Archive of Our Own

July 6, 2001 kicked off one of the most memorable weekends in the history of tennis. British world class tennis player Tim Henman advanced to the semi-finals at Wimbledon, something that no Englishman besides himself had done since 1970. (He’d advanced twice before in the late '90s, but had been unceremoniously out-turfed and turfed out (pun intended) by the American phenom, Pete Sampras).

But perhaps 2001 could be his year? He was playing against Goran Ivanišević, who was not even seeded in the tournament. A wildcard ranked 125th in the world, Ivanišević was certain to be a pushover, only a small bump in the path of Tim Henman, the man upon whom the hopes and dreams of an entire nation were pinned.

July 6, 2001 was an important day in England for another reason, however. It marked the start of the Third Wizarding War, otherwise known as World War III. But this war was not fought over genocide or cessation or encroachment or oil, as wars often were; and it wasn't only fought across the net on the grassy field of Wimbledon’s hallowed Centre Court.

This war was fought over a single, lightly padded, folding green stadium seat.

Not to denigrate the seat, you understand, Reader– it was a fine seat, as seats go. A lush, rich green, evocative of a certain house in a certain wizarding school in Scotland. Molded plastic back. No arm rests– one does not go to Wimbledon to rest, you see. No cup holders. That would be gauche.

The perfect seat, in fact. Low and directly over the baseline with a fine view of the entire court, the scoreboard, the umpire chair, the players seating, the Royal box– everything. From this seat, the most elite or the luckiest wizards had witnessed Althea Gibson's historic win; John McEnroe’s historic meltdowns; Jana Novotna’s historic tearful sobs on the shoulder of the Duchess of Kent; and a couple of streakers.

For well over one hundred years, through a complex macrame of subterfuge and paperwork, this seat had been reserved for the Ministry of Magic in Wizarding Britain during the entire Wimbledon tournament. Often the seat was taken by the Minister him- or herself, or perhaps the Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot. Occasionally, an underling or department deputy is offered the seat. Rarely, it's left empty, particularly in early rounds or during extreme weather.

This was not to be one of those years. The seat was hotly contested, sought after as it had never been sought after before. As soon as the bracket was announced, entries for a drawing began flooding into the ministry– never mind the fact that no such drawing had even been announced. No, the Minister of Magic had already promised this seat to a very special person.

Hermione Granger had always been a massive tennis fan. Having grown up in London, she'd witnessed the crowds at Wimbledon before, but had always been relegated to the hill (commonly known as Henman Hill, after the aforementioned Henman, due to the fact that massive British crowds stormed the gates of Wimbledon, demanding entry into his matches). When she was younger, her parents had managed to secure a few seats to some early rounds, even a mixed doubles semi-final once.

But now, she was the darling of the Wizarding World, the It Girl, the Golden Goddess of magical folk, and dammit, she wanted this seat for this match. She’d earned it.

Tim Henman had been in two previous semi-final matches– 1998 and 1999. Neither year was good for Hermione’s chances at attendance– in 1998, she split her time between rebuilding Hogwarts and testifying against captured Death Eaters (and for one Death Eater, actually.) In 1999, Hermione was taking an accelerated mastery program at Oxford, and couldn't break away for the match.

She had watched it both years, of course. But the powerful strokes of Pete Sampras had bested Tim Henman both times. Both times, she, like every other British person, stowed away her tiny Union Jack, drained her Wimbledon commemorative teacup, and finished her strawberries and cream, tasting nothing but bitterness.

But 2001 was Henman’s year, and along with it, Hermione's. Minister Shacklebolt had promised her the ticket, and the seat was hers.

There was just one problem: Marielle Calabrisi had taken a sick day.

Marielle Calabrisi was the capable and powerful secretary of the Minister of Magic. She was his right hand woman, organising events, maintaining correspondence, and delegating responsibilities. In short, the office did not run without Marielle.

And that Friday, July 6th, 2001, Marielle had woken up with a tummy ache.

You could blame the tummy ache, of course, for everything that was to follow. Or perhaps the funny welk she ate on Thursday. Or perhaps the fishmonger who smelled the welk on Wednesday and thought ehhh… it's alright for one more day.

Whatever catalyst, the butterfly effect was this: Marielle was out, and Shacklebolt was forced to leave his secretarial matters to Marielle's junior deputy secretary, Charlotte Katzenbaum.

Charlotte was a bit daft, easily distractible, and had one lazy eye. The other eye wasn't that industrious either, come to think of it.

When Hermione sent a memo that morning to Shacklebolt's office to remind him about his promise of the ticket to the Wimbledon semi-final, Charlotte read it with the utmost boredom.

“Yes, yes, Wimbledumb, got it,” she said irritably, ignoring the ringing phone and the chime at the floo behind her. Next to her desk, five other urgent interoffice memos floated, and two Ministry employees stared at her angrily, demanding entry into Shacklebolt's office. She did not have the patience or the skill for this.

She directed one of the people to answer the phone (he did), the other one to fetch her a coffee (he didn't). She silenced the floo and swept the interoffice memos directly into the bin. There, that was better. Finally, she sent the two waiting employees packing, telling them that the minister was out (he wasn't) and to check back later.

She fell with a weary huff into Marielle's seat. It was barely 8:00 am, and she was already exhausted. She wondered if she could still pay her rent if she quit.

“Hello, lovely,” a rich, warm masculine voice said from the door of the office.

Charlotte startled, sitting up and opening her eyes to see the most exquisite, handsome, fucking fit Adonis she had ever seen outside of the pages of Witch Weekly. Dressed in an impeccable white Oxford shirt and dark blue trousers, the man's white blonde hair fell in soft waves across his chiseled features. His piercing silver eyes under one raised eyebrow gazed playfully, adoringly at Charlotte. Under his shirt, she could make out strong, sinewy muscle that stretched across his chest, barely contained by the woven fabric. All this was accentuated by a strappy leather wand holster upon which an Auror badge was attached.

It was Draco Malfoy, and he looked fucking fit.

To complete this vision of perfection, he held two coffee cups in his large hands.

“I had an extra coffee, and thought Marielle might want it, but it looks like you need it more,” he purred, crossing to put the coffee on her desk.

