if music be the food of love (play on)
Draco Malfoy loves his job.
Correction: he enjoys—in a very refined, delicate, sophisticated way—certain aspects of it. There are several perks to being a seeker for Puddlemere United (only the best for a Malfoy, of course). Fame and fortune and whatnot, not that he needs it, but it's certainly nice to have a little extra; the play, the pure satisfaction that comes from being in a group whose skills, like his, are immaculately honed; the brooms, the stadiums, the Quidditch stands—there's just something about a good Quidditch match, whether practice or game, that gets him going.
Even for a Malfoy, playing in the Quidditch World Cup is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If your country wins, if you're in the right age range, on the right string, with the right capabilities, if, if, if—he doesn't play well with what-ifs and maybes. He's here to experience something unforgettable, and become even more unforgettable than he already is. He's here because this is the ultimate accolade anyone can have in their Quidditch career—well, presuming their team wins, of course, but he isn't so fussed about that. Not yet.
He finds himself inordinately pleased, now, rambling about the stadium proper, everyone exploring with their eyes and hands and noses, whilst the slightly-too-harried official rambles on about registration, forms, administration, boxes to check—Draco listens with half an ear, the other half reserved for the absolute nonsense at least three of his teammates have going on at any given time. The rest of his attention takes in the large expanse of the space: training grounds, broomcare stations, buildings squatting around the perimeter, just visible in the distance. The glimmer of wards stretching over it all, silvery lines and angles barely visible against the blue sky. Good—the weather, as expected, is holding.
He eyes the broom sheds—sheds doesn't do them justice, not really, the sleek metal doors already charmed to flash sponsors' names and logos, more than one of his father's branch companies somewhere in that mix. An eyewatering Galleons' worth of Quidditch equipment is being stored there, each Quidditch player with their favourite broom and their backup and the backup of the backup, carefully warded against any saboteurs.
Soon he'll retrieve his own broom from there, balance on it light as a feather, his only responsibility the tiny gold wings of the snitch, the weight of the ground falling away as he rises toward the sun. It'll be the best thing, it always is: wind in his hair, his nose, rough on his skin; the electricity, the drive in his bones to seek and hunt and search out his territory, here, in the air—he's not a territorial sort of Alpha, not really, but he's never found anything else quite like Quidditch either, this thing that is his and his teammates', that gets his blood roaring but quiets the hunger in his veins.
The official guiding his team leads them to the top of the audience stands, and he can see everything, gleaming wards, sunlight on sharply angled roofs, the Quidditch hoops glinting amidst the field, even the grass a cheerful green. There will be an even better perspective, later, a bird's-eye view as he hovers at the top of the dome. He deigns to chime in on Weasley's muttered commentary to Wood, runs a finger along the steel railing and imagines the way it will feel, swooping over it all, falling, flying.
Draco Malfoy loves his job, and here, he is on top of the world.
Hermione looks around the small, neat, oblong examination room. The expression on her face could generously be described as resigned, or perhaps gloomy. A glance at the clock preludes its slow morph into thoroughly disapproving.
She recasts the disinfectant charms, which compete with the pheromone dampening wards for a second, making her sneeze.
There are several not-quite-problems here. For one, the room is just on the edge of cozy, almost too small. Also, there is a surprising lack of administrative incompetence here, which, unfortunately for her, means she has little room to negotiate her assigned duties. Mostly, the problem is her patient, who, if he doesn't arrive in the next minute, will be late.
Scratch that: mostly, the problem is her patient.
Hermione has known, objectively, that the Puddlemere United team includes Malfoy—she’s not stupid, and even if she has been missing nearly all of Ron’s official matches because frankly-she’d-rather-sleep or someone-should-take-care-of-baby-James, she keeps updated with their ongoings. Mostly.
It’s another thing to see the actual lists of Quidditch players’ names, a veritable who’s-who of the sport: neatly printed papers pinned up in the clinic waiting area, distributed to each of the small examination rooms. Each individual needs physicals, tests for drugs or potions or charms in their systems, care for old injuries, care for new injuries, care for the occasional-but-potentially-significant effects of the pheromone dampening wards—this is fine, everything is fine, the workload is fine.
But of all the healers, why does it have to be her list that reads J. Lee & D. Malfoy?
Most of the healers in the on-site clinic are French or Swiss, supplemented by fellow colleagues like her from the various participating countries. Like her, they are all cordial, mostly competent, and absolutely unapproachable for something so heinous as a swap of assigned patients. Mostly because it would involve paperwork, lots of it.
