For All to See

by feistyferret

Summary:

The stadium roared, the night alive with colour and sound. She had told herself it was just another match, another night lost in the noise of the crowd. But the air was charged, the lights too bright, and the pulse of it all left her breathless. Some moments, she would learn, can change everything.

Notes:

• In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Dramione Month 2025 collection.

Prompt:

September 5 - Quidditch Stadium

Week 1 - Places

 

My contribution for day 5 of Dramione Month 2025! I had so much fun writing this one — a mix of Quidditch, chaos, and that very particular kind of tension only Draco and Hermione can create together. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter 1: In His Name

The sitting room was warm in a way Hermione had carefully cultivated—books stacked in unsteady towers, a shawl draped across the back of an armchair, the faint scent of bergamot rising from the teacup cooling by the window. Crookshanks dozed, sprawled like a lion over long legs in the chair, his purring filling the quiet like a spell.

Hermione stood before the mirror fixed above the mantel, fastening a silver bracelet around her wrist. She smoothed the fall of her blouse, then bent to tug on the wool skirt draped across the sofa arm. In the glass, her reflection caught the faint colour warming her cheeks, though whether from the fire’s heat or from the knowledge of being watched, she could not say.

“You’ll make us late if you don’t change,” she warned, her tone precise.

The reply came low, rich, and unhurried, curling into the air like smoke. “Grey joggers aren’t fashionable enough for the Falcons?”

Hermione snorted, tugging the skirt into place. “Not when you’re expected on a broom in front of several thousand people.”

That earned her a lazy hum, half amusement, half challenge. He rose at last, stretching long limbs as Crookshanks leapt down with an indignant thump. The half-kneazle slinked across to Hermione’s side, winding possessively around her ankles.

In three strides he was behind her, his presence filling the small room. Strong hands slid about her waist, pulling her gently back into the warmth of his chest. Hermione’s breath stilled when he dipped his head, brushing his lips through her curls, reverent despite the tease lingering in his voice.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ll change. Eventually.”

She tried for sternness, but her shoulders softened against him, her fingers curling over his forearm where it circled her middle. “Menace,” she muttered, though the word lacked all bite.

His answering chuckle rumbled against her spine, a sound far too self-satisfied, and yet she let him hold her a moment longer before nudging him toward the bedroom to dress.

---

By the time they reached the stadium, the air itself seemed to vibrate. The roar of the crowd rolled in steady waves through the stone corridors, a hum that settled in Hermione’s ribs and made her pulse trip faster. She kept close at his side as they passed through the players’ entrance, brushing shoulders with Falcons striding toward the changing rooms.

He looked maddeningly composed—hair dampened into obedience, jaw freshly shaven, broom slung over his shoulder with casual arrogance. Gone were the joggers; in their place the sharp lines of his uniform: dark grey and white robes, the falcon emblem stitched bold over his chest.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She told herself it was the sheer atmosphere of it all, the way the stadium seemed to inhale and exhale like a living thing—but really, it was him. The contrast of pale skin against severe grey, the lean strength in his stride, the precise fall of fabric over long legs, the contained coil of power that always made her wonder if anyone else saw him the way she did.

They reached the iron-barred door leading into the locker rooms. He paused, turning toward her, and before she could speak he caught her chin with his hand and bent to kiss her. Not the hurried brush she expected, but slow and certain, his lips warm against hers. The kind of kiss that left no space for doubt.

“Wish me luck, love,” he murmured against her mouth, the smirk audible in his tone.

“As if you need it,” she whispered back, though her chest felt perilously full.

A year together, and it still felt like this—electric and steady all at once. A year of stolen evenings and hidden mornings, of slipping into team celebrations and private birthdays where she’d been welcomed without question. His teammates knew; they always had. But beyond that circle? No. Neither of them had dared. Not yet. The media storm would be relentless, and so they guarded their happiness fiercely, even as the secrecy made her stomach knot with nerves every time she dared come to a match.

He released her, sweeping inside with the other players, leaving her momentarily adrift in the charged air. Hermione had only just drawn her cloak tighter when a staff member bustled past, arms full of spare equipment. They paused, offering her a smile.