She took a sip: mmmm, rich coffee with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla. Her favourite.

It was, in fact, not her favourite. She was actually mildly allergic to cinnamon, but in that moment, and that office, with that man, it didn't matter.

“What can I do for you, Auror Malfoy?” she said, batting her lashes.

“Well, I'm not one to usually get straight to the point, but I heard a little rumor that the minister had an extra seat for today's match over at Wimbledon. Any chance I could get that from you?”

It wasn't rumor; his father had in fact used the ministry seat often over the years. He'd actually become passing acquaintances with Bjorn Borg.

But the name Malfoy no longer carried the same sway as it once did with the Minister of Magic, so now he was forced to grovel like a common proletariat.

But no one said he couldn't do it with a little bit of flirtation. And that, frankly, was what he was best at. Yes, yes, the Auror thing too, of course. But the thing that really set Draco Malfoy apart from the rank and file was his silver tongue. And gods, did he know how to use it!

To talk with, Reader! What other purpose does a tongue serve? Get your mind out of the gutter!

Just kidding, his tongue was rather good at that, too. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

This morning, his tongue's sole purpose was smooth talking its way into that hallowed seat in Centre Court of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. And the road to that seat ran directly through this office.

Charlotte hesitated, glancing down at Marielle's desk. There was the ticket, ready to be given to Hermione Granger, 1/3 of the savior trio of the Wizarding World. But here in front of her was every bodice-ripping romance novel cover model, come to life. For Charlotte, the decision was easy. She picked up the ticket, held it outstretched in her hand… then hesitated.

“Wait. Let me just check on one thing.”

Charlotte turned, blocking his view with her body. She took her wand from her pocket, whispering “Geminio!” as she tapped the ticket. Suddenly, there were two tickets. Problem solved! Tennis was so boring, the chances of every seat being filled in the stadium today was low. Surely, one of them could just find an empty seat. They'd work it out– Miss Granger had testified on Auror Malfoy's behalf, and they'd finished Hogwarts together. Malfoy worked with Harry Potter, Hermione Granger's best friend. Surely they were also friends?

Surely, they were not.

The seats were nearly filled but that was no concern for Hermione, who had gotten there early enough to walk around the grounds, enjoy her first strawberries and cream, and read the entire program front to back, twice.

With only thirty minutes until warm ups, she pushed through the rowdy Croats and even rowdier Brits to find her seat.

“Section 34, row J… J… seat 17. Pardon me, excuse me sir,” she pushed past seats 1 to 16, looking forward to the blessed emptiness of seat 17.

Finally, after a final push past a portly man with a walrus mustache, she arrived at the seat– only to find it occupied.

He'd changed into a mint green polo shirt and soft grey trousers that hugged him in all the right places. His hair was carefully mussed. His shoes, ordinarily polished dragon hide boots, were now casual white loafers. Still fucking fit.

“What are you doing here, Granger?”

“That's what I should be asking you, Malfoy. Get out of my seat!”

“This is my seat. Here's the ticket.” He raised one eyebrow at her, challengingly.

“I have my ticket right here as well,” she said, withdrawing it from the pocket of her pink sheath dress.

He barely glanced at it before looking back at her. “I don't know what to tell you, but I'm not leaving. I've been looking forward to seeing Henman make it into a final for years.”

“Like hell you have,” she hissed.

“It's true. Not as though I could have come during his 98 match, is it?”

Hermione remained tight lipped– Lucius Malfoy's trial had run the same week in 1998. Then she huffed.

“Well, nothing was stopping you from coming to his '99 match!”

“Just Auror training, Granger, ever hear of it?”

“Bugger off, Draco Malfoy!”

“You bugger off, Hermione Granger, I'm staying put!”

“Miss? Please take your seat,” the usher called from the aisle.

“I'm trying,” she said through gritted teeth. She reached in a hidden pocket, intending to draw out her wand, but found her hand gripped in his.

“What are you doing?” He hissed.

“Enlarging the seat,” she said as though explaining something to a small child.

“We're in the middle of a muggle crowd, Granger. I know you have an enormous brain, please use it.”

Her mouth thinned to a straight line. How was this infuriating prat so right? They were surrounded by 14,000 muggles.

“Miss! Your seat, if you please.” The usher's tone was far less polite. The crowd applauded as Henman and Ivanišević entered the court.

She was just looking up to reply– intending to ask the gentleman to toss Malfoy out so that she could sit– when a pair of large hands grabbed her by the hips, turned her swiftly to face the tennis court, then pulled her down roughly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she whispered angrily.

“I'm trying to avoid you making a scene so that we both get kicked out of here, Granger.”

“Someone will see that there are two people in one seat, Malfoy. We're going to get kicked out regardless!” She struggled against his hard grip that held her hips and haunches in place, ignoring the traitorously appealing sensations this position provided.

“Stop fucking struggling, your bony arse is digging into me. I, unlike you, have a bit more panache and have already cast a notice-me-not charm on myself.”

“Oh, you couldn't possibly talk to a muggle, is that it?”

“No, that's not it,” He ground out quietly, finally relaxing his grip on her sides but not removing his hands. “I was garnering, let's say, too much attention. From a certain subset of the crowd.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked in genuine confusion. She looked over her shoulder, raising a brow at him.

“There were, ah… a few women… those three in front of us, you see the one in the red polka dots? She was the ringleader. They were… ogling me.”

Hermione couldn't help it. She guffawed, shifting a bit on his lap.

He tightened his grip on her hips again. “Merlin, you are… heavy,” he grumbled, his voice sounding strained.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she said, pursing her lips. Much to her annoyance, he did seem to be right about the women. Red polka dot dress and her friends were craning their necks to look back, questioning, searching. They whispered and giggled to one another. One fanned herself and mimed passing out whilst the other held her hands about 9 inches or so apart and collapsed into tearful giggles.

But with the notice-me-not charm in place, Draco was no longer noticeable to them, which suited him just fine. It also conveniently meant that the usher only saw one person seated in Section 34 Row J Seat 17.

Hermione sighed loudly and shifted her weight a bit on his legs. Granted, he did have nice legs. She could feel his thick thighs beneath her own, and she shifted uncomfortably again. Broom thighs, Parvati and Lavender always called them.

