Chapter Text
October 6, 2007, Saturday
Hermione
It was no secret that Hermione Granger hated Quidditch.
Granted, Quidditch entertainment had improved over the years. Quidditch leagues had borrowed liberally from muggle sports shows, adding halftime breaks, kiss cams, and music performance intermissions, as though that somehow compensated for watching grown adults chase and avoid various balls for five hours straight.
Quidditch breaks now featured mini-games where fans could win team merchandise or tickets to anticipated matches, and concession stands that sold everything from chocolate frog popcorn to enchanted beverages that changed flavour mid-sip.
It was, Hermione supposed, a more tolerable version of torture.
Even after years of being surrounded by Quidditch players—dating one, befriending several—she still couldn't see the appeal. Flying was fine in theory; she had no objection to broom travel. But voluntarily watching people nearly decapitate each other midair or almost fall into certain death? Hard pass.
That said, she wasn't immune to specific aesthetic qualities that one can only find in Quidditch. If she were brutally honest, she might admit to having a soft spot for broom thighs—specifically, the kind belonging to the Falmouth Falcons' Keeper.
But she had to focus because she was not there to ogle broom thighs today.
She was there to support Ginny Weasley's long-awaited debut as the Hollyhead Harpies' new Chaser. The Harpies had just qualified for the Quidditch United International League (QUIL), and this opening match against the Caerphilly Catapults was their first step into the global circuit.
Ginny, in her usual whirlwind of confidence, had secured VIP tickets for Hermione and Ron, insisting they had to be there to cheer her on.
Watching Ginny play was one thing.
Watching Ginny's game with Ronald Bilius Weasley was another.
She and Ron had tried. Merlin, had they tried.
They'd come together after the war, when both were too broken to be anything more than familiar. They shared a modest flat in Diagon Alley—Ron training as an Auror with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Hermione immersing herself in the secrecy of the Department of Mysteries as a newly appointed Unspeakable.
For three long, earnest years, they'd tried to make it work—only to realise they made far better comrades than lovers.
Ron moved out. Moved on. Found Christine Veynar, a fellow Auror who actually enjoyed his penchant for impulsive heroics. Hermione approved. Christine was good for him. She was steady, pragmatic and far less likely to throw a punch when Ron said something stupid.
Ginny, of course, refused to let things lie. Subtlety had never been her strong suit. Convinced that her brother and best friend were meant to be—as though destiny were a family hobby—she'd made it her personal mission to rekindle a spark that had long burnt out.
Christmas. New Year. Birthdays. There was always something.
Ginny would accidentally seat them side by side at family dinners, forget to invite anyone else to small get-togethers, or assign them joint errands under the guise of convenience. Once, she'd even convinced Hermione to help her choose a wedding gift—only to reveal, halfway through, that Ron was coming along for a second opinion.
By now, Hermione suspected Ginny had a colour-coded chart somewhere detailing her matchmaking attempts. It was either that or divine intervention, because no one could orchestrate so many coincidences without a strategy.
It would have been endearing if it weren't so mortifying. Christine, to her credit, never took the meddling personally.
Hermione had scolded Ginny more than once, reminding her that she was perfectly content being single—even if a year or two of singledom had quietly turned into several more. She was an Unspeakable, after all, buried in classified research and Ministry deadlines. Dating hardly fits into the schedule.
And so, that was how Hermione Granger found herself at the Harpies' inaugural QUIL match, halfway through the game, regretting every life choice that led her there—particularly the one where she didn't slip away to the loo during halftime.
Because now, on the massive jumbotron above the pitch, framed in shimmering gold sparkles and the mortifying words "KISS CAM!", were two very uncomfortable exes.
Hermione froze. Ron turned beet-red.
Hermione looked up at the massive screen in horror, realising too late that the Kiss Cam had settled squarely on her and Ron. She froze, her mind racing for a spell that could discreetly set the camera on fire without violating the Ministry's Device Protection Act.
She glanced toward the cameraman, silently pleading for mercy, but he only grinned and zoomed in closer. Traitor.
The announcer's magically amplified voice boomed across the stadium, far too gleeful for Hermione's liking.
"Would you look at that, folks—two-thirds of the Golden Trio! Is this time for a rekindling?"
The crowd erupted.
Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!
Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!
Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!
Hermione wanted the earth to swallow her whole. Ron's ears went scarlet, and she could practically feel the cameras feeding on their mortification. Ginny was no doubt doubled over with laughter in the players' box, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle she'd helped create.
Hermione should have suspected that the VIP tickets came with a sneak attack.
Hermione barely had time to react. One moment she was frozen under the glare of the Kiss Cam, the next—nimble fingers brushed against her cheek, tilting her chin upward with surprising gentleness.
Before she could form a protest, warm lips met hers.
Her breath caught. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as the roar of the crowd vanished into stunned silence. All she could register were fragments—the faint scent of rain and broom polish, the calloused fingertips holding her steady, and the shock of cool, silvery-grey eyes staring right into her.
His thumb traced her jaw in a fleeting, almost comforting motion, as though to say just play along—it'll be over soon. His other hand rested lightly on her shoulder, steady and sure.
And then it was over.
The kiss broke as quickly as it had begun, leaving Hermione blinking, dazed, lips tingling, heart stuttering somewhere between outrage and disbelief.
For a beat, the entire stadium was silent—you could have heard a Snitch's wings flutter.
Then, the announcer's voice, struggling not to laugh, rang out across the pitch: "Falmouth Falcons' Keeper Draco Malfoy with the save!"
It was no secret then that Hermione Granger hated Quidditch but liked the halftime breaks.