Ginny burst in the doors to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, “I did it!”
“Of course you did,” cried Hermione before pausing. “Did what?”
“I made the national team!” Squealed the ginger, scooping baby James from his high chair and spinning the seven month old around as Hermione matched her squeals, jumping around. Hermione congratulated her enthusiastically.
“I wasn’t sure I would with my maternity leave and getting back in shape they might choose someone else.”
“They’d have been fools and looking to lose, Gin. You are the best chaser in England. Any other Harpies on the team?” Hermione was certain that Ginny was one of the best players in this decade.
The entire line up of the national team hadn’t been released yet, but Ginny and Zola were the only Harpies on the team. The twins passed on the gossip that Oliver Wood would be defending England’s hoops with the feral dedication he showed in every game. They had teased that Gin would no longer be the only Weasley to miss out on one of his locker room pep talks slash lectures.
The international season went well. England made it through the first several matches with dogged determination. One midseason match lasted 9 hours when the Snitch was nowhere to be found by either Seeker. Hermione had left early, much to the disdain of the crowd around her seat. Apparently, shortly after she left the winds had kicked up sending the snitch, a bludger and four players into a collision and tailspin. Ultimately, Ginny had slammed one of the Australian Team’s chasers into the snitch. The poor bastard caught it reflexively, forfeiting the game in a record breaking move. That’s Snitchnip for you. Fallout of the collision left one of England's beaters in hospital and out of the game for the rest of the season.
Hermione would admit that she probably should listen better when Ginny was talking about her job as the months went on and the matches traveled and became more serious. As fascinating as she found Ginny, she tended to tone out the technical aspects of Quidditch. Books on the subject couldn’t hold her attention. She had justified it to herself that she would listen about teammates, coaches, drama or anything more important. That, unfortunately, had been a lie. With work being so crazy, she tended to drift off during conversations. The World Cup was a huge deal, but after 4 months of training for it and it being all that just about everyone in her life was talking about it became natural to just tune out the moment someone said Quidditch.
Follow up questions after Hermione had heard that one of England’s beaters was knocked out the sky would have prepared her better for this. She had heard Ginny mention a new beater and disliking his attitude but she hadn’t had the mental space for more sports talk with everything she was working on.
That was how she had found herself in the family and friends box Harry paid for at the Quidditch World Cup decked out in a mix of England and Holyhead Harpies gear surrounded by screaming Weasleys as a name she thought she would never hear again was announced over the crowd as each of the starting players for each team were called.
“Playing as Beater for England is Thorfinn Rowle replacing Killian Keppler who was unfortunately injured in that match against Australia a few weeks back.”
Hermione stared in shock as the enlarging enchantment on the glass of the box zoomed in on his burly form. The announcers continued their chatter as he did a lap around the arena with his Beater's bat lifted above his head.
This is going to be nothing but trouble.
“Now this is Rowle’s premier game for England, Reggie, but he previously played for the Ballycastle Bats in the mid 90s as well as recently signing on with the Appleby Arrows. He is a formidable opponent on the pitch for certain.” One of the announcers' voices warbled through the box.
The other, Reggie, replied in a conversational tone, “he's known for his bat arm, but will that be enough to push England over the edge? He's had less time to practice with the team and he tends to be a divisive figure.”
They continued to ramble on.
“Way to bury the lead,” remarked Ron, sharing a look with Harry.
As Rowle flew past the box, Hermione would have sworn that the Death Eater winked at her when they made eye contact.
“Harry James Potter,” Hermione exclaimed, ignoring the “oh shit"s from various Weasleys, “when exactly were you going to tell me that a Death Eater who attacked us was out of Azkaban? Not only that, but he's playing in the Quidditch World Cup!”
“Told you,” muttered Ron.
“You are not off the hook, Ronald!” She shrieked.
Harry's hand was held up in surrender, James held against his shoulder with the other, as he pleaded, “Hermione, please…”
“No! Explain! He's a murderer!”