“Granger, I'm begging you, please stop moving so much.”

"Sorry about my heaviness and my bony arse,” she said a bit snarkily, shifting twice more for good measure.

He only hummed in reply. In truth, her arse wasn't really bony, and she wasn't heavy. But there was no way that Draco Malfoy was going to get a hard on in the middle of a crowd of muggles whilst holding Hermione Granger in his lap. He had written her and everyone else he had wronged during the war a very heartfelt and earnest apology letter 2 years ago. He didn't want to have to send another one because of this incident.

Besides, he'd had enough of those kinds of fantasies about her during his years at Hogwarts to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

“So why are you even here, Malfoy? Usually, the pretty people just come here to be seen, but you don't want that?”

You think I'm pretty?” He said rakishly from behind her.

“Shut up, prat,” she said, narrowing her eyes and keeping her reddening face decidedly forward.

“Miss? Would you mind not talking to yourself so much when the match starts?” The portly man asked imperiously.

“Oh! I'm incredibly sorry, I just- Yes, I'll stop.”

“Well, this is delightful. A whole afternoon in which Hermione Granger has to sit in my lap and be quiet?” he whispered in her ear.

Yep, definitely the stuff of fantasies. Although, if he were being honest with himself, he rather enjoyed listening to her as well.

In answer, she shifted more vigorously, grinding herself down onto him. Oh, this would not do. Draco's eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to calm down, but it was a losing battle. One, two, three more shifts of her weight against his groin, and suddenly there was a whole new problem between them.

She stilled.

“What is that?” she whispered without moving her lips.

“I'm not explaining basic human anatomy to you, Granger,” he said, beads of sweat gathering on his temples.

“I know what it is, Malfoy. I suppose the better question is, why is that?”

“I told you not to shift around so much, witch.”

For the next several minutes, she tried to stay still, even as things got decidedly worse– and by worse, Reader, I mean bigger– between them. She was unable to stay perfectly still, however, and with each minute shift of her arse, he groaned softly. Afraid of rebuke from the man next to them, however, she stayed silent.

“It's not going away, Granger. Hold on–”

Her eyes widened, as she briefly misinterpreted the suggestion of holding on in an entirely different way.

He produced his wand, casting first a muffliato on them both, then a disillusionment spell on himself. She breathed a sigh of relief finally able to speak.

“Gods, Malfoy, get a grip,” she grumbled.

“Funny enough, I'm about to go to the loo and do just that, Granger. Care to join me?” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted her nimbly, standing her up. People to either side of her looked at her dubiously. The match was about to start.

Draco passed by, invisible and unnoticed by them, and she sat again. “Just needed to stretch my legs,” she said in explanation. “Medical condition.”

She sat, and noticed the appreciative glance from the attractive man to her left in seat 18.

“What kind of medical condition do you have? Extreme beauty?”

She giggled and he leaned in to her.

“Sometimes I get all tight, you know?” She batted her lashes at him. Malfoy's not the only one who gets attention, she thought with satisfaction.

She felt the thick, invisible blanket of a fresh muffliato being cast.

“Who's this wanker?”

It was Malfoy's voice from somewhere in front of her. Hermione had been flirting between points for the last 10 minutes with Joshua, the dark haired American investment banker next to her.

“Just my seat mate. You know the type. 6’ 4”, handsome, trust fund?”

“I know the type because I am the type, Granger. Stand up so I can sit down.”

“Just sit in my lap,” she said primly.

“Granger, no offense, but I will crush you.”

She hated that she knew it was true. She got up, feeling the cool brush of his trouser leg behind her calves as he sat.

“More extreme beauty cramps?” Joshua said impishly.

She smiled, then her expression changed to one of surprise as a pair of hands roughly grabbed her from behind and yanked her down onto a set of tree trunk thighs again.

She tried to ignore Draco for a while, but finally, she had to speak.

“Can you end your disillusionment? It's unnerving, not knowing where you are.”

His voice spoke from right next to her ear. “In a moment, I'm just looking down your dress.”

“Fuck, Malfoy!” She said, clutching at her neckline.

“Fine.”

The underside of her legs heated, and she was able to see him again.

“What took you so long in the loo?”

“I got a lot of new material for my bank, Granger. My Gringotts vault isn't the only one that's full, you know.”

“You're disgusting.”

“When I want to be.”

The crowd grew subdued very quickly, as Ivanišević took the first game without Henman scoring a point, then held serve. Henman managed to rally a bit, but ultimately lost the first set 7 to 5, much to the crowds chagrin.

“He's letting Ivanišević outplay him at the serve. Henman can't get a break point,” Draco murmured from behind her.

“Well, Ivanišević does hold several records for aces. You know he had the most at 1,477 in a single season in 1996?”

“Everyone knows that, Granger. He broke Pete Sampras’s record from 1993, Sampras was the first professional player with more than a thousand aces in a single season.”

“Hmm. When did you get so knowledgeable about tennis, Malfoy?”

“Well, you know, we have four courts at home. One clay, two hard courts, and one grass.”

“Really? I must have missed them a few years ago. I was distracted, you see, some people were trying to kill me. You know how it was.”

“I do know how it was,” He said, his tone faltering. “And I'm sorry, again.”

“I know. You've said so before.”

And he had. In addition to the lengthy letter, he has sought her out after his trial to express his gratitude and remorse, and she knew it was truthful. He didn't deserve to be continually ostracised and punished for decisions made as a child. “So… four courts?”

“Yes. If you ever want to come and play, just give me a bit of a warning first. The peacocks like to shit all over the grass court, the elves need time to pick it all up if we're going to go out and play on it.”

She pinched his leg hard and he grabbed her hands, laughing, not letting go right away.

“I'm joking, Granger. I'm perfectly capable of vanishing albino peacock poo all on my own.”

Hermione tried to ignore the zing of electricity that shot up her arm at his touch.

“It's so muggy out here,” Hermione moaned. “My dress is practically sticking to me.”

“Your dress is practically sticking to me as well,” Draco said drolly.

“Any chance you'd like to go and get me something to drink?”

