the Wasps.

“We’re still talking.” Deverill meets my gaze.

I stiffen. A coal tit lands on the windowsill, trilling if-he, if-he softly. I watch it ruffle its small black and white wings. “We don’t need a Seeker,” I say lightly. Too lightly.  We’ve two great reserve seekers in Bairstow and Bothwick and there are several promising youngsters coming up in the under-19 teams. I can’t say I haven’t been looking over my shoulder lately, but I never expected a threat from Krum. Still, they can’t afford both of us. Can they?

“Not yet we don’t.” Deverill turns in his chair to face me again. “But your contract is up in eight months.”

“And we’re by-passing negotiations already?” My fingernails dig into the carved wood of the chair arms and it flinches beneath me, contracting tightly around my arse until my fingers relax. “I know I haven’t been everything you could have wanted this year...”

I stop. I hadn’t meant to get to begging yet. It’s the least effective strategy with Deverill. But I am truly caught off guard. The coal tit tilts its head and eyes me with bright, black eyes.

“No.” Deverill says brusquely. “But as I said, we were approached, and we’re talking. I didn’t want you to hear about it through other channels.”

Somehow his reassurance frightens me most of all. They must be further along, perhaps even negotiating.  I take a shallow breath. “Is this Parkinson’s doing?”

“Ms. Parkinson, Potter.” Deverill gives me a stern look. “ She agreed we should listen to Krum.”

Although I say nothing, my face must show some of what I’m thinking.  Deverill leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on worn-out playbooks and stacks of broadsheets.

“Harry.” His voice is too gentle. I have the distinct urge to slam my fist in his face, which would be suicide. I know I have to escape.

I stand up. “If we’re done here...” My jaw’s tight. All I want to do is get on my broom and fly until my whole body aches and I can’t think.

Deverill just looks at me for a long moment, and then he nods. “For now.”

I wait until I’m halfway down the hallway to punch the wall. I don’t care what bones might break. That’s what Ultra Skele-gro is for, after all, and, call me petty, but the jagged hole in the plaster is distinctly satisfying.

My hand throbs, and I turn away, still breathing hard. I’m at the stairs before I see her on the landing in a navy wool suit, not a hair of her shiny black bob out of place.  We lock eyes. Her impossible stiletto heels click on the stairs as she ascends towards me.

All I can think of is the talks with Krum, and my rage begins to well up again.

“If you think you’re getting me off this team, you can fuck off,” I say before I can stop myself. I raise my chin defiantly and brace my shoulders. Pansy pauses on the step next me, the perfect arch of her eyebrow quirked.

Despite my bravado, I’m afraid I’ve gone too far and she’ll sack me on the spot.

And then she smiles, and a chill runs through me. “Your loyalty is touching,” she says, and her smile widens into a dimple at the left corner of her mouth. I’m more than a bit unsettled by the mixture of sweetness and steel. “And how kind of you to offer to pay for the plaster repair. I accept.”

She brushes past me. I can smell roses and something almost citrusy, mixed with the lingering acrid tang of a cigarette. She glances back at me from the top step. “Best have the mediwizard see to that hand, Potter. Wouldn’t want more damage to my property.”

And then she’s gone, and the pain in my hand makes it clear that I’ll have to see Alec before I can touch a broom.

I swear richly and head for the sports medicine rooms. As if she needs more incentive to drop me from the team. But she seems like she’s humouring me, and I have have to wonder why.

Slytherins and their mindgames. Christ.

***

“Good work out there today, Potter,” Seamus says, clapping my bare shoulder with a heavy hand as he brushes past me. He tosses his black Beater’s bat onto the bench next to a pile of fresh towels; it tumbles off and falls to the tile floor with a clatter.

I ignore him and sit on the bench, reaching for the laces of my boots. It wasn’t our best effort, and he knows it as well as I do. If it hadn’t been for my utterly unexpected collision with the Snitch, we’d have been trounced. As it was we only won by ten points. I’d been too distracted by the sight of Krum in the owner’s box with Pansy, their heads close in conversation for much of the match.

Down the hall I can hear Wilda singing Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here at the top of her lungs as she heads into the women’s changing room. She’s no Celestina Warbeck, that’s for certain, but at least she’s in a decent mood. For now. It’ll be my balls held over the fire at practise tomorrow, I expect.

I tug my leather trousers off and toss them into my wooden locker over my boots and jumper. One of the elves will come by to collect them soon enough. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I push through a clutch of reservists who’d uniformed up for the match just in case they were called up to replace one of us.

“Nice nose catch, Potter,” one shouts out, and the others laugh. I can feel my cheeks warm.

“Leave him be,” Seamus says from behind me. “Like to have seen you manage that, Bairstow. Last I saw in practise you could barely find the Snitch ten inches off that conk of yours.”

Bairstow’s mates turn on him, their laughter echoing behind us as we head for the showers.

“Thanks,” I say, and I know I sound grudging.

Seamus shrugs. “We won. Who cares how? It’s another notch up in the League table.”

“We’re still miles behind the Harpies.”

“But now we’re above the Wasps.” Seamus grins as he hangs his towel on a hook and turns on the shower. “So that’s a bright spot.”

He has a point. I smile as I hang up my own towel and prepare for the best part of my day.

The water’s hot and soothing on my aching muscles, and I lean against the cool tile of the shower, letting the water pour off my skin and puddle across my feet. Another twist of a knob and steam curls around me, heavy with the aroma of eucalyptus. I close my eyes and sigh, my shoulders relaxing. No matter what happens on the pitch, no matter how badly the game has gone, there’s always this waiting at the end.  One moment of peace.

I don’t know how long I stand there.  Long enough for the clatter of the changing room to die down. When I finally turn off the water, it’s almost silent in the showers, and I reach for my towel through a steamy mist.

My hand stops on a curve of wool and smooth buttons.

“That’s harassment, Potter.” I hear Pansy’s voice, and there’s a click of her heels as she steps backwards. I blink through dripping water. I can make out the outline of her figure through the steam: the black of her tight suit, the pale wash of her face and the crimson slash of her lipstick.

I reach for my glasses, and my fingers brush the empty shelf. For a moment I panic, squinting to see if they’ve fallen on the floor.

“Perhaps you’d like these back,” she says in amusement.

I can make out my glasses in her hand. My fingers brush her palm as I reach for them. “You’re in the shower.”  I slide my glasses back on. It’s a relief when the world slips into focus again.

Pansy smiles. “Always observant.” Her gaze drifts down my body, then back up, and a flush warms my cheeks at the obvious interest on her face. A shiny lock of dark hair falls across her cheek, and she brushes it back.

“That’s what you pay me to be.” I look around for my towel, but it’s disappeared. Fuck it. It’s not as if I’m not used to Wilda walking in when I’m starkers, not to mention the infamous charity calendar Zabini, Wood and I posed in with nothing but Beaters’ bats over our privates. I step out of the shower, and start towards the changing room, my feet wet on the cold floor. Pansy stops me with a hand on my arm. I look down at her dark red fingernails. “Do you mind?”

“Not usually.” She hesitates. “I want a word with you.”

I give her an incredulous look. “Here?” The acoustics are all wrong for a private chat; the showers echo.

“Why not?” Pansy moves closer. I can smell the sweetness of her perfume again. It’s more floral today, and it reminds me of the bottle I bought for Gin on her birthday last year. I look away, my throat tightening at the memory of her dabbing it behind her ears before we made love. If that’s what you could call it at the end.

“Go on then.” I cross my arms over my chest, knowing the rest of the team will hear everything. Then again, whatever Pansy’s going to say, I trust them more than I trust her. She must realise what we all think of her and her “suggestions,” although I have to give her credit. She’s attended every match since the announcement and watched intently, an icy cipher in the owner’s box.

Pansy’s eyes narrow. She pulls a slim silver case from the alligator handbag hooked over her arm and slides a cigarette out, licking her lips before lifting it to her mouth and lighting it. She exhales a plume of smoke into the lingering steam.

“You’re reducing my lung capacity,” I say, and she just smiles.

“Oh, Potter. You’re already playing like shit. I only wish diminished lung capacity would make a difference.”  

I tense. “So it’s this sort of conversation, I take it.”

Pansy raises an eyebrow. “Did you really think I was going to compliment your ability to handle small balls? With your nose?”

“Heard that was your skill.” I lean against the slick wall of the showers. My wet skin sticks to the tile. “Or that’s what Zabini says.”

Her laugh is smoky and warm. “I can assure you, Blaise’s balls are not small.” Her eyes drift down to mine, and she takes another slow drag. “It seems to be a team trait. What is it the Prophet sport page called you lot? Puddlemere Untied?”

I flinch as she laughs again. It all started with a muckraking article last year under that headline. Between Zabini and Oliver, it was a League joke that none of us could keep our trousers done up. If I’m honest, it’s not far off the mark, not with the type of enthusiastic supporters we have. It’s a rare match that doesn’t end up with a group of pretty girls--or boys, in Seamus’s case--buying us a round or two or three down the pub. In the end, even I hadn’t managed to abstain. One too many beers and a quick blow job in the alley from Lavender Brown, and it’d been the end for me and Gin. It wasn’t the cheating she’d minded so much, it seems. She’d done it herself. Late nights in strange cities and lonely hotel rooms. It’s a danger of the profession. What Gin had minded was the publicity, the photograph of me with my hand up Lavender’s shirt that’d ended up on page three of the Prophet two days later. With it had gone half my reputation as a role model for the younger set. Still, it might have been worse. Wizarding England didn’t wake up to a moving photograph of Lavender’s mouth on my cock splashed across the front page. Thank God for obscenity laws.

Molly still hasn’t spoken to me. Arthur tells me she’ll come around soon enough, but I’m not certain. I spent three years living with her daughter, after all; I know what Weasley women are like. Forgiveness doesn’t come easy after you cross a certain line. I can’t say I blame them.