“Bit cold in the stands tonight. Here—this’ll keep you warmer.”

Before she could protest, a folded Falcons jersey was pressed into her arms, the fabric smelling faintly of fresh laundry charms.

“Oh—thank you,” Hermione said, distracted, smoothing the soft grey across her fingers. 

The door clanged shut behind the players. The crowd roared louder. Hermione drew the jersey close around her shoulders, heart rattling with nerves and something she refused to name.

---

The stands shook like a living thing. Thousands of voices merged into a single chant, rolling over Hermione in waves that left her head buzzing. Coloured banners snapped in the enchanted wind, silver-edged falcons diving and soaring above the pitch.

She’d been to more than a dozen games by now, always tucked into the private section reserved for family and guests, and yet the nerves never eased. Every time she settled into her seat, she wondered if tonight would be the night someone spotted her, if the careful boundary between their private world and the public would dissolve.

With a faint shiver, Hermione unfolded the jersey draped over her arm. It smelled faintly of soap and broom polish, the fabric soft against her fingers. She slipped it on, tugging it into place over her blouse. It hung a little loose on her frame, but the warmth of it was immediate, comforting—like being wrapped in something that belonged to him.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead, filling the cavernous stadium: “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves—your Falcons are taking to the skies!”

The roar that followed was deafening. Hermione rose instinctively, her eyes tracking the players as they shot from the tunnel, brooms angled like arrows, robes of dark grey and white billowing in their wake. Seven shadows streaked upward into the floodlit night, and the noise rose to a fever pitch.

“And there he is!” the commentator cried, voice pitched with excitement. “The Falcons’ star Chaser—never mind the opposition, it’ll take more than three Wimbourne Wasps to stop him tonight!”

The name was swallowed in the roar, lost beneath the thunder of clapping and stamping. Hermione’s pulse jumped at the words all the same. He caught the Quaffle in one fluid motion, twisting into a dive so sharp it drew a collective gasp from the crowd. She gripped the edge of her seat, breath caught, heart soaring and stumbling with every feint and spin.

It was always like this: pride and dread braided together. She loved the way he flew, the precision and danger of it, but watching it from the stands was another matter entirely. Every Bludger whistling past his head felt like a personal assault on her sanity. And yet, when he outmanoeuvred them—when he drove forward with that ruthless grace—she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.

The game gathered speed, a blur of grey and yellow clashing midair. Hermione sat forward, hands curled in her lap, her nerves a taut string wound tighter with every heartbeat.

She wasn’t prepared for what would happen next.

---

For years Hermione had dismissed Quidditch as a noisy, violent spectacle—too much shouting, too little strategy. But that had been before. Before the sight of powerful thighs straddling a broomstick became something that lived rent-free in her mind. Before she knew the satisfaction of tending to the scrapes and bruises he brought home from practice, scolding him even as she pressed her wand gently to his skin. Before she grew accustomed to the manly scent of him—sweat, leather, broom polish—that clung stubbornly to his uniform long after he’d peeled it off. Before she loved him.

Now the sport was alive to her in a way books could never have conveyed. The snap of a Quaffle against leather, the shriek of a Bludger arcing wide, the sheer artistry of a well-timed dive. It was horribly non-feminist of her, she supposed—to have needed a man to make her see the point of it—but Merlin, he made it interesting. And the Falcons were good. So good she caught herself gasping, biting her lip, fists clenched in her lap whenever they slipped the Quaffle past the Wasps’ Keeper.

Her eyes never strayed far from him. He moved like he belonged in the air, each swerve precise, every goal clean. The commentator’s voice rose higher with every play, the crowd swelling with it.

“Another clean pass—he’s flying circles around the Wasps tonight!”

Hermione leaned forward, chest tight, watching him weave between two yellow-robed Chasers as if he’d been born to it.

It was then she heard it—just behind her, sharp over the din.
 “Is that—? Merlin’s beard, that’s Hermione Granger, isn’t it?”