“Am I your date now?” Draco raised an eyebrow and smirked at her.

“No, prat. I just thought your legs might be tired from holding me up, considering how heavy and bony I am. I thought you could use a walkabout.”

“I'm not giving up this seat, Granger.”

“How did you even get it? I spoke to Kingsley about it months ago.”

“Really? Hmm. I just went in this morning, brought the secretary who's filling in for Marielle a coffee. Turned on the charm, you know.”

“I've never thought of you as charming, Draco.”

At that, she inhaled quickly and snapped her lips together.

“Draco, is it? Are we on a first name basis now, considering our naughty bits are practically next door neighbors right now?”

“Ugh!” She flushed, and stood. She needed a break to get her head back on straight. “They're tied at 3 all, no one is breaking serve anytime soon. I'm going to get something to eat.”

She turned to Joshua, canceling the muffliato. “Would you care to come with? I'm just going to find something to nosh on.”

Joshua jumped to his feet, holding out his arm for Hermione to take.

Draco's jaw clenched. As the two disappeared, He aimed a quick spell at the man. “Fluxus ventris!”

Then with an almost regretful smile on his face, he turned back to the match.

“What did you do?” Hermione's hair was practically crackling with anger. The portly man next to Draco looked momentarily frightened, assuming she was talking to him.

“What are you on about?” Draco adopted an air of complete innocence and recast the silencing charm.

“Joshua nearly shat his pants whilst we were in the queue for berries and cream!”

“Hmm. There's a bit of that going round, or so I heard. Did he by chance eat a funny welk?”

She huffed and stood in front of him holding her dish of succulent red berries and cool cream. She gestured silently to Joshua's vacant seat.

“That's not my seat, Granger.”

“Yes, but it's empty now.”

“Then take it.”

“I don't want it. I want the one you're sitting in. It's the superior seat,” she said, crossing her arms under her breasts.

“It's the superior seat because I'm in it, Granger,” he smirked at her.

“Miss? Your seat!” The woman in Row K behind them said, annoyed.

Hermione turned, sat down hard in seat 17, and ground her arse into his crotch.

“Ooh, you know what that does to me, you slutty minx,” he said in a very low voice that sent a wide streak of white hot electricity into her core. Facing forward out of his sight, her eyes widened. That sensation was… unexpected.

“Sod off,” she mumbled. “Here– since you're acting as my seat cushion, you might as well be my food holder, too.”

“Only if you share.”

“Don't eat my strawberries, Malfoy,” she warned.

“All right, I won't eat them. But can I lick the cream off your berries, Hermione?” He asked with a knowing smirk.

This pointy little shit! She thought. He's doing this on purpose. He knows it's flustering me and he's enjoying it.

“Only if you're sure you can handle my berries, Draco,” she said seductively. “They're rather… juicy.” She was certain this would knock him back to the reality of who he was actually talking to.

Rather than a smart or angry reaction from him, though, she was surprised when Draco flushed pink.

“Wait a minute,” he said after a beat, refocusing the conversation. “You said your boy toy started feeling sick whilst you were in the queue for this. But you stayed in the queue and got it anyway?”

“Of course! Do you think I'm going to skip having strawberries and cream just because some bloke got sick?”

They turned back to the match.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

“Each of them broke the other, it's 4-4 in the second.”

“Damn! I shouldn't have left!”

Privately, he agreed with her– she shouldn't have left. As Henman finally broke Ivanišević in the second set tie break, Draco turned over the phrase “some bloke” in his mind.

Not that he had been jealous of Joshua, understand, Reader.

“Gods, these berries are delicious! And what a smashing deal– this one little dish of them was deceptively big,” she said in wonder.

“You know I've been multiplying them since you started, right?”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a bit silly. “Well, I'm full. Did you want the rest?”

“You'll have to feed them to me, Granger,” he murmured into her hair.

She barked out a shrill laugh before getting herself back under control. “What are you faffing on about, Malfoy?”

Hmm, back to Malfoy, he thought. That wouldn't do. “I'm holding this dish with one hand, and my other hand is all the way on the other side of you. I can't reach around you and put your berries all the way in my mouth by myself.”

She raised a brow. “You seemed to have no problem with solo activities earlier, Malfoy.”

“I did invite you along,” he said lightly, his other hand coming to rest on her hip.

She sighed deeply as though annoyed but made no move to remove the offending hand.

“Fine. Open up.”

Dutifully, he opened his mouth, staring directly in her eyes.

She swirled a ripe strawberry through the cream, then placed it just in front of his mouth. He inclined his head towards it, reaching his lips and tongue to the sweet red fruit, lasciviously wrapping his lips around it and sucking, moaning a bit, all whilst looking her in the eye.

“Stop it,” she said, both to him and to her own traitorous body, which had just soaked her knickers in a matter of seconds.

“No, I don't think I will,” he said, challenging her.

She swallowed hard, flushing pink, and turned back to the match where the third set was just underway.

“Merlin! This is unbelievable, Granger! He's doing it, he's actually doing it!” Draco screamed, jumping up and cheering with the rest of the delirious crowd. Somehow, after two hard fought nail biting sets, Henman was up 5-0 in the third set over Ivanišević. He was about to be up 2 sets to one, only one game and one set away from being in the finals at Wimbledon.

The crowd couldn't be contained. These were not the staid All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club fans of yore, Reader– these were the pub brawling hooligans featured on the evening news, the raucous people your parents warned you against. There were chants, songs about Ivanišević’s grandmother, and bare chests.

“I can't believe it! I can't believe it, this is amazing!” Hermione screamed back.

Neither could be sure who moved first, but in a matter of a second, they were jumping with their arms around each other.

After a moment, the voice of the umpire brought them crashing back to reality. “Ladies and gentlemen, please settle. Your seats, thank you.”

They pulled apart, arms still around each other, eyes wide at how they found themselves wrapped up together. Draco's eyes dropped to her lips, which were parted in breathless excitement. Her fingers reflexively tightened on the muscles in his back.

Then the spell was broken. Clothes and hair were hastily smoothed, and Draco took Joshua's seat, much to Hermione's relief and dismay.