Pansy flicks ash off the tip of her cigarette. It drifts to the puddle of water beneath her glossy high heels. I can’t help but notice the pale swathe of her thigh below the neat hem of her skirt. I’m not certain which are better--her tits or her legs. I wonder what Wilda would think. And Pansy’s all but fellating her cigarette as she watches me, which isn’t helping matters.  I’m horrified to feel my cock swell slightly. I try to think of McGonagall, Slughorn, even Myrtle, for Christ’s sake. It doesn’t work. I can’t help but wonder what Pansy would look like on her knees in the showers with those red, red lips around my prick.

A shudder ripples through me.

The corner of Pansy’s mouth curves up. “Problems, Potter?”

“Not at all.” I meet her gaze and somehow manage to raise an eyebrow. Or two.“You?”

Pansy shifts, leaning against the wall beside me. Her shoulder brushes mine, and gooseflesh spreads across my bare arm. “Never,” she murmurs. A wisp of cigarette smoke drifts between us.

We look at each other for a long moment.

“How’d Krum like the match?” I ask finally.

“Thought you were terrible.”

“And what do you think?” I counter, looking straight into her shadowed dark brown eyes.

Pansy makes a little moue with her lips, then turns her attention to her cigarette end for a moment. With a quick flick, she drops it. There’s a hiss as it strikes the water, then she grinds it under her heel. “I think he wants your job.”

My heart jumps to my throat. “And, of course, you want to give it to him.”

She pushes herself off the wall and turns, looking back at me. “What I want, Potter, is to win. I want you to pull your head out of your admittedly fit arse and play a fucking Quidditch match like you give a damn again. You’ve been waltzing through training, your condition is utter shite and half the time I wonder if you’re even there, up on your broom.”

I’m too stunned to speak for a moment. The fire in her eyes is terrifying. I think I prefer the ice bitch to this. “I... I do care.”

“Play like you mean it. Then we’ll talk about Krum.” She starts towards the changing room, then turns, looking back at me. “And Potter?”

“What?” My shoulders are tight.

“Stop making excuses,” she says bluntly. “Circe knows your ex is flying better than ever.”

I flinch. There’s a low whistle from the changing area. Seamus. I can see a shock of half-dry sandy hair around the corner.

“Damn,” Oliver murmurs behind him.

Pansy doesn’t glance back at them. “Don’t make me come in there,” she says loudly. It’s suddenly quiet. I can’t even hear anyone breathing. Her eyes are fixed on me. My mouth tightens and I raise my chin. “And you. Don’t cock up my team, Potter. I don’t give a rat’s arse about your problems. I want that bloody League Cup.”

Before I can reply, she’s gone, the click of her heels against the tiles fading into silence.

I slump against the wall, my stomach twisting painfully. I don’t know what’s upsetting me more, the public dressing-down or the fact that I’m incredibly turned on by it. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.

Maybe I have been making excuses for too long.

A towel flies across the room. I catch it just before it slaps me in the face.

“Stop sad-sacking, Potter.” Oliver leans against the door to the shower room. “And for Christ’s sake wrap your cock up before Finnegan gets too worked up over here.”

“Fuck off,” Seamus says. He peers over Oliver’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. Buy you a pint. I’ll even pay.”

I wrap the towel around my hips. “Later.” I walk into the changing room and pull my Quidditch gear back out, ignoring the overwhelming silence of the remnants of the team still lingering about. Oliver and Seamus follow me and watch as I tug my jumper back over my head.

“Harry.” Oliver sits on the bench beside me, knocking my broom to the floor. He picks it up and sets it upright against my locker. “You just played a three-hour match.”

I pull my trousers up, fastening them. “And I’m going back out to fly some more.” I reach for my boots.

Seamus and Oliver exchange a long look, then Seamus sighs. “Well, fuck it all.” He grabs two brooms from the wall rack and hands one to Oliver. “Might as well go out with the mad bastard. Keep him from flying himself to death.” He drapes his arm around my shoulder and glares around the room. The few remaining reservists melt away, most likely towards the pub.

Oliver sighs heavily and pushes himself to his feet. “Can’t have that. Or uppity Slytherin bitches giving him what-for.” He picks a practice Snitch out of the gear trunk and tosses it my way.

I catch it without looking. Its wings flutter lightly against my palm.

“There’s a start,” Oliver says with a smile.

Yeah. Maybe it is.

***

“Pansy Parkinson has been a bully since first year,” Hermione says, pouring the last of the second bottle into my glass.

I eye the wine glumly before I take a long drink. “In front of the whole team, that’s what bothered me. They could hear everything. All of them.” I pause. “Well, not Wilda, but they all told her soon enough.”

“And she knew that,” Hermione says.

Ron reaches across the table for another roll. “She probably gets off on it, mate. Tearing strips off of you in front of an audience. You know, that control thing Hermione talks about.” He appeals to his fiancee with his eyes.

“Exactly.” Hermione nods her head. “It’s a complete control mechanism to abuse you verbally in front of your teammates. She’s asserting her dominance.”

I think it’s best I don’t mention my reaction to this particular control mechanism. Or my cock’s, at least. From everything I know about my best friends’ sex life--and it’s far more than I’d like, let me say--I don’t think either of them would understand. Uncomplicated vanilla sex, thy name is Granger-Weasley. Ron still hasn’t entirely forgiven me for the tawdriness of being caught with Lavender. Even Gin used to make fun of his infinite capacity for surprise at the seamier details of our lives. I don’t want to imagine what he’d say if he found out that I’d spent last night wanking into my pillow while thinking of Pansy Parkinson’s mouth sucking me off, her thumb pressed behind my balls. I cough suddenly and hope that the wine explains the flush on my cheeks.

Ron eyes me. “You all right?” At my nod, he bites into the roll and chews. “She’s not entirely wrong though.” He swallows. “Not the dominance thing, I mean.” Hermione and I both look at him, and he reaches for his glass. “Really, Harry, you have been playing like crap since you and Ginny...” He trails off and sighs. “Well, you know. The whole...” He waves his glass in a circle.

“The breakup?” I ask. Not that I need to. Still, Ron looks relieved.

He nods. “Look, I know it wasn’t just you. Merlin knows Gin shouldn’t have been shagging around either. But she’s back on her game, and you...” He gives me an apologetic look. “I reckon we shouldn’t talk about November.”

I know he’s right. “Yeah.” I make a face. “Still. Krum?” That’s like rubbing salt in the wound, although I can’t explain it to Ron and Hermione. Gin made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone, although I don’t see why anyone cares that she spent the night with him now that we’re no longer together.

Hermione suddenly gets a gleam in her eye. “Of course,” she says. Ron and I stop talking to watch her wave her glass in the air excitedly, spilling a few drops of its contents without caring. She’s always like this when she’s unravelling motive, whether it’s for a case before the Wizengamot or among our acquaintances. “It’s not only Pansy who’s asserting her dominance. That’s why Viktor is involved too. He isn’t just satisfied with taking over your relationship with Ginny, he’s also trying to take over your position on Puddlemere. That makes all the sense in the world, from a certain alpha male way of looking at things.”

“Alpha what?” Ron asks.

“What the hell are you talking about, Hermione?” I look at her in confusion. I can’t believe Ginny told her. “Viktor and....” My throat closes up as realisation hits. Hermione means that they’re together. Now. “Oh, Christ.”

“Oh.” Hermione and Ron trade a quick look. He shakes his head at her, and she flushes.  “I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“Krum’s fucking Gin.” I feel ill, and I set my glass down. One time, she’d said. Just once. My hand shakes. One night in Sofia...

“Not fucking.” Ron coughs. “Well, yeah. That too, but...” He takes a deep breath. “They’re together.” He looks over at me. “I mean...”

“Together.” The confirmation slides between my ribs like a blade, piercing my chest and making it hard to breathe. “When did this start?”

Hermione squirms in her chair. “Sometime around New Year’s,” she says quietly.

I stare at Ron. “You knew?” My head swirls. I can’t think properly.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he sighs. “She’s my sister, and she asked me not to tell you.” He turns his glass between his fingers. Wine sloshes up the side.“She didn’t say anything until February.”

“So you’ve known for weeks.” Everything starts to make sense. I’d wondered why he’d suddenly stopped talking about the possibility of my getting back together with Ginny, although I’d chalked it up to him finally realising it was over. Not Viktor bloody Krum, who keeps turning up like a bad penny. Or stotinka. Or whatever the fuck it is.

Ron shifts again. He drains his wine. “I hate being in the middle, Harry. You’re my best friend. I thought she was going to tell you.” He looks up at me. “Or end it before you found out.”

I’m tired. I’m furious. And I couldn’t explain if I tried. Hermione touches my shoulder and I pull away. “I should go home,” I murmur. “I’ve got training in the morning. I’m already up too late.”

“We thought you were doing better,” Hermione says as I stand up. She pushes back her chair. “We would never hurt you.”

I stop at the hearth. “I know.” I pick up the tin of Floo powder. “It’s a shit situation.”

“Harry,” Hermione says, and she’s next to me, her arms around my neck. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers into my hair. “We didn’t know how to tell you...”

Slowly I untangle myself from her embrace. “I’m fine, Hermione.” I’m not and we all know it. Still. I don’t look at her as take a pinch from the battered red tin. It’s one she’d picked up in Portobello Road one Saturday when she’d dragged Ron and me up to Notting Hill. She said it looked like one she remembered from her Gran’s house. “Thanks for dinner. It was lovely. I’ll firecall tomorrow.”

I throw the Floo powder into the fire. “Twelve Grimmauld Place.”

At Ron’s quiet love, Hermione steps back. The last thing I see as I step into cool, green flames is the resigned worry in both their faces.

If I thought I hated Krum before...

I close my eyes and let the darkness spin me away.

