Chapter Text
“Again!” The voice boomed across the pitch, magically amplified to penetrate through the buffeting rains and wind currently making their practice a living hell.
Ginny Weasley swore beneath her breath as she pulled her broom to a sharp halt, chest heaving. “He’s got to be fucking kidding—” That last run had been bloody near flawless. Sure, their formation could have been a half-beat tighter but what did he expect when none of them could fucking feel their fingers after three hours of practice in the blustery winter weather?
“I quit.” Johnson spat as she pulled up next to Ginny, a scowl twisting her expression as she tugged at one of her gloves, as if adjusting it might make up for the fact their warming charms had faded nearly an hour prior. “Coach has lost his bloody mind, it’s not fucking worth it.”
Ginny snorted, slicking rain from her cheeks, glaring over her shoulder at the nice, warm, dry box from with the Holyhead Harpies’ newest coach shouted his fucking absurd plays. “He can push us as hard as he likes, but we’re sure as fuck not going to the finals if half the team is out with pneumonia.” She paused, expression twisting in a scowl as her fingers tightened about her broom, fighting the wind to even stay upright. “I’m going to say something.”
“Gin, no—” Angelina’s half-hearted protest came as she was already swooping towards the box, ignoring the rain pelting at her face.
“Malfoy!” she barked as her feet met the ground with a dull thud. “What the bloody—”
“Weasley,” he interrupted tersely, not bothering to look up from his clipboard. “Why aren’t you on the pitch?”
She paused, blinking incredulously at him. Fucking hell. Harry had whined about the man being an ass for years, and no doubt he hadn’t gained a reputation of one of the most fearsome coaches in the league by chance, but—
“Maybe you haven’t noticed since it’s so nice and cozy in here, but we’re fucking miserable out there.”
He finally looked up, arching a brow, something near disdain lacing his expression as her robes dripped muddy water on the once-pristine tile. “I wasn’t aware that happiness was part of your contract, Weasley.”
She gaped at him, fingers tightening about the shaft of her broom as her lips parted, fighting to find any sort of response that wouldn’t get her fired before she could say Riddikulus. He couldn’t be fucking serious. She’d show him fucking happiness when she took her broom and shoved it—
But rather than words, rather than anything even resembling a coherent response, nothing more than a sputtering noise of disbelief escaped her, angry heat rising in her cheeks. His brow twitched upwards as he simply ignored her, carrying on as he flipped to a new page of his clipboard, scribbling Merlin only knew what—probably his next round of torture plans.
For a moment, she thought he might simply leave her there, looking worse than a half-drowned pygmypuff, goosebumps rising on her arms even in the warmth of the box, but then he looked to her once more, leveling her with a cold, steely gaze.
“You know what is part of your contract?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “Winning fucking games, Weasley. So we’re going to fucking practice until you and that lot out there can fucking do that, unless you’ve got a problem with doing your job?”
She flinched as he spat the words at her, returning his glare in turn.
They’d had a shit start to their season, yeah—it was why their last coach was now coaching junior league somewhere in Greenland—and she could assure Malfoy that no one hated that more than her, but for fucks’ sake, it was the dead of winter, she was freezing her tits off, and—
“It’s fucking Christmas Eve, Malfoy.”
“And I’m not fucking Santa Claus, no one’s getting anything they haven’t fucking earned, Weasley, and that includes rest.”
“For fucks’ sake,” she muttered beneath her breath, pushing a lock of sopping hair back from her face. “Just because no one wants to spend the holidays with you doesn’t mean—”
A flash of something nearing rage crossed his expression and she snapped her mouth shut. She may hate the prick, but he was a prick who could replace her with a snap of his long, aristocratic fingers, and she knew, the moment the words passed her lips, that she’d crossed a line. Everyone knew what had happened to Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban, and his mother had fled to France, and then there had been something about a divorce in the news last year, and—
“Get your ass back in the air and run the fucking play,” he bit out through gritted teeth.