Henman won the third set, 6 to 0. The entire set was a whirlwind fourteen and a half minutes. Several of the games had been won to love, something nearly unheard of at this level of tennis.

Hermione hardly took any of that in, though. What was happening here today? She had just spent all afternoon sitting in Draco Malfoy's lap, talking and joking, feeding him strawberries, for Merlin's sake. What was she doing? What was he doing?

The rain clouds looked far more ominous as the fourth set got underway. Hermione watched them gathering. It made her a bit apprehensive, but also– excited, if she were being honest. If the rain grew heavy enough, officials would suspend play until tomorrow.

They could spend time together tomorrow, too.

Hermione hated the tingle that thought sent up her spine. Merlin, what the hell was happening to her?

Draco felt a raindrop, but the clouds were moving past them. Hmm. If they delayed for rain, they wouldn't resume until tomorrow. He wondered what other pretty summer dresses Hermione had.

He'd never done weather charms, but no time like the present to give it a shot. His notice-me-not was still in place for muggles, but he knew Hermione would catch everything out of the corner of her eye. Feigning a stretch, He pointed his wand at the closest cloud and whispered, “Pluvius Maxima.”

Plucking up her determination and figuring, why not? Today was fun, tomorrow could be too, Hermione reached into her pocket, grasping her wand hilt and nonverbally casting, Pluvius Maxima.

The double spell hit the clouds overhead, and rain began to soak everything and everyone. Tarp runners raced to pull the cover over the grassy court as the sudden torrent fell.

“Well, looks like that's that,” said Draco, trying to keep his voice neutral. The weather charm had worked. “Your place or mine?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, tamping down the urge to smile. Draco noticed that as her dress got wetter, it became transparent. He cast a subtle nonverbal notice-me-not charm on the dress so that she wouldn't draw any more stares than usual. There. Now the view was only for him.

“I think they're about to announce the schedule for tomorrow, Granger. The official is approaching the umpire chair.”

“What?” Hermione was distracted by the mint green polo shirt he wore. As the rains fell, it clung tighter and tighter to his chest, which rose and fell delightfully with his breaths. It stirred all kinds of feelings low in her belly, and she crossed her legs to provide a bit of friction at the sudden pounding pulse between her legs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this match will resume tomorrow at 11 o’clock in the morning. Thank you.”

The tumultuous crowd roared their annoyed disapproval (or perhaps their drunken delight, the cheer for both sounded the same).

“How are you getting home?” He asked.

“Er– I guess I'll apparate,” she answered, flustered.

“Can I walk you somewhere private?” Their eyes met, and her copper ones flashed at his silver. “To apparate, I mean, Granger. Unless you prefer to break the statute of secrecy right here and now and have me arrest you. I can even conjure some muggle handcuffs, if you'd like.”

She set her jaw, thankful that Malfoy wasn't very adept at legilimency. His offer did sound a bit intriguing, if she were being entirely honest with herself.

“Come on, let's go.” She stood up, taking note of the sheerness of her dress for the first time. “Bollocks, you can see right through this dress.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed.”

They walked side by side, the crowd occasionally jostling them together as it moved en masse to the exits. At one point, Hermione was nearly plowed over by a group of about eight rowdy hooligans, all cheering and yelling for Henman. Draco put his left arm around her waist and pulled her close, keeping his wand hand ready.

Hermione didn't trust herself to speak in order to thank him. The feel of his warm, wet body pressed against her side was electrifying.

They reached a deserted pizza stall, ducking behind it quickly.

“I suppose you plan to park your arse in my seat again tomorrow,” she said as they stood, preparing to leave. Draco conjured a small umbrella, forcing her to move a bit closer. Draco smiled as she stepped towards him. Oldest trick in the book.

“Don't pretend like you're not going to fantasise about my arse all night, Hermione.”

She took a deep breath, and the now-sheer front of the pink sheath dress rubbed delightfully against his mint green polo. Her cheeks were the same pink.

“I'll take that as a yes?” she asked primly.

“Feel free to take everything I say as a yes,” He answered, lifting a hand to touch one damp curl. “Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow.”

With that, Hermione disapparated in a swirl of pink. Draco followed suit immediately. He hadn't gone to the loo earlier for a wank, regardless of what he'd told Granger. He was not quite as bad off as he had been at 14, at least. But there was no putting it off now. The wet see-through pink dress has revealed a lacy white bra pushing up the swell of her creamy breasts deliciously. That image was definitely going into his inner vault, he smiled to himself.

The next morning at 10:15, Draco arrived at Section 34, Row J, seat 17, to find Hermione in another lovely summer dress, baby blue this time. To his disappointment, she’d already magically enlarged the seat.

“I thought you’d see better if you didn't have me on your lap.”

“Your hair isn't that much of a fright, Granger. But I appreciate it.”

She was a bit disappointed. She had hoped he would object to the desecration of an institution, demanding that she set right the alterations she'd made.

He sat next to her. “Bit cozy, yeah?”

“Do you need more room? I can–”

“No! It's perfect. I– don't mind.”

Hermione was delighted to see a light pink of Draco's cheeks at this pronouncement. She realised everything she'd missed yesterday– namely, these little tells that he gave when he was flustered. A thrill ran up her spine that she had the ability to fluster him, and made a mental note to do it again as soon as possible.

The fourth set resumed, and with it Ivanišević’s fighting spirit that had taken an early exit in the third set. He and Henman were evenly matched, neither man losing a service game for a time.

Joshua had not returned today, possibly still fighting off the aftereffects of Draco's diarrhea curse. Part of him felt bad for that. Not the parts pressed up against Hermione's thigh, mind you, Reader. Those parts felt fine with it.

“Henman's struggling a bit more today,” Hermione said with a bit of regret. Perhaps he could've finished off the match of she hadn't stirred up the rain clouds.

“True. But what's done is done,” Draco said cryptically, not wanting her to dwell on it and possibly realise that he'd been responsible for bringing the rains. “So. What are you doing after this?”

“Er– Flourish and Blotts.”

“Of course,” he answered readily.

“AND–” she interjected, inventing wildly, “I thought I might go out tonight.”

“What, is there a lecture series on creature rights somewhere, Granger?”