***

Training in the next few weeks is excruciating. And just when I’m getting used to it, Pansy, bitch that she is, brings in a special cross-training consultant from Australia, and I seem to be at the head of her list for reform. Before I know it, I’m on a regimen of regular team conditioning, restricted diet, extra windsprints, interval work, and bloody yoga for flexibility.

It’s a sign of my commitment, I think, that I tolerate Parvati Patil bending me into unnatural shapes for an hour a day. I stagger into bed every night like I’ve been hit by dozens of Bludgers and wake to an agony of joint aches and stiffness in muscles I didn’t even know I had. Still, it seems to be working. After we won our match against the Kestrels in less than three hours, the Prophet proclaimed I might be making a comeback after all. Then again, they did also make certain to point out the Kestrels were bottom of the League. Still, Deverill seemed pleased.

I’m in the middle of what Parvati claims is Adho Mukha Svanasana--but I think is nothing but a chance for her to watch me shove my arse in the air in a flimsy pair of black shorts--when Pansy walks into the room.

“Nice view, Potter,” she says, and I peer through my quivering thighs at her purple ostrich shoes. Spectator pumps, I recognise, but only because Hermione has a good twenty pairs. These are sexier than anything I’d seen on Hermione, and they reek of Galleons.

“Heels down, Harry,” Parvati chides. “Keep your hands flat.” As she puts a hand under my hip to indicate where I should lift, I breathe into the stretch, trying to relax my aching tendons. Surprisingly, they obey and I find assuming a better form than I’ve had all week. I feel a sense of accomplishment and try to ignore the fact that Pansy sodding Parkinson is eyeing my arse. And I don’t seem to mind. “Very nice,” Parvati says.

“Mmmm.” Pansy agrees. “Do you mind if I interrupt, Parvs?”

I look up in time to see Parvati nod. “Walk it back, Harry,” she says, and I slowly move my hands toward my feet and roll up my spine until I’m standing. She beams at me. “Much better than yesterday. You’ve broken through your plateau.”

My limbs feel loose and light. I glance over at Pansy, trying not to grin. I take the small towel Parvati hands me and wipe my face.

“Don’t get too pleased with yourself,” Pansy says. She looks tense. “There’s been a change in the match schedule.”

“What?” I walk to a rickety table leaning haphazardly against the mirrored wall and pour myself a cup of water from the pitcher on it. Pansy watches me in the mirror, her arms crossed over her chest and a small furrow between her perfectly arched eyebrows. She looks more tired than usual, and a little grim.

“They’ve switched our match against the Arrows next week,” she says bluntly. “We’re going against the Harpies instead.”

I nearly choke on my water. “The Harpies.” I wipe the back of my hand against my mouth.

“Yes.” Pansy scowls at me. “And you had damn well better tell me you’re up for facing your ex this time.”

I don’t know that I am. Not at the moment. I set my cup down. I exhale slowly, the way Parvati’s taught me, before I face Pansy’s reflection in the mirror.  “I’d better be, hadn’t I?”

Pansy’s mouth thins. “After the money I’ve put into you recently, yes.” She twists her fingertips into the folds of purple wool at her elbows. “Are you?”

Taking another deep breath, I nod. “Yeah.”

“I need to know, Potter.” Pansy’s hand grips my arm, and I turn towards her. “If you’re not, I’m putting Bairstow in--”

“I said I’m ready,” I snap.

Her silver lacquered nails dig into my skin as she studies my face. She must find some sort of confirmation there. She huffs softly, then nods. “Philbert’ll put you on the roster then.” She steps back. “Don’t fuck up.”

“I won’t.” She’s halfway across the room before I turn around, leaning against the table. Water sloshes out of the pitcher, dampening the side of my shorts. “Krum’s fucking Gin, you know.”

Pansy pauses, pivoting to look back at me. She’s silent for a moment. “Everyone knows, Potter,” she says finally, and her voice is almost gentle. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?” She turns away. I don’t stop her again.

An hour later, after Parvati and I are finished for the day, I can still hear Pansy’s question ringing in my ears. What am I going to do about it? I have a week to answer that, I suppose.

“Pub, Harry?” Wood asks me as I head out to the field, my broom in my hand.

I shake my head. “I’m going to fly a few more circuits, I think.” I look at him. “Alone.”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Suit yourself. You can always come join us if you like. Zabini has to buy the rounds tonight.”

In spite of that temptation, I stay on the pitch until well after dark, flying in alternating dashes and dodging manoeuvres until I can barely see the goalposts.

I still don’t have any answers.

***

It rains the entire eleven hours and eight minutes of the United-Harpies match. Both captains are injured early on - Wilda after the fourth hour and Gwenog at the sixth. They each stay in the match, however, accepting a quick check by the team mediwitch on the sidelines before flying back onto the pitch to the roar of the capacity crowd. By the ninth hour, we’re all flying on adrenaline and sheer determination. I can see Pansy in the owner’s box, but this time a familiar blond head is tilted towards hers. Malfoy. He’s been at a few matches before, but this is the first time he’s stayed.

Two hours later, the score stands at six-hundred and sixty to six-hundred and eighty, Harpies’ favour, and the Snitch is nowhere in sight. Three players have been thrown out of the match, and the Harpies are on their second Keeper. Wood is still holding strong, despite the ferocity of the Harpies’ offence, and even Zabini’s stopped faffing about and is grimly determined to knock their Chasers from their brooms. He and Seamus make a powerful force, finally working together in unison instead of against each other.

Gin and I circle in tandem, tensely waiting for a glimpse the Snitch as we watch each other out of the corners of our eyes. Her hair hangs wetly down her back, caught with a silver cord that I’d given her for the first professional match she’d played. She’s still wearing it for luck.

“Tired yet, Potter?” she calls out to me through the steady fall of rain.

I can’t help but smile. Even during the best part of our relationship, we’d always kept to last names on the pitch. “In your dreams, Weasley, but if you’d like to give up...”

She laughs. “You wish.”

A Bludger whizzes between us and we roll our brooms in opposite directions to avoid it. As we  right ourselves, there’s a glint on the far side of the pitch.

After a good straight drop, we’re neck in neck, but the gold flicker disappears before either of us can catch it. I pull up hard on my broom, my feet almost skimming the slick grass. There’s a groan from all sides of the stadium when the crowd realises neither of us has the Snitch. The lights are bright against the inky wet darkness.

Gin and I fly up above the others again, dodging a stray Quaffle and the massed pack of Chasers. We resume our seeking positions.

“Bad luck, that,” Gin says with a smile, and I just look at her, unable to return her smile this time. She raises an eyebrow. “What?”

I shrug. My fingers grip my broomstick tightly as I scan the pitch below. “So, you and Krum, huh?”

Gin stills on her broom, the heels of her boots hooked over the steel curve of its stirrups. “It’s not what you think--”

“Come off it,” I snap, and my anger’s rising in my chest. I take a breath while scanning the pitch.“You’re evidently doing a shit job of keeping your shagging secret And as usual, I’m the last to know.”

“I didn’t know it was any of your business,” Gin says hotly. “Now that we’re not together--”

I see it then, bright and shining below us, and I’m not listening any more. I can hear her sharp curse as I take off and she realises what I’m heading for. She’s right behind me, but I’m furious now, and all I can think of is what she must look like beneath Krum, her hair spread across the pillow like red fire and her long legs wrapped around his hips the way she’d wrapped them around mine.

Throwing caution to the wind, I plunge into the darkness, leaning off my broom until only the fingertips of one hand keep me balanced as I reach out.

My fingers brush Gin’s wrist.

“I can’t let you, Harry,” she shouts over the din of the crowd, and the Snitch is fluttering just inches away from us, its wings dragging against the rain.

“Me neither,” I say. My broom shoots forward, twisting to one side, and I feel the small smack against my palm that signifies victory. I pull up, elated, grasping the Snitch tightly, but letting the wings show through my clenched fist. The United supporters are on their feet, screaming my name for the first time in months. It echoes through the night. The announcer is shouting “United wins” over the crowd and the scoreboard is flashing Puddlemere 840. Gin’s mouth is a thin line.

“Get Viktor to console you,” I say roughly. She flinches and wheels her broom around, shooting across the pitch to the Harpies’ bench.

My teammates fly at me from all sides, enveloping me in a messy, sopping wet scrum. We’re all so exhausted, we’re almost leaning on each other, but we part to fly a ragged victory lap.

When I glance towards the owner’s box, it’s empty.

I tell myself I don’t give a damn.

But I do.

***

The next weeks pass in a blur of Snitches, rough tactics, and good luck. We’re building a streak, the best run of the season. Puddlemere’s rising up the League table. The only question is whether we can get high enough and stay there long enough to vie for the Cup.

After flying practice one afternoon, Wilda stops me in outside of the changing rooms, pulling me into the shadows as the rest of the team files past, casting the occasional odd look our way. I ignore Zabini’s pointed comment about shagging one’s way to the top of the roster.

“Meet me here in fifteen minutes,” Wilda murmurs, her fingers caught in my jumper.  “I’d like to have a drink with you separately. Before we join the others.”

The look on her face is foreboding and I can’t imagine of what. I puzzle on it through my shower and dress a bit distractedly. When I return to the hallway, she’s waiting for me, her short blonde curls still slightly damp. We walk out to our brooms, but instead of flying to the Giant as usual, Wilda veers us away from Cerne Abbas towards Buckland Newton. We wind up at the white-washed Gaggle of Geese, a pub whose owner had tossed Oliver and Seamus out on their ears two years ago after they’d started a fight over Shaftebury F.C.’s chances in the Wessex League. No one from the team would follow us here, of that I’m certain.

“Buy me a pint,” Wilda says as she heads for the corner table, and I snort. Honestly, one of these days I’m actually going to make good on my threats and stop tucking Muggle notes into my trousers.

As soon as I set a foaming glass down in front of her and take my seat, Wilda cuts to the chase. “You’re not going to be with us for the League finals, Harry. Assuming we make it that far, that is.” Her face is stony. She takes her first sip.