She hasn't seen Malfoy in years now; he's more Harry's friend than hers, if you can count the Potter-Malfoy rival-frenemy-thing as that—perhaps she's had glimpses here or there in passing, flashes of blond hair (infuriatingly styled) or teeth (too sharp) or hands (too large, and disturbingly warm), and she is aware, objectively, theoretically, that he's grown up rather well, from the pointy-faced arrogant prat of their schooldays; aware of him as a vague concept, perhaps, someone ambiguously present, threateningly appealing, and very much impractical to think about. In short: Malfoy has simply not been her concern, as in that she doesn't like to concern herself with things like alphas outside of the patient's chair or perhaps a surgery table.
And yet.
Hermione recasts her disinfecting charms again, just to be sure, and glares at the clock as the second hand ticks over. Her hand reaches up to massage her temples; it doesn't quite make it there.
The door creaks open, and even before Hermione sees him, she can already smell it. Him. The descented room, wiped clean by the charms and wards, only renders the atmosphere a clean canvas for his scent, and it takes full advantage, spreading out in the small enclosed space like a drop of blood in a bowl of milk. Something in her sits up, half-buried memory and instinct and recognition, and she tries, very hard, to not name the notes of his scent, file them into her mind.
She nearly succeeds. Nearly. (Petrichor, cut grass, parchment.) The lingering scent of rubbing alcohol is a mere memory now, as if he's brought in with him a summer storm, making the air heavier, more humid. (He's been sweating; has he just come from practice?) It's infuriating, the way even before he's fully present in a room, he seems to take up all of its space. As if it's his right. Just because he can. (He's taller than she remembers. What part of her has even noticed him enough to remember?)
Hermione looks up to meet grey eyes beneath a slightly-disarrayed mop of sweaty blond hair, and that flash of white teeth, a promise of sharpness against soft flesh. An immaculate eyebrow quirks up, almost challenging.
"Malfoy," she makes herself say, before the moment drags on too long and becomes a moment, and oh, she already knows she will be agonising over every second of this interaction later—"I'd like you to close the door, please. You're late."
He brushes past her to sign the forms where she indicates, still not saying a word beyond the weirdly-familiar inclination of his head—respect, disdain, some brand of sadistic sardonic humour, what does she know?—and she very deliberately does not move.
Hermione is by no means weak. This does not stop her from taking in a breath as he passes, so close her nose nearly brushes his shoulder. The air floods her trachea, her lungs, her brain. She has to tamp down on a shiver that threatens to travel up her spine.
Is it her imagination, or do Malfoy's nostrils flare subtly as he passes her the forms?
She's good at her job, Granger. Looks at him with that cool little smile that every Healer in this clinic seems to wear. Asks him the requisite questions in a way that makes it seem like a light conversation, querying without probing—how has practice been so far—has the team settled in well—I understand Ron's a Chaser with you, yes?—your file says, here, two cracked ribs just last month, slight resistance to tissue-stimulating charms, how are things holding up—
He'd quite like to stimulate her tissues, but because he is a well-bred gentleman, he does not say that. He's behaving himself. (The Weasel had threatened him with a bludger to the ribs when they'd received their assigned clinic appointments, bullheadedly ignoring Draco's reply that he was not a Beater and besides wouldn't jeopardise their chances at the Cup.)
Draco answers with as little snark as he can, sits still when he's told, opens his mouth when she indicates. It's rather maddening, actually, having to behave himself and be a good little patient, here in the chair before Granger, colourful swirls of magic and diagnostics appearing at each flick of her wand. He can smell her, only just; it's faint, but there are traces of honey. It's disconcertingly distracting.
Draco raises his arms when asked, stays stock-still for her wand to prod at his ribs. He's Occluding so hard he can barely stand it—because he hasn't been mentally prepared for this at all, still hopped up on adrenaline from practice, his self control half on the way to shot—this is Granger, Potter-affiliate and therefore off limits, weirdly intimidating, weirdly intimidatingly attractive—he'd have actually done something years ago if it weren't for the Weasel, but that's neither here nor there, now, is it? Merlin—he grits his teeth as she palpates his ribs, fingers firm but soft against his chest—
He's at the Healer's, for Salazar's sake, if anything he should be thinking about the upcoming match, how the physicals and tests will assess his condition for it, but no—right now Draco is trying to fight down any stirring thoughts (and other things), determinedly ignoring the way his stomach flips.
He looks down at her head, bent over his bare chest, soft brown curls neatly held back with a single tendril escaping by her left ear, and his eyes follow it, helplessly, to the spatter of freckles on her cheek. Already, despite himself, he knows exactly when and where this image is going, right back with him in his bedroom tonight.