Her stomach lurched. Of course someone would recognise her. Of course. It could be worse, she thought grimly. She could have been caught in Knockturn Alley again. Or cornered by journalists after another goblin-wizard wage dispute. Or—Merlin forbid—photographed during her weekly dash to Flourish and Blotts with ink smudged across her cheek and a stack of cauldron-maintenance manuals in her arms.

She shifted in her seat, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders—except she had no cloak. Only the jersey.

And then the world tilted.

He’d intercepted the Quaffle in one fluid motion, cutting clean across the pitch, and before she realised it Hermione was on her toes before, clapping, cheering, her arms thrown high. That was the moment the enchanted jumbotron sparked to life, capturing her in merciless clarity: Hermione Granger in Falcon grey, and across her back, stark and bold—

MALFOY.

As in Draco fucking Malfoy. The sound that followed was deafening. A gasp, then a shriek of laughter, and then the stadium roared as one, the name ricocheting from box to box, from the stands to the rafters. Camera flashes strobed against the glass, turning her into a target pinned in the light.

Hermione froze, heat flooding her face, eyes fixed upward on her own betrayal of secrecy magnified ten times over. She’d never worn his name before—on purpose. They had agreed it was too dangerous, too public, too much. She knew how much he wanted it, how he hated the hiding, but she’d never given in. Until now.

On the pitch, Malfoy faltered. Just a heartbeat—the Quaffle wobbled in his grip as he spotted the jumbotron, his broom dipped dangerously—but then his head snapped upward, straight to the private box. To her.

Hermione’s breath caught—her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst through the seams of the jersey. And then, to her horror and her undoing, he grinned.

Not his usual smirk, not the controlled curve of arrogance she knew so well. A grin—wide, fierce, unrestrained joy. Like he had already won the match, the season, everything that mattered. Like she was everything that mattered. And to make matters worse, he  winked . He actually winked at her!

Her knees nearly buckled.

The crowd roared louder, feeding off his energy, and he dove again, Quaffle tucked firm in his arm, recovering with such clean precision it looked deliberate. Hermione pressed a trembling hand to her chest, the jersey suddenly unbearably heavy with meaning, her heart thundering so hard she was sure the whole stadium could hear it.

---

The Falcons won. Of course they did. The scoreboard blazed, the enchanted announcer bellowed, confetti cannons burst green and silver across the night sky. The stadium shook with triumph, a riot of chants and stamping feet, but Hermione could barely hear any of it. Her ears still rang with the crowd’s earlier explosion, with the way Malfoy’s name had ricocheted through fifty thousand throats and landed squarely on hers.

Her heart hammered, a frantic rhythm out of step with the roars around her. Cameras still flashed, some turned on the players, many angled toward the private box where she stood stiff as a statue, the weight of the jersey branding her in front of the world.

And then the noise bent around a single figure cutting clean through it all.

A blur of motion, a streak of dark grey and white, and suddenly Malfoy was rising through the air, angling his broom toward her box with lethal grace. The floodlights caught in his white-blond hair—gleaming like silver fire—and she felt her knees weaken.

He hovered just beyond the railing, robes billowing, jaw sharp beneath the sweat-slick glow of victory. Aristocratic features carved in light and shadow, storm-grey eyes fixed entirely on her. He was breathtaking. Terrifying. Entirely hers.

The chant of  Mal-foy, Mal-foy  thundered across the stadium, but she hardly heard it. Her pulse drowned it out.

He leaned in over the handle of his broom, one gloved hand catching hers across the barrier. The grip was rough, certain, the touch of a man who had always taken what he wanted—and tonight, he wanted the whole world to see it.

“You look good in my name, pet,” he said, low and intimate, though she knew the words were pitched to carry.

“Prat,” she whispered back, trembling, though the word was nothing but breath against his cheek.

And then he kissed her.

The crowd went mad. A hurricane of sound, of flashes, of stomping feet that shook the stadium to its bones. But Hermione heard none of it. The ringing in her ears dulled, the storm folded in on itself, until there was nothing left but his mouth on hers, the heat of him pressed close, the dizzying quiet he made bloom inside her chest.

For the first time all evening, she could breathe.