I’m so shocked, I set my beer down. I’ve been well night unstoppable these past matches and I’m in the best fitness of my career. “Why?”

Her face breaks into a huge grin. “Because you’re going to be called up for England, you giant Hippogriff’s arse.”

My beer remains on the table as I try to take in what she’s said. “But how?” I finally manage.

She sets down her empty glass and wipes the back of her hand carelessly over her frothy lips. “From what I heard, Malfoy’s shagging Flores, and he and Pansy managed to convince him to give you another look.”

The Spanish-born trainer of the England team is legendary. I’d no idea Malfoy was moving in such circles. Not that I was choosy about the source of my good fortune. “Pansy?” I try to keep my tone level. “Our Pansy?”

“Our Pansy.” Wilda meets my gaze evenly.

I pick up my beer to cover my shock. “That’s surprising.”

Wilda leans back in her chair. “Give her some credit; she’s not a complete dunce. And you’d better fly your best, you jammy bastard, or else I’ll have your balls. England’s due to win after our last three finishes. We didn’t even make the semifinal round in the last World Cup.”

I nod, completely gobsmacked, and drink my beer in large gulps. It tastes better than anything has in years. Me, playing for England. I can’t believe it.

Wilda holds out a hand, palm upturned. “Spot me another?” She grins. “Least you can do after I break all sorts of rules of secrecy to bring you good tidings and all that rot.”

With a mock sigh I fish out a tenner and hand it over. I watch as she heads up to the bar, flirting outrageously with the pretty girl behind the bar.

“Who knows,” Wilda says, returning with her second pint and one for me as well. She drops a few pound coins on the table beside my glass. “Maybe your girlfriend will even let you play in some of the big matches.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” I remind her, and she waves a hand dismissively as the other brings her glass to her lips. We both know Ginny will remain in starting position for England. Even with our recent spate of luck, the Harpies are still dominating in the field and Gin’s an extraordinary Seeker. There’s no way they’ll put me above her on the roster, no matter how well I’ve played lately. Still, being an alternate is far better than not being capped at all.

“The ex part won’t matter as much when you’re on the same team,” Wilda says. “They all end up that way eventually. Point is, you’re going to have to be in your best form and then improve. Remember, you’ll both be up against Krum.”

This quashes my elation somewhat. In all of the excitement of the past weeks, I’d almost forgotten that name. I decided to change the topic before I start to brood. “How’d you find out, Wils? I thought selections were better guarded than Gringotts until they’re announced.”

“My ex-girlfriend, of course.” Wilda smiles as she takes her last swig. “Viola let me know this morning. I think it’s going to be public tomorrow, so even my enormous gob can’t do much damage.”

“This morning, huh?” I make an attempt to waggle my eyebrows.

Wilda frowns over the rim of her pint glass. “That’s not an attractive look, Harry. I don’t care what turns the groupies on. Yes, this morning at the Women in Wizarding Sport breakfast.”

“You have breakfasts?” I look rather nonplussed, I’m sure.

“Like you can’t even imagine. The question is, what we do before them.” Wilda finishes her beer.

“And what’s that?” I ask cautiously.

“Used to be each other,” Wilda says with a grin. “These days? Sleep.”

I laugh and she motions for me to drink up. “We don’t want to get there after they’ve left.”

As we take off for Cerne Abbas, I think that, of all the news this evening, Pansy’s involvement surprises me the most. I didn’t even think she liked me. And when I think of how to thank her properly, my mind wanders in several, terribly inappropriate directions at once.

I should not want to shag the owner of my team. Just not.

Not a wise career move, Potter, I tell myself, not even when she’s given you your dreams back.

***

“One more smile,” the Prophet photographer says, and the flash that goes off nearly blinds me. I fight the urge to scratch beneath the wool collar of my new Quidditch robe.

We’re in the Ministry atrium, in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, all seventeen of us on the England team. Seven starters, ten alternates. Alice MacFarlan, the new head of Magical Games and Sports, flutters behind the photographer, waving for us to stand straighter.

“Think of England,” she trills, and I hear Zabini snort next to me.

I elbow him. “Don’t even say it.”

“Far too easy,” he murmurs, and my mouth twitches.

Another flash and the photographer lowers his camera and looks back at MacFarlan. “That should do me for now,” he says cheerfully.

Zabini and I cough in unison. Gin looks back over her shoulder at us, her eyebrow quirked. I give her a small, serene smile.

We fall out of line, and the wave of autograph seekers descends. I lose track of how many times I sign my name to scraps of parchment, old interoffice memos, and the occasional England or United jersey. Zabini makes a bit of a stir by signing some Auror’s tits with a flourish of his quill while managing to find out her Floo coordinates. The man likes to live dangerously.

“You’re incorrigible,” I say to him as I lean over to add my autograph to a well-inked Beater’s bat. It’s for a tow-headed eight-year-old whose smiling mum is pushing him forward.

Zabini shrugs and scans the large hall. A smile curves his thin mouth. “There she is.”

I follow his gaze. Pansy’s wending her way through through the thinning crowd. Her red dress is shorter and tighter than anything I’ve seen her in yet, and the wide vee of the neck shows off a swathe of pale skin and shadowed cleavage. She looks fantastic.

“Blaise!” She throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. I scowl at them both. “You look divine in that uniform. White suits you.”

It doesn’t suit me. I look pasty and ill, thanks to all the rain we’ve had this spring. I hope that the weeks of training in Zaragoza before the matches will help.

Zabini beams down at her. I hate him for being so bloody damn attractive. “I thought you weren’t going to bother with the press conference.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Philbert suggested I speak to Rita, since we’re one of the only three teams to field more than one player.” Her darkly lined eyes flick towards me. “Questions about how we’ll manage the League finals with both of you in Spain.”

“I hear Bairstow’s itching for a chance to start,” I say easily, and Pansy’s mouth purses.

“Bothwick. By a mile. Bairstow’s....” She hesitates. “Too eager.”

I can’t help but smile. My place on the team’s safe. From internal contenders at least.

Pansy’s eyes narrow at me. “Unless, of course, England wash out too quickly.”

I hold up my hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m only an alternate. Zabini’s the starter.”

A sharp fingernail pokes my chest. “Yes, but he stopped listening to me two months into second year. I’m counting on you to keep him in line.” Pansy scowls at Zabini. “Which means no shagging half the team. Or coaching staff.”

“I’ve already shagged half the team, thanks.” Zabini says with a smirk, looking around quickly as though to check his arithmetic. “And Flores is spoken for. I’ve felt the business end of Draco’s wand before, thanks. Rather not do that again.”

Pansy turns on me. “Watch him, Potter.”

“How do you know that Potter’s not the one who needs watching?” Zabini nudges me with his shoulder. “I hear he’s cutting a wide swath through the--oh, wait. He’s not swathing anyone.”

I give him an indignant glare. “Fuck off. Some of us actually train.”

Zabini clucks. “And some of us believe in full body workouts, Potter.”

I hate him. Really. I do.

Pansy’s watching us, amused. “Perhaps we should add that to your training regimen.”

My face heats, but I don’t look away. “If you have the time.” I let my gaze slip down her body, taking in her long legs and soft curves.

I’m surprised when a flush rises on her cheeks. “Not this season,” she says, her voice slightly husky.

Zabini’s eyebrow rises. “Note to self, watch Potter more carefully,” he murmurs, and he yelps when Pansy steps hard on his foot.

“Train well, boys,” she says, but she’s looking at me. A frisson goes straight to my cock. She turns, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her as she walks off, her hips swaying slightly.

“I wouldn’t play with fire, Potter,” Zabini whispers in my ear, but by the time I look over at him, he’s headed for the wall of public Floos.

It’s too late for playing. I’m already burnt.

---

ii. Summer

Zaragoza is hot, exhausting, and brilliant. We’re up by dawn, flying drills in the grey, early morning sky. We fall in bed sixteen hours later, barely able to stumble into our beds. I share a suite with Zabini and Brennan, Beater for the Magpies and England starter. We’re so tired that even Zabini doesn’t have time to do anything other than sleep--the one morning I accidentally catch him wanking in the shower, he barely has the energy to tell me to fuck off and find my own fun.

Two hours a day I spend with Ginny and Dougal McBride, the other alternate Seeker, as Flores and McIntyre, our defensive coach, send us all racing after Snitches and dodging Bludgers until we’re ready to fall off our brooms. Seeking becomes a competition between Ginny and me to see who can catch the most, and we spend most of our time together shutting out McBride entirely, much to his--and McIntyre’s--irritation.

To my surprise, I seem to have become faster and more agile in the air, able to feint better than either of the other two and whip my broom around sharply on a moment’s whim. My body is lithe and lean and powerful. I feel like a teenager again, but I have so much more control. And I know I have Pansy and her fitness consultants to thank for this. When Gin and I tally all of Snitches caught, I’m only trailing her by five out of hundreds.

We’ve been in Spain nearly four weeks when Zabini sits down next to me at supper and tosses a wrinkled piece of parchment my way. “Just in,” he says, reaching for a bowl of paella and emptying half of it on his plate. “Pansy wrote from the box.”

I scan the scrawled note--her penmanship is horrid and it takes me a moment to decipher the ink spattered numbers and words beneath. “We took the Cup.” I look at Zabini in shock. “We took it.”

For the first time ever, he grins at me, a wide white flash of teeth. “Barely, but we did. Pans is beside herself.”

I glance back down at the parchment in my hands. The ink glows in United colours, blue and gold. “Yeah.” I can’t hold back my laugh. “She deserves to be.”

Zabini just looks at me. “She’s been on you rather a lot lately.” His mouth quirks to one side.

“Not in that way.” I fold the note up and hand it back to him.

He slips it back into his pocket. “Trust me, Potter, I’d know if she was.” He shovels a heaping forkful of paella into his mouth and chews. When he swallows he glances back at me. “It’s been good for you, you realise. Even if she’s a bitch about it.” I catch a glimpse of a small smile before he dabs a napkin at the corner of his mouth. “Pans is always at her best when she’s a complete cunt.”