She opened her mouth once more—to argue? To apologize? She couldn’t quite say, but it didn’t matter as he cut her off.
“And Weasley? It’s Coach Malfoy. Remember it, or I’ll find a new Chaser.”
Ginny sniffed, scowling as she tugged a crumpled tissue from her coat pocket to blow her nose there on Ron’s front step. Fucking Malfoy and his fucking practices. They’d gone on for another two hours, until even that raging prick couldn’t deny that they had his latest plays memorized better than their own names and what did she have to show for it? A sore hip from one too many Bludger hits and a fucking cold on Christmas day.
Of course she’d woken up with a too-full head and a running nose only to discover the last of her Pepper-Up dried in a sticky tack on the cabinet shelf, with not a single apothecary open on Christmas Day. And frankly she’d rather die of spattergroit than Floo her mother and admit that the contents of her medicine cabinet amounted to little more than a few bandages and a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey. So instead, she’d put on a brave face, gathered the presents she’d amassed for her friends, and apparated to Ron and Hermione’s where, if she was lucky, her sister-in-law might take pity on her.
Taking as deep a breath as she was able, she knocked, swiping beneath her nose once more.
“Gin.” Ron blinked as he pulled open the door. “You look like shit.”
“Happy Christmas to you too,” she groused as she shouldered past him, shoving the bag of presents into his hands. “Hermione’s in the kitchen?” She could worry about being pleasant once it didn’t feel quite so much like she’d swallowed sandpaper.
“Yeah but—”
“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder as she headed down the hall. If anyone would have every healing potion on the market—and likely a few that weren’t—it was Hermione Granger. “Hermione,” she started as she pushed through the kitchen door. “I’ll love you forever if—” She stopped short.
She must be sicker than she’d thought, must be hallucinating, because that was sure as fuck not Draco Malfoy sitting at their kitchen table.
“Ginny!” Harry rose from his seat and crossed the room to wrap her in a tight hug, as if the entire world hadn’t lost their minds.
“Harry,” she greeted absently. “Erm…Happy Christmas, all. I didn’t realize…”
Her voice trailed off awkwardly as three sets of eyes turned her way, while the fourth…his grey gaze focused somewhere on the wall opposite, as if he might pretend she didn’t exist.
“Happy Christmas, Ginny!” The cheer in Hermione’s voice was forced as she abandoned a pan smoking suspiciously on the stove to claim her own hug. “It was last minute,” she muttered low in the other witch’s ear before she pulled away with a smile. “You know Theo, of course.” As if she hadn’t been in his and Harry’s wedding two years prior. “And, erm, you remember Mal—I mean, Draco from school?”
It was all Ginny could do to keep from rolling her eyes. So that was how they were going to play it then? As if she hadn’t been sprawled on the sofa two rooms over, wine-drunk and whining incessantly about her new coach not two weeks prior? Fine. She’d play along. But only because it was Christmas and she was fairly certain her head might explode if she raised her voice too loud.
“Malfoy,” she greeted tersely with a jerk of her chin.
“Weasley,” he answered, still not looking directly at her.
Good. Let him be as uncomfortable as she was. These were her friends, damn it. Her holiday plans. Her—ACHOO! An ear-splitting sneeze shattered the room and she flushed scarlet as every eye in the room whipped back to her.
“Sorry,” she muttered beneath her breath. God, as if this day wasn’t going to be terrible enough already. “Hermione do you happen to have—”
“Pepper-Up?” The other witch sprang into action, no doubt just as eager to escape the sudden tension that flooded the room as she. “Yeah, of course, it’s upstairs, why don’t we—” she gestured lamely, ushering Ginny back into the hall.
No sooner had the door swung closed behind them than Ginny whirled, leveling a glare at her best friend even as she sniffed again. “Really, Hermione? Him? Was Krampus too busy to accept the invite?”
Hermione heaved a heavy sigh as she led them up the narrow staircase of Otter Cottage.