---

The flat smelled faintly of bergamot and parchment, but victory clung thicker to the air. Hermione leaned against the edge of her wardrobe partition, hearing the muffled creak of her mattress as he shifted, sprawled there like he owned the place.

“Finally wore my name, love,” Malfoy called, voice rough with exhaustion and exhilaration. The sound of it sent a tremor down her spine. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

She rummaged in the drawer, keeping her voice even. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already gone to my head. The look on their faces—Merlin, I’ll be seeing it in my sleep for weeks.”

Hermione smirked, tugging the lace into place. She had bought these knickers months ago, knowing there would come a moment when she’d want the power of them. Tonight seemed fitting. The jersey came next—dark green, worn soft with age. His old Slytherin Quidditch jersey. Malfoy stitched bold across the back. She pulled it over her bare chest, the fabric cool against her skin, smelling faintly of him.

When she stepped out, she found him propped on his elbows, still in nothing but grey joggers, hair damp, silver eyes sharp with triumph. His mouth fell open.

Heat bloomed low in her stomach. His gaze dragged over her—her thighs, the tease of lace, the jersey clinging just enough to suggest, not conceal. The line straining against his joggers was impossible to miss.

Hermione tilted her head, curls spilling forward, and let herself smile. “Something wrong, Malfoy?”

He swallowed, voice rasping. “You’re trying to fucking kill me.”

She crossed the room slowly, savouring each step, his eyes devouring her like he couldn’t breathe without the sight. When she reached the bed, he didn’t wait—he grabbed her wrist and yanked her down, the laugh torn from her throat as she landed across him.

His mouth was on hers immediately, hot and consuming, teeth scraping her lower lip until she gasped. Then his hand slid between them, tugging sharply. Lace snapped.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he muttered, already parting her with his fingers, already lowering his mouth.

Hermione jolted when his tongue found her—long, wet strokes that made her thighs tremble, his hand squeezing her breast beneath the jersey, thumb rolling her nipple until her cry cracked in the quiet. She fisted his hair, tugging hard, riding his mouth as he devoured her. The heat built quick and merciless, breaking over her in a shuddering orgasm that left her gasping his name.

When he crawled back up her body, lips wet with her, she shoved him flat against the mattress, breathless with need. Her hands dragged his joggers low enough to free him.

Her chest heaved as she wrapped her fingers around him. He was thick, long, flushed dark at the head, beautiful in a way that made her thighs clench all over again.

She didn’t wait. She straddled him, sinking down in one smooth slide, his cock stretching her, filling her so completely she bit her lip against the moan.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned, head dropping back, hands gripping her hips. “So wet for me. Look at you—my jersey, my name plastered across your back while you ride my cock. You’re mine. All mine.”

The words burned straight through her, made her clench tighter, wetter, needier. She moved harder, faster, desperate to keep hearing him.

“Salazar, you feel incredible,” he rasped, thrusting up to meet her. “This cunt was made for me. Granger, you were made to take my cock.”

She whimpered at the filthy reverence of it, nails digging into his chest as her rhythm grew frantic. Every word made her slicker, every groan drove her closer.

“That’s it, pet, bounce on it—fuck—you look so perfect like this. Malfoy across your back, my cock buried inside you. You’re never taking this off again.”

Her head tipped back, curls wild, jersey clinging damp to her skin. His voice—low, urgent, possessive—dragged her under, and she shattered around him, her orgasm tearing through her in a hot, wet rush.

Malfoy’s own voice broke with a groan, but he didn’t stop, didn’t let her settle. His hips pistoned up into her, his hands squeezing bruises into her thighs. “Again. Gonna make you come on me again, Granger. Want to feel you milking my cock.”

She gasped, body still trembling, but the filth of his words had her rolling her hips down against him anyway, greedy for more. The burn, the stretch, the sound of his voice—it tipped her straight back into the spiral.

“Yes—fuck, that’s it,” he rasped, eyes wild. “Salazar, you’re beautiful. Tight little cunt gripping me like you’ll never let go. My Hermione. Mine.”

Malfoy’s hand slid between their slick bodies, thumb brushing over her clit. She jolted, a broken gasp leaving her throat.