His directness startles a quick laugh out of me. “Yeah, I guess she is.”

Zabini nods sagely and takes another bite of the rice and seafood. “Who knows? If you do well, your chances of having her on you in that way might increase as well.”

I inhale sharply. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know,” I mutter.

“Or Draco.”  Zabini smirks at my horrified look. “She usually firecalls him first after an epic shag.”

“And there goes any chance of a hard-on,” I say, reaching for the basket of fresh bread. “Knowing that the Old Slytherin network is going to get the blow-by-blow when you’re barely finished.”

Zabini snorts. “What, are the Gryffindorks too prudish to talk about the details?”

I think of Hermione and Ron. “No, they’re so prudish the details don’t take long.”

“Bad luck, man.” Zabini looks almost sympathetic. “But I hear they make potions--”

I throw a chunk of bread at him. He catches it and takes a bite before Flores sweeps down on us, shouting in a mix of English and Spanish about how lazy we all are.

***

England’re put in Group B, along with Wales, Brazil, and Vietnam. Two matches later, both of which I spend on the bench beside McBride, we’re top of our bracket, and have moved forward into the semi-final round, playing against Japan, who lost out to Bulgaria by one point in Group A.

The Japanese are brutally efficient fliers. The coordination of their Chasers is like nothing we’ve faced and they mow through our defense. Flores pulls Gin out for a three-hour stretch, sending me in for most of the afternoon. It’s some of the hardest Quidditch I’ve ever played. Matsui and I spend hours circling each other, feinting and diving each time we see the slightest glimmer of gold. By the time Flores calls me back to the bench, I’m soaked with sweat and completely drained. Ginny gives me a sympathetic smile before she soars back onto the pitch. It takes her another hour and a half to catch the Snitch, her fingers barely outreaching Matsui’s to curve around the damned thing.

We win by ten points.

England goes mad. The Prophet devotes an entire front section to the match and to photographs of supporters and shops in Diagon Alley festooned in white and red. I’ve never seen so many St. George’s flags hanging from windows and awnings. Our names are scrawled everywhere, even the alternates, on brick walls and glass storefronts. Tom from the Leaky Cauldron even names a drink the Ginevra; Ginny’s delighted when she finds out that it’s a mix of rosewater, lime and gin.

They give us four days off before the final match. We’re playing Bulgaria on Sunday. Flores keeps us on our training schedule for two days before dropping us down to a lighter version so we can rest for the match. We’re back in Zaragoza; the last two matches have been played in Bilbao, but this is the one the world will be watching.

And indeed, the world is coming to us. All of the matches were well attended but travel picks up sharply for the final. There’s an enormous tent city in the desert of Los Monegros where the stadium’s set up for the final match. All the hotels in the city are booked; most of the Spanish Auror force has been busy for days Obliviating Muggles who’ve run into drunken wizards celebrating. At least the final’s not Germany against Australia. God only knows how many memory charms they’d have to cast then.

Ginny stops me after practice on Saturday. “Buy me a drink, Harry,” she says, handing her broom to McBride to put away. He rolls his eyes, but he takes it. “For luck.”

It’d been a tradition of ours, the night before an important match for either of us. A drink for luck, but never a shag. We’d had it drilled into us that sex before a match was the worst idea possible. Throws you off your game. Takes away your edge. Makes you utterly unable to focus the way you need to when you need all of your adrenalin for competition. I can still hear Flores yelling at us the day we arrived.

We walk back to the hotel together in silence. It’s barely dusk and the heat from the afternoon is just starting to fade. Gin looks up at me as I hold open the door for her and she smiles. It strikes me then that it’s not the same. We’re not the same. Six months ago that smile would have sent me into a downspiral and I would have been desperate to see it as an offer or a promise. Now, I take it for what it is: an expression of collegiality and perhaps even friendship.

I order a bottle of wine from the bar and carry it back to the corner table where Ginny is sitting. “Red,” I say, holding it up. “The kind you like.”

She laughs. “You wine connoisseur, you.”

“What can I say?” I pour a glass for her and hand it over. “Only the best for Madame.”

“I sincerely hope the bartender recommended it.” Gin takes a sip. “Which he obviously did.”

“She,” I say. “Don’t be sexist.”

That earns me two fingers flipped my way. Ginny turns her glass in her hand. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this.”

“Eleven months, three weeks and five days.” At her quirked eyebrow, I set my glass down. “Or something like that.”

Ginny takes another sip. “Or never, if you consider this is our first time drinking before an England match.” She pauses. “Or at least one where we’re both on the team.”

We spent the last World Cup shagging in her father’s tent. But that seems so far away now.

“Harry,” Ginny says after a moment. There’s regret in her voice. I’ve known her long enough to recognise it in a single word.

I shake my head. “It’s just strange.”

She nods. “I know.”

We’re silent for a long moment, both of us drinking our wine, lost in our own thoughts. I finally look up at her. “Are you nervous about going up against Krum tomorrow?”

“A little,” she admits. “I mean, he is Viktor Krum.” She laughs softly. “Flores won’t let us see each other, you know.”

“But you have.” I know Ginny, and I’m certain I’ve seen him near the hotel more than once.

Her cheeks flush, and she smiles into her wine. “What Flores doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

“I suppose not.” I watch her across the table. She looks softer when she’s talking about Krum. Happier. The way she’d looked when we first moved in together. “You love him.”

Ginny sets her glass down before she nods. “Possibly.” She looks up at me. “Probably.”  It doesn’t hurt to hear her say that and I’m surprised. She tilts her head, studying me. “What about you?”

I shrug and run a fingertip along the rim of my glass. It hums softly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you been breaking the rules for someone?” Ginny shoots me a conspiratorial grin.

“Not yet.” I pick up my glass and drain it. I don’t look at her as I pour another slosh in. “I might like to though.”

Ginny holds her glass out and I refill it. “Please tell me it’s not Zabini.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I see him starkers far too often. He loses his charm after you see him lying around scratching his balls. And he eats crisps in bed. You know how I feel about that.” It’d been an argument we’d had frequently.

“All too well.” She just watches me. “So who is it?”

I hesitate, then sigh. “You’ll think me mad. I think I’m mad.”

Ginny’s eyes narrow as she scans my face. “No. It can’t be.”

“Wood’s taken,” I say lightly, waiting to see what she’ll say next. I’ve learned to fear the Weasley women’s perception.

“You’re not gay.” Gin drinks her wine. “Which is a pity given that I’m fairly certain Neville’s been pining after you since fourth year.”

I give her an incredulous look. “He has not.”

“Oblivious again.” Ginny shakes her head. “He’s just too polite to do anything about it.”

That gives me pause. “If I were gay...”

Gin pats my hand. “I know, darling.” She looks wistful. “If only Nev were straight...”

We both smile at each other. Gin leans back and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “So. Hermione’s with Ron, Luna’s with Rolf, Wilda wouldn’t have you, let’s not even mention Lavender--” She glares at me, and I nod, abashed. “I suspect the Patil twins think you’re too dull--”

“Hey,” I protest. “Parvati’s my yoga instructor.”

“Any inappropriate touching?” Ginny looks interested.

“Sadly, no.” I sigh. “But I think she appreciates my bum.”

Ginny’s mouth twitches. “All of England appreciates your bum, Harry. Lord knows they’ve seen it enough.”

“I thought we were never going to speak of that again.” I wince. Last year there’d been an unfortunate incident involving too much firewhisky, a wager against the Caerphilly Catapults, and an off-duty photographer from Witch’s Weekly. Not to mention Oliver fucking Wood and his utter inability to back down. Fucker.

Ginny laughs. “You know Romilda still has that photograph framed in her office at the Harpies’ grounds.”

“And I still hate you for giving it to her.”

She reaches for the bottle of wine, grinning. “Shouldn’t have narked me off, Potter.”

“I know.” I try not to imagine Romilda kissing it for good luck.

We look at each other. The amusement fades from Ginny’s face. “You hurt me terribly, Harry.”

I nod slowly.

Ginny swallows and looks away. Her hand slips from the wine bottle, and she bites her lip. “I know I made mistakes while we were together,” she says softly. “But I tried not to wave them in your face.”

My throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”

The words hang between us. Ginny blinks and wipes a thumb across one eye. It comes away wet. “That’s not enough.”

I reach over and catch her wrist. My fingers slide through hers. “I never meant to hurt you that way.” Her skin is warm against mine. “It wasn’t fair.”

“No,” she says, looking at me. “It wasn’t.”

I take an uneven breath. “I am sorry. I was just...” I trail off and sigh.

“An arsehole.” She pulls her hand away.

“Fair enough.” I give her a small smile. “But I have a right to be angry too.”

Ginny looks down into her wine. I know she’s thinking about that argument. The one in which I’d found out she’d fucked Viktor in Sofia. No one knew but me. She still hasn’t told Ron or Hermione. I know she hasn’t.

“You stayed with him,” I say. The old ache seeps back into my heart. “And you let me find out from your brother.”

She curls her hands around the bowl of her glass. “We haven’t exactly been speaking regularly this year, Harry.”

“Gin.”

She looks up at me. Her eyes are dark. Shadowed. “I’m not proud of myself. I’m not proud of how relieved I was when Ron said you knew because then I wouldn’t have to face you.” She lifts her glass and takes a drink. “I didn’t mean to stay with him. It really was one night, Harry. That’s all I meant it to be. Until Lavender.”

“You can’t pretend Lavender was the only catalyst, Gin.”

Ginny doesn’t say anything. She sighs.

“I’ll take my responsibility,” I say after a moment. “But you have to take yours.”

She nods. “I know.” Her eyes meet mine. “I fucked up. You fucked up. But you got caught by the Prophet.” Her smile is almost affectionate. “Stupid bastard.”