“It’s Christmas, Ginny. He’s Theo’s best friend, and he didn’t have anywhere else to go, what was I meant to do, leave him on the front step like a puppy in the cold?”
Ginny scowled. That was precisely what she should have done, would serve the prick right to have a taste of his own medicine. But she couldn’t say as much, not without earning one of those gently disapproving looks her friend had perfected so well over the years.
“Fine,” she grumbled. It wasn’t really Hermione’s fault. She’d just blame Ron. Harry was his best friend, Theo was Harry’s husband, Theo’s brought Malfoy, therefore it was all her brother’s fault, simple. Prick.
“He’s just—” another violent sneeze interrupted her and she let out a huff of frustration, earning a sympathetic glance from Hermione as she rummaged through her bathroom cabinet.
“If it’s that bad, you should go home, none of us would blame you, and we can just do gifts later—”
“No,” Ginny interrupted with a sharp shake of her head. She wanted nothing more than to be at home in her bed with a hot cuppa and a healthy portion of Hermione’s potions supply. But if she gave in now, if she simply left, then no doubt Malfoy and his astronomically large ego would think it was because of him. “No,” she repeated when Hermione sent her a skeptical look. “It’s Christmas, we…we have traditions!” Or at least as many traditions as a group of people who’d only started celebrating Christmas at the Granger-Weasley home all of two years ago could have—they hadn’t really had a choice once the elder Weasleys decided they were far more suited to Bermuda than Devon.
“Right then.” Hermione straightened, arching a skeptical brow even as she handed over a familiar vial. “Bottoms up then, if you insist.”
“You’re far too good for my brother, in case anyone hasn’t told you that recently.” Ginny snagged a tissue from the box on the counter, palming the vial in her other hand. “A little bit of this, a metric shit ton of wine with dinner and—”
Hermione snatched the vial back from Ginny, ignoring the indignant squawk that escaped her.
“What the hell?” she sputtered.
The other witch set her hands on her hips. “Ginny Weasley.” She sounded alarmingly like Molly Weasley and Ginny fought the sudden urge to straighten her back and tug her skirt towards her knees. “Tell me you don’t drink while you’re on Pepper-Up.”
Ginny rolled her eyes, snatching for the vial, only for her lips to curve into a frown as the other witch managed to evade her. Fucking hell, she must be sicker than she’d thought if her reflexes couldn’t keep up with Hermione “I just don’t understand why one would hurl themselves about on a broom” Granger.
“It’s not like it’ll kill me,” she said with a frustrated huff, hands dropping to her sides. Her friend merely arched a brow in a move eerily reminiscent of—bloody hell, was the man contagious? If Hermione thought that she was going to make it through an entire Christmas dinner being pleasant to Draco fucking Malfoy without liquor—he’d say one word about the Harpies’ prospects this season and she’d—she’d—
“Fuck it,” she declared, reaching around Hermione and snagging the box of tissues from the counter, cradling it to her chest like a prized possession as her gaze narrowed threateningly on her friend. “You’d better have more than wine downstairs,” she muttered as she turned to go back downstairs. Might as well get this over with.
“Ginny, you can’t be serious—”
“Liquor, Hermione,” she called over her shoulder, cutting her off. “I need fucking liquor.”
The liquor wasn’t enough.
Ginny scowled down at the amber whiskey in her glass as the rest of the table laughed uproariously at some quip. It wasn’t fair. Gone was the cold, harsh tyrant of a coach she’d come to know and hate, only to be replaced by this…this… Her fingers tightened on her glass as she fought the urge to scream. When had he gotten so fucking charming? She watched on, seething in irritation as he delighted the table with easy smiles and laughing stories, as if he weren’t to blame for the fact she couldn’t even taste her dinner—though, considering Hermione had been responsible for the bulk of it, that might not be the worst thing.
Brilliant witch, questionable homemaker, Merlin bless her.