“No, Malfoy, I meant to a night club or pub or something.” Nevermind that Parvati was constantly asking her to go out and she was constantly begging off and turning down her offers. Malfoy didn't need to know that.

“Back to calling me Malfoy?”

“You called me Granger earlier!”

“That's because you're Granger,” he murmured warmly, then groaned to himself. Even he could hear the tinge of longing in his tone. He might as well have said, “that's because you're beautiful.”

He coughed to distract from the awkwardness. Thankfully, a particularly spectacular shot from Henman had the crowd on their feet, cheering. In the melee, he found his arm around her waist and was mildly shocked to find hers around his.

“Hot out, isn't it?” he said briskly.

“A bit,” she countered, equally surprised by their near hug.

A very close call went against Henman in the 10th game of the set, tied 5-all, and the crowd was beginning to rumble.

“I don't think the All England club is used to this type of… spectator,” Draco drawled as one especially irate bloke whipped his shirt off and twirled it vigorously over his head, spilling half his drink on the fascinator of the well-heeled woman in front of him.

Hermione very nearly took offense to this comment, seeing as Draco had once looked down on her as being lesser than him. But as she opened her mouth, two women in mini-dresses just below them pulled down their tops, flashing their breasts at the British player, who turned away, shocked.

“It's not such a bad thing, though,” Hermione began. “Well, that kind of is,” she said, gesturing to the women, “but it's nice to see the sport of tennis having appeal to the masses.”

“Hmm. Before you know it, the house elves will have formed a league. Little tiny racquets and very low nets.”

She laughed, and Draco found that he enjoyed the sound of it.

He continued, “so, you're going out tonight. Going anywhere special? Meeting anyone?” He spoke lightly, but his eyes shifted to her searchingly.

“I thought I might see if Joshua wanted to join, but it looks like he's out.” She smiled coyly.

“I can take his place. If you're looking for the company, that is.”

“Oh. Er– sure, why not?” She tried for an air of nonchalance. She failed.

Merlin, if she was going out tonight, she needed a dress. And nail polish. And a crowd. Possibly a haircut. Definitely some help with her makeup.

Yet another tie-break. Somehow, despite the crowd's overwhelming support of Henman, he managed to lose the set to Ivanišević. The crowd was getting mutinous. The players were tied 2 sets all.

During the set change, Hermione turned to him. “Pimm’s cup?”

“What's that?”

“A Pimm's cup? It's a drink with champagne and lemonade and fruit. You should try one. You'll like it.”

“Lead the way,” he said, standing and gesturing her to the aisle. As they passed in front of the other fans in Row J, he placed his hand at the small of her back, sending little sparks up her spine.

The Pimm's cups were pronounced delicious by Draco, who enjoyed three very quickly.

“Are you sure you shouldn't slow down?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Is just juice, Granger,” he said dismissively, waving a hand in a very carefree, decidedly un-Malfoy way. His hair was falling into his eyes, and his cheeks were back to pink.

“It's not just juice, Draco. Didn't you hear me when I told you it had champagne in it?”

“Mmm. Draco. I like when you say my name,” he said, a slow grin spreading on his face.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, you're just blurry,” he said, grinning.

“Did they put something in yours?” She asked doubtfully, picking up his cup and sniffing it. It smelled much stronger than her own.

“Jus the use’zooall– yew-zol– the normal stuff, Hermione. I wanted extra strawberries so I asked for doubles.”

“That means extra champagne, Draco, not extra berries,” she admonished. “And how is it you can't say usual but you can say Hermione?”

“I say it a lot in my head,” he said. Then he slapped himself across the face. “Don't think I’s s’posed to say that.”

She giggled.

“I like your laugh,” he said before he could stop himself.

Maybe she needed a new dress and new lingerie, she thought.

Back at their enlarged seat, Hermione watched the match and Draco watched Hermione.

“How do you make it… curl like this?” he pulled on one curl, watching it spiral down, then spring back up.

“Er… nature?” She answered uncertainly. It hadn't been very many years since this same boy was teasing her mercilessly for this same hair.

“I've always liked it,” he said, bringing his fourth Pimm's to his lips and drinking thirstily.

“When did you buy another one of those?”

“I jus keep refilling this one. Shh. I don't think Hermione noticed,” he said, winking at her.

“I'm Hermione, you prat,” she said lightly.

“Yeah, you are. I’s jus saying I liked your hair. Back in school,” he continued, picking up a different coil from her hair. “Iss bouncy.”

“No one liked my hair in school,” she scolded lightly, removing the lock of hair from his fingers. “You made fun of it the most out of anyone.”

“I looked at it the most out of anyone.” He smiled, then frowned. “I'm not sure, but I think there’s alcohol in that drink, H’mione.”

“You think, perhaps?” She smiled wryly.

“Yeah.”

The crowd cheered and shrieked around them. Henman was holding serve in the fifth– they could smell victory in the air.

But what was really in the air was rain.

Only a short time later, midway through the fifth game of the fifth and final set, play was suspended once again until the next day.

Hermione turned to Draco, biting her lip. She felt somehow responsible for getting him so positively blotto, having suggested a Pimm's cup to begin with. Now, she felt responsible for getting him home safely. But the idea of going to Malfoy Manor was more than slightly repugnant to her, considering her last visit there.

She turned to bring up the subject with him, but he answered it for her first. “I'm na sure I should be apparating by m’self. Any way you could get me to the janitorial closet of the Tesco Ess’press in St. John's Wood?”

She furrowed her brow, puzzled. “Don't you live at the Manor anymore?”

“The Manor?” It was his turn to draw his eyebrows together. “Merlin's tits, no. I leff there right after you did.”

“What?”

“You an’ Potter an’ th’others. After you escaped, ever’ one at the Manor was… punished. As soon as– Volde’mort leff the next day, I packed up an’ went back to Hogwarts before the Easter hols ended. And then after the war and the final battle, I just… didn't want to go back. Too many neg’tive memories.”

“You moved out?”

“No. I never went back. I didn’ wanna ever be there again.”

“I thought you invited me over for tennis? Your four courts with the albino peacock poo?”

“I’s jus tryin to spend time with you.” Draco's eyes widened comically. “I gotta shut up.”