We laugh. It’s bittersweet, and even though I know it’s not completely resolved, the air between us feels so much lighter.

Ginny touches my hand. “You’re just trying to avoid my question from earlier, aren’t you?”

“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.  

“There’s really only one candidate,” she muses. “And I think she’s hiding in plain sight.”

I eye her warily. “I have no idea what you’re on about, and it’s getting late.” I push my chair back.

“Parkinson,” Ginny says before I can stand up. She leans forward. “Pansy bloody Parkinson. Harry, you dog.”

I freeze and instinctively look around for anyone who might have heard her. The bar’s packed, but no one’s paying any attention to us that I can tell.

Ginny laughs quietly. “And here I thought Viktor and I would make a scandal. Shagging your team owner? That’s against League rules.”

“Since when have I ever played by the rules?” I ask, tensing. “Besides, no one cares about ridiculously stupid, ridiculously ancient regulations. Not even in Quidditch.”

“Maybe.” Ginny gives me a dubious look. “But with your ability to land on the front page of the Prophet, you might want to be more careful.”

“We’re not doing anything,” I say petulantly. “It’s hypothetical shagging. Besides, all I am to her is a moneymaker. If that, even.” I can’t hide my bitter tone. “She’s been talking to Viktor about taking my place.”

Ginny snorts. “Viktor’s pretending to talk to Puddlemere to get a better offer from the Tornados. And Pansy knows it. They’re old acquaintances.”

I still, completely unable to move. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No,” Ginny says calmly. “I’m not. Not about this. I never would. Parkinson on the other hand...”

A rush of rage rolls over me. “I’m going to kill her.” I stand up. “I am going to fucking kill her right fucking now.”

“Harry.” Ginny grabs at my arm and I pull away. “We have to play tomorrow.”

“You do,” I say. “I have to go talk to Parkinson.”

I leave her sitting at the table, watching me as I stalk off, my practise robes swirling behind me.

***

Zabini’s in our room, sprawled across the sofa, his bare feet dangling over the arm.

“Potter,” he says, waving a glass of firewhisky in my general direction. “Have a drink with us.” He struggles into a half-upright position and motions towards Malfoy, sitting primly in a straight-backed chair beside him. “Draco brought me a bottle.”

“I did no such thing, you liar.” Malfoy crosses one leg over the other and eyes me. There’s a half-empty bottle of eighty-year Ogden’s on the table between them, and my eyebrow rises. It’s worth at least two-hundred Galleons, if I know my whisky. And I do. Malfoy drains his glass and pours another finger or two. “I’m sharing half a bottle with you. You’ll get the rest if you win tomorrow.”

Zabini falls back against the sofa cushions. “Six of one, half a clutch of the other.”

“You’re an idiot when you’re pissed,” Malfoy murmurs into his glass. At my look, he sighs. “Stop fretting, Potter. I’m not fool enough to leave him without a Sobering Potion.” He glances at Zabini. “A strong one.”

“Our Timoteo would be very displeased.” Zabini stretches, his rumpled white shirt riding up his lean torso. I catch Malfoy watching, and, for a brief moment I recognise the stark want in his eyes before his cool mask slips back into place. Surprised, I wonder if either Flores or Zabini realise. They can’t, I think. Zabini’s too open with Malfoy, and as for Flores, well. Zabini wouldn’t have come within flying distance of the starting squad if our coach had any idea that his boyfriend looked at him like that.

Malfoy glances at me, his lip curled and his cheeks flushed. “Either sit or don’t, Potter. Your looming in the doorway like an grumpy Erumpent is disturbing me.”

I step into the room, but I leave the door open. A house elf passes down the hall, several covered platters drifting behind it. “Parkinson’s in town, isn’t she?” I ask sharply. She has to be; all the owners received reserved tickets for the final match from the British and Irish Quidditch League Board. I suppose Pansy might have passed hers on, but if I know her, she hasn’t.

“Why do you care?” Malfoy sets his glass down. The look he gives me is cold and speculative.

“Because he wants to shag her.” Zabini flexes his foot, brushing against Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy flinches and shifts. I almost feel sorry for him. “Whispers things in his sleep, that one does.”

It takes all I have not to hex Zabini between the eyes. Instead I look at Malfoy. “I want to talk to her. Where is she?”

Malfoy cuts Zabini’s reply off with a held-up hand. He studies me for a long moment.  “Room four-eighty-five,” he says finally. He meets my gaze evenly. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

I nod, and I throw my Quidditch robe down on my rumpled bed. “Don’t get too pissed, Zabini. He might take advantage.”

Zabini makes a rude gesture as I head for the hall. I’m all too aware of Malfoy’s sharp grey gaze following me. The door slams shut behind me. I’ve no idea what I’m going to say.

***

I rap my knuckles loudly just beneath the brass 485. There’s no answer, so I knock again. And a third time. I’ve just lifted my hand again when the door opens and an annoyed Pansy Parkinson peers out at me.

“What the hell do you want, Potter?”

I can’t seem to get past the black silk dressing gown that barely skims her mid-thigh. Her creamy legs are long and shapely and for the first time I’ve seen her, she’s not wearing shoes. I realise she’s a good three inches shorter than me. It’s a disconcerting feeling.

“Well?” She sounds almost amused, and that irritates me.

“Krum,” I say, and I step closer, leaning against the doorframe. I’m still in my practice uniform, my wool and leather trousers hanging from my hips, a sweat-soaked red England t-shirt tight across my chest. Her frank, appraising look sends prickles skittering across my skin. It’s all I can do not to reach out and trail my fingertip along the smooth skin at the throat of her dressing gown. She crosses her arms and the silk gapes open slightly, giving me a glimpse of the shadowed curve of her breast. I can make out the outline of her nipples against the dark fabric. I feel an overwhelming urge to lean in and brush my mouth against one.

“What about him?”

I look up at her face. She’s barely wearing makeup, and her mouth is a soft, deep, kissable pink. “You never intended to sign him.” My anger floats back to the surface, overwhelming my want. “He never intended you to sign him--it was a ploy to help him in the--”

“Tornados negotiation, yes.” Pansy’s calm. She leans against the door. “I’m surprised it took you this long to figure out.”

I don’t bother to tell her I didn’t. “So you get off on knocking me down a few pegs,” I say bitterly, and her eyes narrow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m not a sadist, Potter, or not without good cause.” She steps closer; she’s almost out in the hall with me. It’s everything I can do to keep looking at her face. “You didn’t have anywhere to go but up. All you needed was a kick in that very lovely arse, and I propelled you forward with my size four shoe.” Her mouth’s tight. She draws herself up to her full height and glares at me. “I’d say I managed pretty damn well.”

We’re only inches apart. I can feel the warm wisp of her breath on my face. Her dark hair falls into her eyes. I want to brush it back, want to push her against the door and kiss her until we’re both aching, want to carry her back into that room and throw her across the bed, drop down to my knees and taste her finally. Jesus fucking Christ. I never wanted Ginny the way I want Pansy.

Ever.

A muscle in my cheek tenses. Pansy’s eyes are bright and defiant.

“Why?” I say finally, peering into her smug face. “Why do you give a fucking damn--”

I break off in a gasp as she grabs my cock through my trousers. One squeeze and I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life. I lurch forward; she stops me with her other hand to my chest. Her fingers knead across the wool of my trousers, moving down my shaft to cup my balls. Neither of us looks away.

Her mouth opens slightly, soft and wet, and the tip of her tongue slips over her bottom lip.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice rough and low and rasping.

A small smile curves her lips. She leans in and my eyes flutter half-closed as her breath ghosts across my mouth. “What I’ve always wanted, Potter,” she murmurs, and then she steps back, her hand slipping away. She looks at me evenly. “To win.”

She shuts the door on me, and I stand in the hallway, breathless and aching and angrier than ever.

Fucking bloody hell.

***

I refuse to let myself wank. Stupid of me, I know, but I’ll be damned if I let Pansy Parkinson drive me mental. I probably ought to give in--I spend most of the night awake and viciously hard, listening to the soft snores from Zabini and Brennan’s beds.  I want to march back up there and nail her to the sheets, but instead I think of England.

Eventually it works.

Morning comes too quickly, bright lemon light across the coverlet and an early team breakfast. We’re all quiet and focused, with none of the usual chatter. It’s match day and we all have our ways of getting into our mental game.

After a slow warm up and tactical review. Flores and Ginny and Gwenog break into a huddle. Flores looks like he’s been up all night with his diagrams and models instead of Malfoy. And his body language is beyond tense. Gwenog looks grimly at the parchment with moving figures that he’s waving about. Ginny’s mouth is compressed line.

“Slight change in tactics, girls. Seekers to the left, Chasers, I want you with me,” Gwenog barks. “Beaters, knock things at each other somewhere out of the way.”

The rest of us trade worried glances before moving into our positions.

“What’s this about?” I ask Ginny as she rises us into the air with me, McBride close behind.

“Timo is worried about the holes in our formations. He thinks Bulgaria will be flying aggressively to overwhelm us, and he wants us to be more ready.”

We pair up and practice charging each other, not enough to hurt, but close enough to frighten. The first few times Gin comes at me, I resist the urge to evade her. She stops short, as I know the Bulgarian players will not, but after repeated charges, it gets easier. Flores was right. We needed to practice our nerve.

After I finish flying my tenth or so pass at McBride, who doesn’t even blink this time, Gwenog calls time and we settle into a round of cool down laps.

“You ready for this?” I ask Ginny as she passes by at a leisurely pace, and she grips her broomstick tighter, knuckles white, and nods.

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “You’ll be great. Best Seeker in the League, or so I’ve been told.”

She gives me a small smile and rolls her broom to one side, headed for changing rooms.

My mouth is suddenly dry. I look around the enormous stadium, so empty and yet so full of possibility. In the late morning sun, England’s white and red shine brightly on my left while Bulgaria’s white, red and green adorn the opposing side.