Why isn’t this obvious to them?
The Boy Who Lived sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, “You were supposed to be owled. He never killed anyone other than his fellow Death Eaters and he didn’t have any reported uses of Unforgivables. He's been out since 2000.”
“I was never owled,” scowled Hermione, looking back out at the pitch, “you should have warned me.”
Harry's green eyes rolled, “we did. We've been talking about him being part of the team since Keppler ended up in hospital.”
“You just glaze over,” Ron added, “you not listening doesn't mean we didn't tell you.”
Hermione’s cheeks flamed and she flipped her hair, “You should have told me directly, not hid it behind Quidditch. What would have happened if I had just seen him out in Diagon? You know I would have brought it up if I knew, clearly by what you said Ronald. Also, that man,” she points to the man in England’s colors, “is not the only Rowle around! I remember his sister and his cousin from school. The name is not enough.”
Harry looked a little sheepish and guilty, but Ron looked unimpressed. He cut off Harry's next words.
“You just don’t want to admit you were ignoring us. Not listening when Ginny was talking about the biggest thing that has ever happened in her career because it bores you. It’s not smart enough to keep your interest,” he snapped.
Their break-up, while mostly amicable, had still left its tensions. They were the same people they’d always been. Ron struggled with feeling inferior to her intelligence and her focus. She struggled with his expectations of her to focus on him. Ultimately they made each other miserable. He tended to get nasty when those things came up, even years later. She might have admitted her fault or apologized if he hadn’t attacked.
Her hair began to crackle with barely restrained magic and the inside of the cheerful Weasley and friends box started to quiet as people noticed the tension between the trio. The cold breeze forming as her magic reacted to his words wasn’t helping.
“Stop projecting your own issues and inferiority complex onto everyone! Like you have ever listened when I talk about my work!” Her voice was as cold as the air in the room. She didn’t even shriek at him as she was known to do.
“I’m inferior?” Barked Ron, “You’re just an uptight prudish b-.”
“Brother! We wouldn’t be making a fuss on Ginny’s big day would we?” The eldest Weasley brother asked in a light tone. He stepped in between, throwing an arm across Ron's shoulders. Teddy and Victoire were watching with wide eyes from their places by Molly whose lips were pursed.
The grip Bill had on Ron's shoulder was clearly tight from the way the young brother buckled in, “Uncle Ron is just too pumped up about the game. Right?”
“Yeah yeah,” Ron grumbled, tension diffusing.
Fleur matched her husband’s energy and stepped up to pivot Hermione over to Angelia and Katie. Katie Wood, formerly Bell, had Alicia Spinnet along as well to cheer on Oliver and Ginny.
Angelia broke the tension, “Don't listen to him.”
“You two always wind each other up in zee wrong way,” added Fleur. The French witch smacked a kiss against Hermione’s cheek and winked, “You are no prude.”
Hermione blushed but couldn't argue. Just because Ron didn't excite her didn't mean other people didn't.
The chorus of “ooos” and questions from the three chasers was drowned out by the cheering of the crowd as the rival team hit the pitch.
Harry eventually sidled up next to her as the game began, Ginny crisscrossing the pitch with speed and maneuverability. His eyes were on his wife as he spoke, “I thought you were just avoiding thinking about it. According to Ginny, he’s not so bad these days. Stuck up and confident as ever, but he’s good at his job and isn’t a bully to the team.”
“Maybe. Azkaban and the lack of Voldemort probably makes a difference.” Hermione knew at least one member of the English team was Muggleborn. If he didn’t have issues there, maybe he had changed. Or maybe his parole was actually enough to keep him in line. Whatever it was, she deserved to know about it in advance.
Ginny threw the quaffle, cutting their conversation short as they both launched out of their seats to cheer for the first score of the match.