She smiled, but the gravity of what he was saying hit her. Draco had been so distraught by the events at his ancestral home, Malfoy Manor, that he left and never returned, even now, years later.

She looked in his eyes, noting the open expression, the vulnerability there. His defenses were down, his usual guarded facade vanished.

“You said the closet at the Tesco Express in St Johns Wood?”

“Shh. Be quiet, Granger. My downstairs neighbor is ‘bout 200 years old an’ likes to spy on me. Reports ev’rything to the building man’ger. I think she's got the hots for me.” Draco's dopey grin was infectious at this pronouncement.

“I'm certain she does. It couldn't possibly be you traipsing loudly up and down the stairwell with a different woman every night.”

“Not sure wha’ kind of life you think I lead, Granger, but it isn't tha’ one,” Draco hiccoughed. “This me.”

“Merlin, I hope you have some sober up potion,” she mumbled. Not that she wasn't enjoying every one of these little confessions of Draco's. But she knew he would be upset with himself for revealing a lot of this. It was well known and well documented how much he valued his privacy. Skeeter and plenty of others had been trying to get a sit down interview with him for years, but he always rebuked them.

“Can you help me take off my shoes?” He asked just inside the door. He collapsed onto the sofa, face down.

“Of course,” she crossed to him, pointing her wand to untie them and remove them from his feet, revealing purple and green argyle socks.

“Can you help me take off my clothes?” He asked next.

“No.”

“Can I help you take off your clothes?”

“No.”

“H’mione, You're not makin’ this se– se– fucktion– duction– very easy.” He groaned and rolled over to lie on his back, flinging one arm over his eyes. Then he tried the word again, slowly. “Seduction. Tha’s a hard word.”

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. “Was that what this was, this whole thing? A seduction?”

“Well, it started out as a tenn’s match. But when I saw you yesterday, yeah, I decided to go th’ seduction route.”

“Why?” she asked, surprised and bewildered.

“‘Cause I've always liked you, and i’ seemed like ‘s good a way ‘s any. Maybe out ‘n th’ muggle world, you’d see me diff’rntly.”

“You always liked me?”

“Yeah,” He answered, closing his eyes. “I know I fucked it all up years ‘go, though, couldn't tell y’then. ‘S pro’bly too late now.”

“It's not.”

He uncovered his eyes, sitting up a bit to look at her. “Th’ top shelf o’ my refrig’rator. Kitchen's through there. Green vial.”

She moved silently through the expansive flat, leaving behind the formal sitting room and finding a more comfortable open den and kitchen space. It was furnished with a mixture of magical and muggle items, surprising her. She had assumed that even if he lived alone now, no longer at the Manor, his flat would still look like the home of a rich pure blood aristocrat. Except for the obviously expensive decor and appliances, this could be her home, with its blend of both muggle and magical worlds.

She found the vial labeled Sober Up and brought it back to him.

“Wanna take this so I can remember wha’ happens here tonigh’.”

Liquid heat pooled in her belly at the implication of his words.

He sat up and drank it in one, recorking the tiny vial and settling it on the low table in front of the sofa. After a few seconds, he spoke.

“Tell me again. Tell me it's not too late,” he said in a low voice, his clear gray eyes looking up at her from his sitting position, words spoken perfectly. His entire body was tensed, a jaguar waiting to pounce.

“It's not too late,” she said quietly, and in a moment, he had crossed the room to her in two swift strides. He stood toe to toe with her, his hands poised just above her forearms, afraid to touch her until he could be sure.

“You'll have me? Not just tonight, but…?”

She inhaled sharply, her pupils blown wide with want at his request.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good,” he exhaled, his jaw tightening. “Because if you'll let me, I'll keep you forever.”

He took her arms then, pulling them around him, running his own hands up them to her shoulders, fingers tangling in her hair. He tugged lightly, and she whined as his mouth met hers. His kiss was slow and longing, a nearly decade-long fantasy fulfilled for them both.

Hermione could feel his body, his magic pressed up against hers. Draco's chest rubbed deliciously against her breasts, igniting a storm of arousal within her. He groaned then, and began running his large hands down her back, gripping her arse.

“Gods, I've wanted to touch you like this for so long,” he murmured against her ear, tickling every nerve ending in her body. “You used to drive me crazy in school, those fucking sugar quills and your muggle clothes at weekends.”

“Really?” Hermione was a bit gobsmacked. Of course she'd noticed how fit Draco was when they were younger. Nearly every girl in school agreed on that. But his attitude towards blood supremacy had made him off limits on every way. “I thought you hated me.”

“Never.” He nibbled small love bites into her neck. “I was so jealous of Weasley and Potter, so afraid you'd figure it out– gods, the stupid ways I'd try to get your attention– trying to rile you up in class. Those ridiculous buttons– dressing up like a damned dementor, for Salazar's sake–”

He moved back to her mouth, moaning into her with such desire, it was all she could do to not climb him like a tree. As it was, her leg rose of its own volition and wrapped around his thigh. Broom thighs, indeed, she thought, and giggled.

“What?”

“Just thinking about how fit I always thought you were,” she said.

“No!”

“I did! Even when you were still slicking down your hair years ago!”

“Oh gods, not then!”

“We were all walking hair disasters at some point. Remember that crazy hair that Harry had during the Triwizard tournament?”

They laughed together for a moment, then stopped, looking into each other's eyes.

“But enough about other wizards,” she said, brushing her hands through his hair. “What were you asking me earlier, about helping you get your clothes off?”

The corridor to his bedroom was strewn with their discarded clothes, and she pushed him onto the bed, taking in the hard planes of his chest, abs, and thighs as he relaxed under the weight of her gaze. Only the tightest pair of dark red boxer briefs hugged his arse and his generously sized cock, which was straining against the thin fabric.

He pushed himself further up the bed and she followed, crawling up between his long, powerfully built legs. She ran a fingernail lightly over the pants, barely rubbing his cock. He whined, bucking slightly.

“Did you wear these Gryffindor red briefs for me?”

“Do you like them?”

“I do. But I think I'll like what's in them more.”