Ginny watched, taking another sip of her whiskey, as Malfoy lounged back in his seat, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to reveal muscled forearms she had absolutely no business noticing. Not when he’d been doing his level best to simply pretend she didn’t exist even as he dazzled the other guests. A fact she was thankful for, truly. He was fucking irksome, she didn’t want to have to speak to him any more than necessary.
Except then she sneezed—fucking again—and, without even so much as glancing her direction, he tugged a fucking handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it in her direction. She scowled down at it, of half a mind to tell him exactly where he could shove the poncy bit of fabric, except, well, she’d gone through the entire box of tissues, and desperate times and all that.
“Thanks,” she muttered beneath her breath as she plucked it from his hand.
His grey eyes flicked to meet hers, just for a moment, and a flush of heat washed over her—fuck, she couldn’t be getting a fever too, not with a game only three days from now.
She’d never admit she regretted not taking the Pepper-Up but—
A loud sneeze interrupted the thought, and then another one, her face reddening, eyes watering as she pushed back from the table. “Excuse me for a minute,” she said, her voice muffled through her congestion, trying to ignore the way her friends looked ever so slightly relieved she was stepping away.
Fine. Let them be that way. She didn’t want to sit around and listen to them laugh at his stupid stories anyhow.
But she was taking the whiskey with her.
Draco watched as the redhead slipped from the table. Fucking hell, his star Chaser looked as if she were on Death’s door and not a single one of her so-called friends seemed perturbed by the fact, much less inclined to do anything about it.
He didn’t want to care. He’d spent a significant time of the past few months trying not to give a shit about Ginny Weasley, in fact. Because it had taken him all of a week with the Harpies to realize that if there was one thing the witch truly prided herself on, it was her ability to drive him up the fucking wall. She was a talented Quidditch player to be sure—fucking brilliant with a Quaffle, really—and just as popular among her teammates as she had been when they were in school so many years before. Except in school, she’d been…well, a Weasley. Red hair, freckles, an easy grin and just as easy a temper, but nothing he’d concern himself with, beyond the occasional opportunity to toss insults about.
But now? Now he was tortured, day in and day out. Tortured by lithe, muscled limbs, by the plush curve of her lips when she flashed that smile—though never at him. Hell, he was fairly certain the utterly immaculate way her arse filled out the breeches of her kit had been designed by some higher power merely to punish him for past sins.
Fuck, he swore inwardly as he caught his mind drifting to that particular arse once more as she flounced—staggered, really—from the room. No, he didn’t give a shit about Ginny Weasley. Because Ginevra fucking Weasley was a brat of the highest order, the sort who delighted in flashing eyes and taunting words. The sort that, if she were any other witch, in any other place, would practically beg to be put over his lap.
His fingers curled at the thought, fisting against his knee as if he could feel the smooth curve of her arse, could see the pretty shade of pink her pale skin would turn, the same as her cheeks when she blushed and—Fucking hell, Malfoy, he castigated himself inwardly. She was his employee, a member of his team. She was a member of his team, and she wasn’t bothering to take care of herself and—
“Your Pepper-Up is shit, Granger,” he remarked, cutting off the elder Weasel in the midst of some entirely inane story about a new wand holster, earning a glare he was all too happy to ignore.
The bushy-haired witch blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?” she asked delicately, her hand reaching out to stay her husband as he blustered at her side.
“Your Pepper-Up,” he repeated. “It clearly doesn’t work for shit, or have you lot not noticed Weasley looks as if she’s just this side of death?”
She blinked again—Merlin, had marrying Weasley rotted her brain? And then—
“She didn’t take it?” Her words ended on a question, as if she were stating something that should have been obvious.
It was his turn to blink, disbelief coursing through his veins. She couldn’t mean—even Weasley wouldn’t be that stupid, that stubborn—fucking hell he was going to wring her little neck. Right after he forced the fucking potion down her throat.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said tersely, shoving to his feet, ignoring the way a smirk threatened at the corner of Theo’s mouth. No doubt his friend would give him endless shit for chasing after a Weasley—as if the man hadn’t married fucking Potter—but he hadn’t worked his arse off to whip their damn Quidditch team into shape only for his star Chaser to be too busy snotting all over herself to win a game.