The game went on. The snitch fluttered past the boxes at one point, unnoticed by the English Seeker. The quaffle and the bludgers ricocheted through the air, back and forth between the teams. The Moroccan team was clearly fighting just as hard as the English Team. Flying was hard too, the wind kicked up half an hour in. It buffeted the stands and had spectators shielding their eyes.
Hermione kept finding her eyes drawn to the hulking form of Rowle, the broom dwarfed between his thighs. He moved without grace. A flying wrecking ball off its chain was the best analogy she could come up with. Rowle body slammed the other team just as often as he batted the bludgers at them with considerable force. One of the Moroccan Chasers was launched off his broom, flailing in the air as he fell with one arm limping caught in the wind’s currents. He must have been screaming, but it was inaudible over the wind and the roar of the crowd. Hermione could see his mouth as she struggled to follow his fall with her omnioculars.
The referees moved quickly to slow his fall and catch him, but they were hundreds of feet in the air and Rowle had checked him on the upper edges of the current play space. Everyone watched in horror as he fell. His own teammates scrambling for their wands and turning on their brooms. A sharp whistle rang across the stadium. Still he was falling.
There was a flash of red and royal navy blue. Hermione yanked the omnioculars away from her face just in time to see Rowle pulling up hard on his broom. As he settled out of his dive, it was clear the Moroccan player was limp in his grip.
Quickly pulling the handset back to her face, she could zoom in. Rowle's jaw was clenched, teeth grinding as he held the seemingly unconscious player aloft with one arm. The beater carefully transferred the unconscious player’s weight onto the broom without dropping him. At one point, he had both hands pulling the chaser into place, fully kept on the broom by his powerful thighs.
Hermione scolded herself for noticing.
The referees swarmed in, transferring the Chaser as both teams recentered on the field. The rest of the English team, with Ginny’s red hair a clear calling card, crowded around Rowle cheering and shaking him.
The match restarted shortly thereafter. Despite one already serious injury, things got more, not less, intense. As the game approached the hour mark, tensions and tempers were fraying on the pitch. Zola was yelling at a ref over a clear flash of light from someone's wand on the pitch, only to be penalized. The “boos” from the crowd were raucous.
The entire time Hermione cheered, boo-ed, chatted with the Weasleys, and commentated on the match before them as the teams pulled into the second hour. George appeared with drinks and Percy was carrying snacks that she gladly partook in.
After another hour the game ended with a collision between Oliver Wood and the Moroccan team's seeker. Oliver ducked backwards through the center ring, cutting him off in a smooth play that reeked of his fervor for winning as England's Seeker swerved around them. He followed the snitch down to the pitch, snatching it before it could dart off again. The ending score on the board was 380 England to 200 Morocco.
—-
An hour later, the celebrations were in full swing. Ginny was boosted on her brother's shoulders as they toasted her scores. Everyone was well on their way to being pissed. Hermione among them.
The curly haired witch leaned against the bar sipping an espresso martini. She was nursing it, having done shots in honor of Ginny, Zola, Oliver, and another teammate. The crowd in the team area was bouncing to the music and all around rowdy. She was glad that Molly and Arthur Weasley had taken their grandchildren and Teddy home so the parents could party.
As Hermione scanned the room, she spotted Ron with his tongue shoved down one of the Moroccan team member's throats. She made a disgusted noise, who would enjoy that?
Ron's earlier comment still smarted, especially as the night went on and people became more intoxicated. Ginny and Harry were wrapped around each other on the dance floor. As were most of the Weasley brothers and their significant others. Even Charlie was dancing closely with someone who looked an awful lot like Theodore Nott.
She sighed, sucking obnoxiously on the straw in her nearly empty drink as a slow song changed the mood of the room.
“This is a celebration, Granger, we won,” purred a voice much too close to her ear.
Hermione jumped a little, turning to look at the speaker.
“Why the long face and the dramatic sigh?”
Thorfinn Rowle was towering over her, much too close for comfort. Despite her earlier anger, something warm shot through her at the width of his shoulders and the smoldering look he was giving her.