He lifted his hips as she pulled them slowly down, the fabric stretching taut over his muscular thighs. His cock, no longer bound by the silky pants, strained up to her, and she felt her own thighs clench unbearably. Her mouth watered at the sight of him, so perfect and long, thick but not too thick, head shining with precum. She lowered her mouth to him, opening wide to take him in. A hiss and a growl came from him at the feel of her warm, sucking mouth.

She reveled in the sight of him, chest wide as he raised up on his elbows to see her better, abs tight with the sensations she was sending throughout his body. His head was thrown back in ecstasy, and she could see the wonder and awe on his face, even with his eyes screwed shut.

The smell of his body– his rich cologne, his warm masculinity– enveloped her senses, and she moaned, fisting his cock with both hands as she worked up and down his length. She brought him to the edge of climax and he stopped her, a look of disbelieving longing on his face.

He pulled her upwards, up his body, and she straddled his torso, intent upon taking his gorgeous length into her own body. But Draco had another plan in mind. He pushed her higher with his strong arms, until she was sitting astride his chest. She could feel her arousal, wet against him, and she hesitated, understanding creeping in as to his intentions.

She'd done this before, of course, with a few men, always on her back. Ron had tried it once and didn't care for the taste of it, which was just as well because he'd been far too rough and rushed. Victor and her old muggle boyfriend, Samuel had taken their time, but didn't really understand the anatomy and didn't bring her to climax. Which was fine.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Hermione, it's one of my favourite activities, I promise.”

Her brows drew together. “Don't you want me to lay down?”

“Gods no, witch, I want you sitting on my face,” he said, pushing at her bum to move her higher.

“You'll say something– tap me on the leg– if you can't breathe?”

“Hermione, if you asphyxiate me doing this, I would come back as a ghost to do it again and again, that's how much I want to do it. Please get up here! And don't be afraid to grind into me.”

Privately, Hermione knew there was no way she'd do that. But at the first slow lick up her pussy, the sensations electrified her to the point that her mind was no longer registering coherent thoughts.

His tongue– as previously promised– was good at this, as were his lips and chin. Hermione's eyes flew wide in amazement– Godric, this was what she'd been missing for all those years with other wizards? This was a lot more than fine. It was spectacular.

Draco's mouth was intent upon her, and when she wavered in her certainty that he was all right, that she was too heavy for him, he placed his hands on her thighs and pulled her body closer, harder against him, his tongue fucking up into her deftly, until she couldn't help it, couldn't stop rutting against him, her fingers in his hair, on his ropey biceps, screaming his name as she came hard against his mouth.

Draco watched her come undone above him, creamy thighs clenching him, her gorgeous hair flying wildly around her, hands searching for something to hold as her release washed over her. She was amazing, a goddess, and he couldn't believe that she was here in his bed. He couldn't believe that Hermione Granger of all witches would ever find him worthy of her attention, much less give him the gift of her pleasure.

When she'd finished, she lay back, boneless, against his drawn up knees. His warm cock pushed eagerly at her back, and she smiled luxuriantly. Sweet Salazar, she'd nearly forgotten about what was still to come– everything that had happened so far had only been the warm up act.

He took her by the waist and rolled them so that she could lie back. Standing beside the bed, he fisted his aching cock, and Hermione's eyes widened once more at the size of it. He lined himself up, looking once more for confirmation from her. She smiled, digging her heels into the backs of his thighs to prompt him.

And then he was inside of her, his gorgeous cock disappearing into her over and over, holding her ankles as he pistoned in and out, slowly at first, with deliberation; and then faster.

“Fu-u-uuck, Draco!”

His broom thighs flexed against the backs of her own legs as he bucked into her and the building pleasure deep within her body was already too much, it seemed. She wasn't sure if she could take much more electrifying stimulation. She was dimly aware that both of them were speaking, offering praise and promises to each other.

And then it was more, stronger, deeper, if that was even possible. He leaned over her to look into her eyes, blond hair damp and sweaty, falling into his eyes, and he was flushed and breathtaking in his lust. His silver eyes looked nearly metallic in their desire for her, and Hermione felt her body pulling, clenching, thrilling at the sight and feel of him as his spend coated her insides. His large hands clung to her body in an effort to prolong the pleasure they both felt as they came.

Twenty minutes and a few spells later, she lay curled up on his chest, her body lightly rising and falling with his measured breaths, his hands rubbing lightly at her arms, her back, her hair. Her own fingers outlined each muscle in his torso, finding and notating the most ticklish among them.

“Did you still want to go out? I can shower–” he asked, uncertain.

“Ah– I'm all right staying in, if–”

“Good.” He raised her chin to look into her eyes. “I'm not ready to share your attention just yet.”

They ordered delivery and saved up their energy for their second set, then the tiebreaker. It was to be a match for the record books.

On Sunday, Goran Ivanišević managed to break Tim Henman in the fifth set early once they resumed, and he never looked back. Ivanišević would win the match, becoming the first wildcard ever to make the Wimbledon final. He then pulled off the improbable, winning the 2001 championship against Australian Patrick Rafter.

Henman's crushing defeat that year at Wimbledon would follow him for the rest of his tennis career. He would be a semifinalist at Wimbledon once more in 2004, but never reached the final. He was never able to kiss and hoist the vaunted Wimbledon cup.

Draco and Hermione watched in disappointment at Henman's loss from their magically enlarged seat that Sunday in 2001. A part of them always felt guilty for his loss due to their combined weather charms, which resulted in him never winning the tournament.

For his and Hermione’s eleventh wedding anniversary, Draco purchased seats to the 2013 championship to see a different British islander take to the grass of Wimbledon’s Centre Court. Without the magical interference of summoning rain clouds, Andy Murray was able to secure a win for himself and for the United Kingdom– its first since 1936.

As the final point was won and the crowd cheered wildly, Draco leaped from his seat next to Hermione. He kissed her soundly and swept up their children in a celebratory hug.

His eyes fell on the ministry seat, Section 34, Row J, Seat 17, occupied by the current Minister. Draco smiled to himself. He might've lost the war for that seat so many years before, but he'd certainly enjoyed the spoils of that war all the same.

His gaze locked on Hermione and he leaned over for another kiss from her as the English crowd roared their delight.

Victory, at long last.