We’re at the final match of the World Cup. This is real.

***

The noise is deafening when we fly out onto the pitch; the crowd screams for us while our names boom in the announcer’s Sonorus. Lights are flashing everywhere under the wide, glimmering banks of Lumos charms. A sparkling gold dragon twists around the pitch, roaring when we zip past. I can see the point of Zabini’s bristles two feet in front of me and I focus on them to avoid the dizzying display. My name is called and the crowd roars. A block of fans in large white and red hats in front of me chants, “Potter. Potter.” It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

I follow McBride to the England bench, halfway up the stands. Flores nods tensely to us as we slide over the railing, pulling our brooms behind us. The starting lineup circles the stadium, watching as the Bulgarian team explodes out of their tunnel..  

The lights are bright, too bright, really, and that’s going to make it hard to see the Snitch. I don’t envy Ginny right now. I know how tense she must be out there, starting against Krum. Her lover.

I frown. It should bother me, I suppose, but it doesn’t. Not right now. Not with everything on the line.

Not with Pansy bloody Parkinson in a box out there, watching. I scan the enormous sea of faces. I don’t know which VIP box she’s in.

The whistle blows and we enter a different dimension. Match time.

The first three hours of play bring very little, although there are breathtaking moments. The score remains nearly even the whole time. Occasionally we pull ten points ahead, occasionally Bulgaria does. Krum and Gin float high above the field of play, always observing, seldom crossing. I wonder what they’re saying to each other.

And then Ginny dives, hard and fast and we’re all on our feet, screaming for her as Krum races behind her, almost overtaking her. My heart’s in my throat; I can barely breathe. She’s going to do it, I know she is. This moment is hers.

A shriek rises from the crowd, and my head jerks to one side. There’s a Beater on her, and I see him lift his bat, his face twisted, as he slams a Bludger into her calf. She’s close enough that I can hear the crack of bone as her leg shatters, bending unnaturally.

Krum veers away from the Snitch, turning on his teammate with bared teeth. The line referee rushes to separate them. Flores is already sending a mediwizard out on a broom to bring Ginny back in.

Play is called. After a foul of that magnitude, even the Snitch wouldn’t have counted. Our mediwizard floats into the air, making hand motions for Ginny not to land. A protective sling floats beside him, softly swaying in the night air. An almost total silence of shock overtakes the crowd, then the outraged shouts and boos start.

The mediwizard levitates the sling over the railing and Ginny gives me a weak smile. “Arsed that up, didn’t I?” Her voice is wavering, her face contorted in pain.

“Not you,” I say, and I squeeze her hand. “Five feet closer to the stands and that bastard would have committed a Bumph.”

“Potter,” Flores barks. “Get in there.”

I kiss Ginny’s hand. She smacks my cheek lightly. “Give ‘em hell, Potter,” she says, wincing with effort.

“Right.” I grab the broom McBride’s handing me. I’m strangely calm as I mount it and fly onto the pitch.

The England side roar my name as my photograph comes up on one of the enormous scoreboards.  I take a deep breath, nodding towards Zabini and Gwenog as I fly higher up into the stadium.

Krum’s waiting for me, his forehead furrowed. His face is grey. “Ginevra--”

“She’ll be okay,” I say quietly. “It’s just her leg.”

“I know what it is,” he snaps. “Zograf is dead man. He should not do that to any Seeker, but most of all not to her.”

The referee makes a large show of giving Zograf a large red Howler citing him for endangerment and suspending him from international play. Zograf beats a hasty retreat back to the Bulgarian bench and disappears from sight.

“Fucker,” I say under my breath, and Krum snorts. He circles me, his eyes wary. I sigh. “Stop worrying about her. She’d want you to play.”

“You think that is easy?” Krum’s shoulders are tight. He glances back towards the England bench. Flores has taken this moment to sub out a Chaser and a Beater.

“No, I can’t imagine it would be. But would you rather face a furious Ginny if you didn’t do your best?” Both Viktor and I have that to worry about, although he has the harder lot, which cheers me slightly. Still, Ginny’ll break my leg if I don’t catch the Snitch now.

“No.” Krum scowls. “We are one man less now, thank you to that idiot.”

He’s right; this has given us an edge we badly needed. Bulgaria aren’t allowed to replace a player with a red Howler in championship play.

I hold a hand out. “Seeker against Seeker?” I meet his gaze.

“You are not trying to win her back?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.

I shake my head. “There’s someone else,” I say quietly. “Gin’s all yours. You make her happy.”

Krum sits back on his broom, studying me, then he  takes my hand and shakes roughly. “May best Seeker win,” he says, and he wheels his broom around, flying back to the Bulgarian side.

I look towards the stands. For a moment I’m scared witless, then I remember the sound of the Bludger hitting Gin’s leg.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and grip my broomstick.

I want to win.

***

The hotel bar is packed with drunken England supporters.

“Another round, say I,” shouts a short, rotund wizard with a scraggly white beard and an England flag draped across his shoulders like a cape. He slaps me on the back hard enough to send me forward a foot. “And a bottle of champers for this fine lad and his Seeking skills!”

The motley crowd of wizards around him cheer and look like they’re thinking about hoisting me onto their shoulders. Again. It’s been going on like this for hours. Most of the England team are still drinking and the bar owner seems to have no problem keeping the place open, even though it must be past three in the morning. I think a most of the police are drinking with us, in fact.

I’m still stunned that we won. I’m still stunned that I beat Krum in the sixth hour of play. We won the World Cup. And I caught the Snitch.

Christ. I caught the Snitch. Ron’s probably having a nervous breakdown in London, listening on the wireless in the kitchen. I expect to be woken up by a firecall in a few hours once the reality of it all sinks in.

Viktor even congratulated me in hospital. When the whole team crowded into Gin’s tiny room to share our victory, he was sitting by her bedside, shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on her pale face. He kept the mediwitches from throwing us out for a good half hour so we could drink a small glass of champagne with her. It was the beginning of our celebration.

And theirs, I think. She looked tired but happy, and her hand didn’t leave Viktor’s the entire time we were there. I squeezed her shoulder before I left and when she smiled up at me, I knew she’d be fine. She’s got Viktor to take care of her now. Good man.

The carnival spirit is everywhere. The city is full of merry makers and even a few the Bulgarians have joined in the party, raising glasses in honour of Quidditch, world friendship, and matches that end in copious amounts of alcohol. People are snogging in corners and all-but shagging in the streets. I’ve had more offers than I can count tonight--girls, boys, policemen, police women--but the one person who really matters hasn’t shown a hair of her flawless dark bob.

Or she’s been avoiding me.

I finally collar Zabini, pushing through a throng of gorgeous and grateful admirers. “Tell me where she is.”

He smiles an enormous smile. “Oh Potter, you know she loves it when you beg.”

“Shut up, Zabini, or I’ll sell your pants to the groupies.” A squeal goes up in the crowd. “Merlin knows I have to see them often enough. Now where is she?”

Zabini rolls his eyes. “Private party, Snitch-boy. On an estate in the mountains.”

I stop. I’d been thinking of going to her room again, but was afraid to find her gone. Or not alone.

“Didn’t you get your invitation?” Zabini waves a gold souvenir coin at me, with a winking lion and unicorn.

“No,” I say sharply. “I guess it’s Slytherins only.”

Zabini looks at me for a moment and then reaches a strong hand out, pressing the coin into my palm. “Go.”

I look at him.

He snorts and lifts his glass. “I said, go, Potter. Before the alcohol wears off and I regret my generosity.” He purses his mouth. “I hear the women are gorgeous there.”

My fingers curl around the large coin. “Thanks.” I look down at my hand. “How does it--”

“Honestly, Potter.” Zabini sighs and he pulls his wand from his pocket and taps it sharply against my skin. He smiles, a bright, feral grin.  “Enjoy.”

Before I can answer, I feel the sharp tug of a Portkey pulling me into darkness.

I land on the crushed seashells lining a large open drive. The building beyond can only be described as a castle, stone turrets and all. I can see people and lanterns through the arches of a colonnade.

And then I hear a familiar laugh.

Turning away from the house, I make my way down the path toward the garden and the quiet splash of water against stone. Faeries flit around a small grotto, shimmering in the shadows. The sky above’s just beginning to lighten, and the scent of wild roses hangs heavy in the warm air.

Her back is to me. The dark red dress she’s wearing is cut low, exposing the smooth sweep of her shoulders and the pale curve of her spine. I can see the smattering of freckles below one shoulder blade. She laughs again, and her head falls back, exposing her long, elegant throat. Malfoy sits beside her, and as he leans back, I realise they’re both barefoot, dangling their legs in the warm spring.

Pansy lifts a bottle of champagne to her mouth. I must make a sound, even though I don’t think I can breathe. They both look back at me, and as much as I’d like to melt into the shadows, I don’t. I stand as still as I can, waiting.

“And this is where I say good night, darling,” Malfoy murmurs in Pansy’s ear as he stands. His trousers are rolled up nearly to his knees. “And wish you a lovely one.”

“Draco.” Pansy grabs his arm. “Don’t--”

He leans in and kisses her on the mouth. I’m shocked at the easy intimacy between them. “He’s only a Gryffindor,” he says. “I think you can manage him.” When he pulls away, he reaches for his wool robe lying discarded on the grass. He brushes past me, pausing for just a moment. “Don’t make me hex your balls, Potter. Now that you’ve found them.”

I watch him walk off. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he’s a bit off his nut.”

“He’s a Malfoy.” Pansy drinks from the bottle again. “It’s the inbreeding.” She stands, and I realise then that her dress barely reaches the middle of her thighs. She gives me an amused look. “They’re only legs, Potter.”

I move closer to her. “They’re nice.” She watches me warily. I brush my fingertips against the warm skin of her leg. “Soft.”

“You’re pathetic,” Pansy says, but there’s no bite in her voice. She looks unsettled. Almost nervous.