She huffed, stomping her foot, “No long face here. Just trying not to lose my supper over that display.”
He didn't step back, actually he leaned in even closer to her as he followed her eyeline to Ron's attempt to explore the Poor chaser’s tonsils. She could feel the heat coming off him.
“Ew,” he agreed, “Is he digging for gold or kissing a witch?”
“Exactly! It's even worse to experience,” she exclaimed.
A clatter of glass behind the bar mixed with the flashing lights startled them both. Hermione went for her wand and froze, looking up at the hulking Death Eater before her.
Thorfinn raised a single brow, leaning into his arm which was braced on the bar, “We good, Princess? Can't say I'm surprised you'd draw a wand on me. Never much pegged you as the forgiving type.”
His arm on the bar was in a complex brace that reached up past his elbow and under the sleeve of his shirt. She stared. He must have been with the mediwitch since the speeches ended. Did he play the rest of the match with a dislocated or injured arm?
Rowle did just save a man's life. Even if he did endanger it first… Maybe he was worth a chat. She also did not love that he had picked her out for holding a grudge. Rude.
“No issue,” she half-squeaked. She cleared her throat and stirred the ice in her drink, “Long as you are actually reformed and don't have a problem with me.
His low chuckle sent a shiver down her spine, “I've got the opposite of an issue with you. I was never as much of a blood purist as my father wanted me to be.”
His blue eyes roved over her, “Wanna dance?”
Oh, she'd prove she wasn't a prude and Rowle was the perfect vengeance too. Ron could take a long walk off a short pier. Plus, now that the earlier shock had worn off and stories about him had been whispered around the room, Hermione was less upset about his freedom from Azkaban. It was easy to let his charm take over. It might have been the alcohol talking, but he was easy on the eyes.
Hermione set her glass down and let herself be led.
He was a good dancer. The ground together and moved in sync. When the music changed, he easily lifted her in spins and jumps making her feel small. Hermione was a curvy witch these days and the way his hands moved over her hips and bum, she assumed Rowle didn't mind.
Ron's reaction became unimportant the longer they danced, breaking for refreshments and once for Harry to lead her in a stilted dance, “Not so bad then?” He asked
“He hasn't said much, Harry, but it's looking as if he has changed. Dancing and flirting with me is a good sign, but that doesn't let you off the hook,” Hermione warned, temper flaring again. The alcohol wasn’t helping things.
Harry rolled his eyes and spun her back to Rowle, “All yours, mate. She's too snarky and sharp for me tonight.”
“Just how I like my witches,” Rowle rumbled in her ear as he tugged her against him to dance.
“Who said anything about me being your witch, Rowle?” Hermione bit out, letting her hips move with his.
He chuckled again, causing her cheeks to flush. “Even if it's just for tonight, you're mine. I caught you, you're on the hook. And call me Thorfinn, or Thor, Princess.”
The part of her that was a staunch feminist and hated to be bossed around barely protested, the rest of her was too busy being intrigued by it. Perhaps those broom thighs were good for other things…
“Fine. Thor then, maybe you should show me since you did the work to catch me.”
Hermione was pulled up off her feet and half over his shoulder in a second after he made eye contact and verbally confirmed what she wanted.
“Princess, want me to take you back to my hotel room and prove it?” Despite the flirtiness of his words, his tone was serious. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be a notch in his belt.
Hermione met his gaze, “Yes.”
~~~~
The next morning, Hermione woke early with a headache and a heavy arm draped over her. She assessed the situation and managed not to laugh, I am in such big trouble.
Thor smacked his lips in his sleep, rolling over. This freed her to get up, find her wand, and silent her movements as she got dressed and decided on her next move.
“I didn't think the courageous Gryffindor Princess was the type to run out on a hookup,” teased Rowle, who clearly had been watching her under the silencing spell. He had shifted to lean against the headboard, broad tattooed chest on display.
“Shit.”
~~~~