Fortunately, she hadn’t gone far. As if she could. He could hear her wheezing from half a mile away.
“Weasley, if you’re sick on Saturday I’ll fucking bench you.”
She yelped, spinning as he pushed through the kitchen door, a harsh cough wracking her frame as the whiskey she’d been clutching all night went down the wrong way.
“What the fuck, Malfoy?” she rasped, clasping a hand to her chest.
“You need to take the Pepper-Up.”
She scoffed, as if he were the one being preposterous. “Can’t,” Weasley said, canting her glass in his direction. “Drinking.”
His gaze narrowed. It was nearly time for dessert. Dessert meant that dinner was almost over. Which meant he was an hour at best from being able to escape this cozy little gathering and drown his sorrows alone in the quiet of his home like a respectable wizard, and he’d be damned if he’d let this witch interfere with his plans by dying on Weasley’s kitchen floor.
“It wasn’t a question, Weasley, and I don’t give a fuck if you have to drown in a vat of Sober-Up first. Take. The fucking. Pepper-Up.”
She sniffed, pulling open the refrigerator door as if they hadn’t just stuffed themselves at dinner, steadfastly avoiding looking at him. “Maybe you haven’t noticed because the weather isn’t shit, but we’re not on the pitch right now.”
It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Merlin fuck, was she still on about that? It had been a bit of rain. No one with any fucking sense was dying from that. “And?”
“And that means you’re not the boss of me.” His brows shot up as the childlike words came out, he could see the mortification spreading across her expression, but it was too late, there was no taking it back.
A low chuckle escaped him before he could stop it and her eyes widened as he sauntered nearer. He shouldn’t say it. He knew he shouldn’t. And yet—
“I can assure you I’m the boss anywhere I damn well please, Weasley.” His voice was a low purr, the implication more than clear, one the witch didn’t miss judging by the pretty blush that colored her freckled cheeks. “And that means you’re going to take the damn Pepper-Up if I have to tie you up and force it down your throat myself.”
For a moment—just a moment—he would have sworn that color in her cheeks deepened, that her eyes flashed with something more than loathing, except then—
“Alright in here?”
Bloody fucking hell he hated the Weasleys, not a single one of them had ever made his life any easier.
“Fine,” he said tersely, ignoring the witch’s grunt of protest. “Just checking in on Ginny here, I’m sure you’ve noticed she’s feeling a bit under the weather.” The pointed grit to his words clearly sailed right over the other wizard’s head as he simply blinked and it was all Draco could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Fucking useless prick. Fine. He’d fucking do it himself.
“Don’t suppose you know where your wife keeps her potions?”
The Weasel blinked again. “Erm, yeah. Upstairs in the loo off the hall but—”
“Marvelous,” Draco interrupted, turning his back on the man to meet the witch’s glare. “Want to play this weekend or not, Weasley?”
Her glare sharpened but she remained silent, chapped lips rolling into a mutinous scowl. For fucks’ sake.
“Right then,” he announced to the room at large, stooping and scooping her from her feet, tossing her over his shoulder like an errant child, ignoring her shrieks of protest as he strode from the room.
“Malfoy, that’s my fucking sis—” Ron’s words were cut off by the slam of the kitchen door behind them.
She was going to kill him. It wouldn’t matter if he was her fucking boss when they couldn’t find his body. She let out a frustrated shriek as she writhed against his hold, his thick arm pinning her in place with embarrassing ease as she beat her fist against his back. He couldn’t just—her friends couldn’t just— a fit of coughing wracked her frame, interrupting her protest and his steps paused, just for a moment. She thought he might put her down, that he might stop acting like an absolute madman, but instead he merely shook her.