My fingers slip up to her hip, grazing the smooth red silk of her dress. She doesn’t pull away.  “Why did you run away from me? I’ve been looking for you all evening.”

“Why didn’t you come and find me earlier?” She lifts her pointed chin. Her hair falls across her forehead. She brushes it back. “Too busy at your ex’s bedside?”

There’s a flash of uncertainty in her eyes that disappears quickly into calm coolness. I twist my fingers in her dress. “I think that’s Viktor’s place now.”

“Is it?” It’s not a question and I know it. It’s a request for assurance.

“Yeah. He’s spending the night.” My hand slips around the curve of her arse, and I pull her up against me. She looks steadily at me, refusing to touch me. “But I might have another place.”

An elegantly arched eyebrow quirks at me. “Might you?”

I nod. “There’s this absolute bitch of a Quidditch owner that I know. She’s a maniac for the game, and I hear she has a thing for winning.”

A small smile plays across her lips. “I think I like her.”

I laugh softly. “I’ve been trying to get near her for weeks”

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.” Dark eyes glitter up at me.

“Yeah, but you see, now I’ve won the World Cup.” My fingertips slide across the bare skin of her back, and she shivers.

“Harry,” she whispers.

I kiss her. She tastes sweet and bitter, like roses and cigarettes. Her fingers slip over my shoulders, tangling in my hair as she presses against me. My breath catches, and I hold her more tightly, our mouths wet and warm and open against each other.

For an eternity we kiss, our hands exploring the length of each other’s body, our lips hot against soft skin. She nips my lower lip, then pulls away, breathing heavily. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she says quietly.

“Why not?” I ask, stunned and drowsy with desire.

“How do I know you’ll stay?” Her voice is cool, but I can hear the slight catch in her breath. “You’re going to have a lot of offers after this.”

“How could I go anywhere else?” I grasp her shoulders as gently as I can, willing her to understand. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Pansy Parkinson.”

She looks up at me, her bottom lip between her teeth. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

“Then we make it worth the disaster.”

Pansy laughs. “Reckless, but I like it.” Her hands settle on my hips and she studies me for a long moment. “Okay.”

I reach for the straps of her dress, thumbing the thin strands off of her skin and following the lines of her collarbones with my lips.

She breathes out and I feel her shiver under my mouth.  Slowly I draw her dress lower, letting it slip off her body and puddle at her feet. She stands in front of me in a pair of lacy black knickers and nothing else. I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful.

“Potter,” she says, almost hesitantly, and I cup her breast with one hand, my thumb smoothing across her hard nipple. She sways towards me, catching herself on my arms, and when she pulls me into another kiss, this time it’s brutal. Our teeth scrape across skin, our hands pull and scratch as she tugs my clothing open, pushing my robe from my shoulders and deftly unfastening my trousers. I want her so badly I’m shaking.

And then we’re on the grass together, my England robe crumpled beneath us, our bodies pressed against each other, her fingers tight on my arms as my hand brushes between her thighs. She’s wet already, and when I push aside the sodden lace of her knickers, she gasps and spreads her legs. My finger slips easily inside her.

Pansy breaths out and tightens around me. My cock throbs, and I can smell her, musky and sharp and oh so ready for me. I groan.

“More,” she says, and when she pushes her hips up, I slide another finger inside of her, fucking her slowly as I watch her writhe beneath me. Her breasts are full and pink and I can’t stop myself from leaning in and taking a nipple into my mouth, sucking lightly. Pansy grabs my shoulders, her fingernails digging into my skin.

I slide down her, kissing my way along her belly, and she raises up on one elbow, watching me. My fingers are still inside of her, searching for the spots that make her moan, and when my mouth brushes the heat of her clit, her hips buck up, nearly knocking me backwards.

“Potter,” she says again, and I drag my tongue between her slick folds, tasting her as I fuck her with my fingers. Another moan, and she grabs my wrist, holding my hand still. “Don’t make me come yet.”

I suck her clit, and she swears, her head falling back. A flush rises across her breasts, spreading over her throat. Her thighs fall wide, the skin slick and hot. Her fingers are loose around my wrist, moving with my hand as I push further inside her. I can feel her body tremble and tense.

“Oh God, oh Christ, oh fuck, Potter.”  Her voice rises, and she presses her cunt against my mouth. I flick my tongue across her clit, sucking it gently, and with a cry she shudders against me. I feel her orgasm start deep inside, then spread through her body until she’s shaking uncontrollably.   

“You bastard,” Pansy says breathlessly, and then I find myself on my back, my sweaty t-shirt pushed up beneath my arms. Her mouth is on my skin, teeth grazing my nipple, and I groan and twist beneath her, so close to the edge just from feeling her come.

She pulls away. Her face is pink, her hair messy and irresistible. She shifts and frowns over me, and then her knickers are off and she’s dragging them lightly across my mouth. I bite at the lace, sucking her taste from them until she tosses them aside. “I,” she says, leaning over me to kiss my lips, “am going to fuck the hell out of you now.”

“I’m not going to stop you.” I can barely choke the words out as her hand slips down to push my trousers open, her fingers brushing against the hard length of my prick. I’ve wanted this for weeks. I’ve wanted her for weeks.

She tugs my trousers down my legs, and when her mouth slides over the head of my cock, I nearly lose myself. Her tongue dips beneath my foreskin, and I’m gasping for breath, my heart pounding. It takes everything I have not to grab her and throw her across the grass, entering her in one thrust.

“Careful,” Pansy says with a soft laugh, and she looks up at me, her red lips next to my prick. I could die happy from that sight. She presses her mouth against the base of my cock, sucking lightly, and when I whimper, she drags her tongue along the vein, rolling the tip across my head. “Don’t come until I say so.”

“Christ.”

She smirks at me as she slides up my body, straddling my legs. “Just wait. I’ll make it worth your while.” Her damp curls brush across my prick and I grab her hips, tight enough to leave marks.

“Pansy.” I sound desperate and I know it.

Slowly, agonizingly, she lowers herself onto my thick cock, one hand splayed across my chest for balance. Her eyes flutter closed, and her breathing grows shallow. When she’s settled entirely on me, she stills for a long moment. From a distance I can hear the sounds of the party on the hill above us and the splash of water in the spring. This feels surreal. It feels perfect.

My hands slide to her waist. Her skin is soft beneath my palms, and I stroke tiny circles across it with my thumbs. She looks down at me, and she smiles faintly.

“You look beautiful,” I whisper. Pansy brushes a fingertip across my lips and I catch it with my teeth, flicking my tongue across it. She shivers.

When she moves, it’s exquisite agony. Her hips roll against mine; our bodies press together in a perfect rhythm. My entire body is aching to come and I can scarcely draw a breath, but it’s so worth it just to feel her like this. My skin feels hot and stretched with the effort of prolonging every second.

“Now,” Pansy says, urgently, and she presses down on me, arching her hips, tightening her cunt around my cock. “Now, Harry.”

I shout, my body exploding in a blinding wave of sensation. Pansy rides me through my orgasm, her body arched over me, her tits bouncing with each downward thrust. Then I grab her, rolling her beneath me as I slam into her, groaning and gasping until she writhes beneath me, crying out my name as she comes, her legs wrapped tight around my hips.

We lie silent and sated in the grass, my robe twisted beneath us, our breath slowing.

“You know, Potter,” Pansy says lazily. She stretches under me, rubbing a foot up and down the back of my leg.

“Mmm.” My eyes are closed and I have no desire to let go of the incredible softness of her skin. I pull her against me and shift my hips.

“The grass stains on your robe are going to be a bitch.”

I laugh. “I’ll keep it as a souvenir.”

“Might be worth something someday.” Pansy kisses my throat. “World Cup winner and all.” She reaches for a corner of the robe, pulling it over us. “Complete with celebratory semen stains.”

“You’re incorrigible.” I nip the skin under her jaw.

“Insatiable, I think.” She smoothes the hair back from my forehead. “But I’d rather find a bed for the next time.” Her fingers are cool against my skin. “I’d prefer you to sleep first. You’re going to need your strength.”

I kiss her softly. “Your room then? God knows who Zabini brought back to mine.”

Pansy smiles. “Most likely McBride.” At my surprised look, she sighs. “You really are horribly oblivious, Harry. It’s astounding.”  She pushes my shoulder. “Get off of me, you brute. I’ve got to find my dress.”

I watch her as she slides back into her clothes. She looks amazing, I think as I button up my trousers again and reach for my ruined robe.

Pansy looks back at me, her shoes dangling from her fingers. A small frown creases her brow.

“What?” I ask.

She hesitates, then sighs. “I’m not making a mistake, am I?” She moves closer to me. “Parkinson, Potter; owner, Seeker; scheming Slytherin, idiot Gryffindor...should I go on?”

I catch her hand, pulling her against me. “Does it matter?”

Pansy tilts her head back and purses her mouth. “Maybe. But not mid-shag.”

“Well, then,” I say, my fingers brushing her breast, “we shag. We can worry about the rest later.”

She frowns again, then she nods. “On the bright side, I’m far more likely to destroy your life than you mine.” She looks positively cheerful at that thought. For a moment, I think perhaps I should be very afraid.

I’m not.

Instead, I wrap my arms around her, pressing my lips to her hair. “Life won’t be dull with Pansy Parkinson in my bed, will it?”

Pansy sniffs, haughtily. “It certainly won’t be my fault if it is.”

I breathe in her scent. Musky. Rosy. Magnificent. I could lose myself in her, I realise, and I rather think I like that idea.

She kisses me, a soft brush of lips against mine. “Hotel, Potter.” Her fingers twist through my hair. “I’m finding myself in desperate need of a Gryffindor cock again.”

I laugh. “Whatever milady asks for,” I say, a mocking lilt to my voice, and she thumps the back of my head sharply. I can’t help but grin and kiss her again.

“Less sarcasm, more movement,” she says against my mouth.

Wrapped around each other, we Apparate.