"Malfoy," Hermione says, and her voice is carefully neutral even though the strain of trying and failing to not discreetly inhale him is wearing on her, "I need you to take off your rings, please, silver is a transition metal."
Draco gives her a look that says why the bloody hell would silver being a transition metal or not be important, but obligingly sits up (ripple of abs, shift of forearms, Hermione does not look, does not) and begins working at the band of solid metal around his left index.
Hermione levitates a small tray for him to place it in. She does not hold it, because if she did, her hand would tremble.
It's indecent, the way his fingers twist the silver from its seat, work it across the knuckle; she can't decide which hand is more obscene, the flattened palm of his left or the curled, working fingers of his right. Malfoy takes probably no more than a few seconds to remove his signet ring, but the moment records itself and folds into her head, expanding and filling the space next to notes-of-Malfoy's-scent-when-he's-sweaty: solid joints beneath calloused skin, a dusting of pale blond hairs on golden tan, the visible lines of veins, graceful elegant long fingers god—
Hermione waves her wand over his hands and wrists, checking the bone structure and musculature. Distantly, she's aware of her voice, shockingly steady, dictating notes to her parchment; informing Malfoy of why Quidditch can be particularly hard on forearms and hands, especially for Seekers; all the while, she can't keep her eyes away from the slight curl of his fingers, the slightly-paler band at the base of his pinky. It's a startlingly intimate sight, the expanse of skin bared, exposed, naked; she can imagine the way the signet ring sits just above the joint, there, its cool weight and engraved surface, and has to swallow.
The movement of her throat seems not to go unnoticed by Malfoy: his eyes flick up, drawing an invisible line from her temple to her jaw to the hollow of her neck, and his eyes are a dark, impenetrable gray. Eye contact is a shock, and she forces her professional smile just a notch brighter, as if nothing is wrong.
Only later, when she ushers him out with barely-concealed haste, will she realise he has been Occluding.
Draco lets Granger shoo him out the little examination room with a little disappointment but also much relief, because he sorely needs a shower, a cold one if he's being a gentleman, but now out of that room, the faintest hint of honey lingering in his nose, he can't quite find it in himself to be gentlemanly any longer.
He makes his way to the players' accommodations in record time; barges into his room, strips, steps into under the spray without waiting for it to warm up fully. The lukewarm water does nothing to help cool his overheating skin. He closes his eyes, braces himself against slippery tile, lets the water run down his nose, into his mouth, down his neck. His right hand twitches at his side, almost involuntarily, but he doesn't reach down, not yet.
Some people sing in the shower. Draco is not so uncouth; he merely hums, sometimes. He's not humming now.
As much as he'd like to immerse himself in a tapestry of lurid detail, his imagination, impressive if he does say so himself, seems rather limited right now. It provides him with snippets of honey and freckles and soft lips and brown curls; a flash of remembered soft hands against his chest, on his skin; Granger's face bent close to his hands, Granger and the tendril of hair above a pale slender neck—
His hand moves without conscious thought, and the low burn in his stomach kindles into a furious, pressing heat. A stroke, two; he's dripping, in more ways than one, shower water and steam and arousal, his skin hot and too tight. He hears his own low breath, a heavy sigh, wrestles again with the memory of Granger's hands probing at his skin, fingertips touching bare skin, and the heat amps up a notch.
His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, now, teeth aching—Draco rubs a hand over the leaking head, grips himself at the base of the shaft, leans back against the shower wall for support. The look in Granger's eyes when he'd first stepped in—a stroke—the ripple of a soft throat swallowing—a squeeze—the brush of palms against skin, clincal then, but how would her hands feel if they were exploratory on his torso—a low huff, a groan, the impossibly-tight-hot feeling of the rising wave—
The orgasm is like a hot blade, sharp and fast and just as thorough. Draco's head thunks against shower tile, and he squeezes the base of the shaft, gasping; a somewhat halfhearted knot has formed in his palm, and he thinks through the panting, breathless haze that he hasn't come this hard from his own hand in weeks. Or months.
He can't help it. Just the faint hint of her scent has gotten him this worked up; it's a tease, something tantalising, not-quite-forbidden, the smell and shape and taste of Granger. Buried urges rise to the surface, restraint melted by the steam of the shower, and Draco wants. If she's honey, he'll be an ant—a bear—a man—anything, anything hungry for that scent. It's like bait, and he can't help the pull to seek it, in all its entirety.