“Breathe,” he ordered as if they were on the pitch and he wanted another lap.
“Fuck. Off.” she managed between gasping breaths.
She could practically feel him rolling his eyes as he shouldered his way into the small bathroom and unceremoniously dropped her to her feet. Fucking finally. Except—A wave of dizziness overtook her, her head protesting the sudden change in orientation, and he cursed beneath his breath, a broad hand darting out to catch at her hip as she wavered on her feet.
“Alright, Weasley?” he asked, his fingers splayed over her side, palm warm through the thin fabric of her dress.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, suddenly all too aware of how very close they stood in the tiny bathroom—Merlin, it hadn’t seemed quite so small when it had been her and Hermione hours earlier.
“Are you?” he asked, a pointed gaze dropping lower. She flushed, snatching her hand from where it’d landed on his chest. As if she’d wanted to touch him. Scowling, she ducked around him, reaching for the knob, only for long, bruising fingers to wrap about her arm, stopping her short.
“I swear to fucking Merlin, I’ll bench you, Weasley. Stay. Put.”
She scowled, of half a mind to flee anyhow, but she’d be damned if she put all that work into perfecting those stupid plays—she may or may not have spent half the night re-watching tape to ensure she and her fellow chasers had it just right—only for him to bench her over a cold that was his own goddamned fault. So instead she merely glared down at him as he stooped to peer into the depths of the bathroom cabinet—paying no attention to the way his trousers stretched over the taut curve of his arse as he bent.
His voice came once more, muffled as he rifled through the cabinet. “Merlin fuck, my fucking four year old takes a potion better than you do.”
She tensed. Surely he hadn’t said—
“You have a kid?”
He straightened, his expression making it clear he found the question patently stupid, but she would have sworn she’d never heard—
“Scorpius,” he said tersely, unstoppering the Sober-Up and shoving it unceremoniously into her hand. “He’s with his mother.”
She blinked. “But it’s…it’s Christmas.”
A sneer twisted his expression. “Brilliant, Weasley. Was it your brother’s off-key caroling or Potter’s hideous sweater that clued you in? Now drink, would you?”
She shook her head absently, too distracted by the revelation to truly argue with him—it was rapidly proving useless anyhow.
Merlin fuck, he’d been their coach for months, how did they not know he had a tot running about? God, it was Christmas, and he wasn’t with his son and she’d been the one to say no one wanted to spend the holiday with him and—fucking hell she was the worst sort of cunt. Fuck. She would have to apologize, and he would be such a smug prick about it and—
She let out a muffled noise of surprise as the cool glass of the vial pressed against her lips—when had he even taken it from her to begin with?—her expression screwing up with distaste as the bitter liquid filled her mouth.
“Merlin fuck,” she muttered as she swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Most men warn me first.”
She nearly missed the twitch, the way the corner of his mouth threatened to turn upwards as the words escaped her without thought and she flushed. Merlin help her, she could not be making sex jokes in front of this man, in front of her boss. She tensed, waiting for the castigation, for the snarky judgment, but instead, he merely thumbed the stopper of the next vial free.
“Next one,” he ordered, apparently not bothering to see if she’d do it herself this time, instead merely holding the second vial to her mouth.
Her gaze narrowed for a moment and he simply arched a brow. Fine. But only because she apparently owed him, and the man seemed to take zero issue with manhandling her regardless of her protests anyhow. With a beleaguered sigh, her lips parted and he tilted the potion down her throat, a flash of something she might almost call approval flashing in his silver gaze as she swallowed.
“Good girl,” he said almost absently as he turned, dropping the empty vials in the bin with a merry clink, his words sending an unexpected flush through her. She stilled. No, it was just the lingering effects of the Pepper-Up, nothing more. She didn’t give a fuck if Draco Malfoy approved of her or not, he was just—
“Now go the fuck home and take care of yourself like a goddamn adult, Weasley.”
A raging prick. Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a raging fucking prick.