“One more, love,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. “Give me another. Want to feel you fall apart for me, pet. Want to hear it.”

Her whole body trembled. “I can’t,” she whispered, voice wrecked, trembling against his chest. “Too much—”

“You can,” he cut in, circling her clit with maddening slowness, the pressure just enough to make her writhe. “You will. That’s it, Hermione,” he coaxed, possessive and tender all at once. “So fucking perfect, trembling on my cock in my name. Salazar, you’re going to kill me.”

Her hips bucked helplessly, chasing and flinching all at once. “Draco—please—”

“That’s it, pet. Beg for me. Want to hear it.” His voice was low, coaxing, his free hand gripping her hip so she couldn’t escape the steady drag of his thumb. “So wet, dripping down my cock. You’ll come for me again, won’t you? My good girl.”

She shook her head, curls damp against his throat, but the sound she made was pure need. He pressed firmer, circling tighter, and her breath hitched into a moan.

“Don’t fight it, Hermione,” he murmured against her ear, lips grazing her skin. “Give in. Let go for me. Want to feel you break apart again, want to feel you scream my name until the walls shake.”

Her whimpers grew ragged, body arching against him, thighs trembling as her slick coated his hand. Every word from him pushed her closer, hotter, until she was teetering on the edge, desperate and undone.

“Salazar, you’re perfect,” he groaned, voice cracking as she clenched down around him. “Come for me, love. Do it.”

Her cry rang out as she came again, wetter, harder, clutching around him in pulsing waves. That was his undoing. With a vicious curse he spilled into her, pulling her down onto him as his release ripped through him.

Their climax was loud and hot, her nails dragging down his chest while he filled her, his filthy praise still spilling against her ear even as he broke apart beneath her.

When she finally collapsed against him, trembling and soaked, he wrapped his arms tight around her, lips pressing into her curls.

“My good girl,” he whispered against her ear. “My Granger. Mine.”

She could hear his heart still racing beneath her ear, a rhythm nearly matching her own. His chest was slick with sweat where her cheek rested, but she didn’t move. She liked the feel of him—solid, warm, still trembling faintly beneath her.

“Guess the secret’s out,” he murmured into her hair, voice ragged.

“You think?” she muttered, too tired to lift her head. Her fingers curled against his ribs, as though anchoring herself there.

His laugh rumbled through her, softer now, steadying. He shifted just enough to tuck her closer, one arm wrapped around her back, the other hand brushing lazy circles over her thigh where it still rested across his hip. A kiss pressed into her curls, then another, slower. She felt the curve of his smile against her crown.

“We’ll face it together. The press, the chaos—all of it. You looked…” His breath warmed her scalp. “…perfect in my name.”

Hermione smiled into his chest, closing her eyes, letting herself sink into the circle of his arms. For once, she didn’t argue. For once, it was enough to just lie there—wrapped in him, and in the quiet certainty of being wanted.

Notes:

So… the secret’s out. I couldn’t resist giving them this kind of reveal — chaotic, messy, and a little bit perfect. I’m half-tempted to write the aftermath: the headlines, the press questions, and how they handle the storm together. But for now, I’ll leave them right here, basking in the noise and each other.

Chapter 2: The Falcon’s Claim

Summary:

The morning after the match brings owls, headlines, and a storm of speculation. Hermione dreads the fallout, Draco basks in it, and the wizarding press has never been hungrier.

Notes:

Here’s a little extra for you — I couldn’t resist following up the chaos of the reveal with the inevitable fallout. Headlines, gossip, and one very smug Draco.

The Prophet owl arrived earlier than usual, battering its beak against Hermione’s window as though the entire newsroom had conspired to ruin her morning. She groaned, tugging the duvet over her head. Beside her, Malfoy stirred, hair a tangle of pale silk across the pillow, his arm still draped possessively over her waist.

“Your fan mail’s here, love,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s not fan mail,” Hermione snapped, though it came out muffled. She shoved herself upright, snatched the rolled parchment from the owl, and unsealed it with more force than was strictly necessary.

The headline screamed up at her in bold black letters: Caught in Falcon Grey: Malfoy’s Match-Winning Kiss

“Oh, no,” Hermione groaned. She skimmed the article, face heating as it detailed her jersey, the kiss, the supposed year-long romance. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy stretching lazily, watching her like a kneazle toying with prey.

“Front page?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Good photo of me?”

Hermione hurled the Prophet at his chest. He caught it easily, flipping it open with infuriating grace. “Mm. They’ve done worse.”

Before she could retort, another owl swooped in, this one dropping a glossy Witch Weekly across her lap. In swirling pink letters: The Jersey Says It All.

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I can’t show my face at work. I can’t show my face anywhere.”

Malfoy plucked the magazine from her, eyes scanning the copy. A wicked grin spread across his mouth. “‘Even Malfoy himself nearly fell off his broom,’” he read aloud, savouring it. “Accurate.”

As if summoned, a third owl arrived, this one thudding down a copy of Quidditch Illustrated. Malfoy took it before Hermione could, his smirk widening as he skimmed the first lines.

“‘Falcons Score Twice: Victory on the Field, Kiss in the Stands.’ Gods, they’re poets. I should frame this.”

Hermione snatched it back, glaring, though her ears burned. “This isn’t funny, Draco.”

He leaned closer, silver eyes glinting, voice dropping to that dangerous softness that always undid her. “Isn’t it? The whole world finally knows you’re mine. I can live with that.”

She tried to glower, but his smugness was impossible to resist. With a groan, she collapsed back against him, hiding her face in his chest. His laugh rumbled through her, unrepentant, as the newspapers fanned out across the duvet like trophies.

---

Daily Prophet – Special Evening Edition
Caught in Falcon Grey: Malfoy’s Match-Winning Kiss

Last night’s charity Quidditch match ended with more than a Falcons victory. To the astonishment of fans, officials, and half the wizarding press, Chaser Draco Malfoy abandoned the pitch immediately after the final whistle and flew straight into the stands — where none other than Hermione Granger was waiting.

Wearing a Falcons jersey emblazoned with his name, Granger stood in full view of the enchanted jumbotron as Malfoy kissed her soundly, igniting a frenzy of speculation across the stands and beyond. Once bitter rivals at Hogwarts, the pair appear to have been keeping a very different sort of rivalry under wraps. Sources inside the Falcons camp suggest this “secret romance” has been going on for at least a year.

---

Witch Weekly – Society & Style
The Jersey Says It All

Move over, Veela models and celebrity Quidditch wives — there’s a new name on everyone’s lips, and it’s stitched across Hermione Granger’s back. Yes, that Hermione Granger. The former war heroine and Ministry star made an unmissable statement last night when she appeared in Falcons grey, Malfoy’s name blazing across her shoulders, before sealing the evening with a kiss that had the entire stadium screaming.

And let’s talk about the look: simple, classic, and devastatingly effective. No jewellery, no fuss — just a certain old Slytherin jersey paired with a flash of lace, enough to make even Malfoy himself nearly fall off his broom. Forget Parisian couture or Gladrags seasonal lines; apparently, the hottest fashion this season is someone else’s colours.

---

Quidditch Illustrated – Match Review
Falcons Score Twice: Victory on the Field, Kiss in the Stands

The Falmouth Falcons crushed the Wimbourne Wasps in last night’s charity match with a dazzling 280–110 victory, thanks in no small part to star Chaser Draco Malfoy. With four goals, two impossible interceptions, and one daring feint that had even the Wasps applauding, Malfoy proved once again why he’s at the top of his game.

But the highlight of the evening came after the whistle. While teammates celebrated mid-pitch, Malfoy ignored tradition and flew straight for the guest boxes, where Hermione Granger stood cheering. The stadium erupted as the two shared what will surely be remembered as one of Quidditch’s most infamous post-match moments.

Some fans are calling it reckless, others romantic, but one thing is certain: the Falcons haven’t just secured a win on the field — they’ve secured the front page for weeks to come.

Notes:

Just a short companion to the first part — the calm after the storm (if you can call it calm when a sexy Draco is involved). Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this glimpse of the morning after!