Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Again, Pansy. Focus.”

I swallow a groan as Coach Olympe Maxime barks her orders from outside of the rink.

It’s been a long day—one of many long, long days. And if I’m basing it off of my coach’s impatience, it’s been a shittier day than usual.

She holds a manicured fingernail upon her remote control as I drag my skates along the ice to the center of the rink and assume my starting pose. A sweeping Chopin opus fills the air.

This piece for my free skate was not my choice; it was my choreographer, Tonks’s. She’d selected it in hopes that I would feel at ease back on the ice, but I can’t relate to it emotionally, and not even the violin’s keen vibrato can drum up the slightest bit of feeling in me besides ennui and frustration. It shows (or, well, it doesn’t) in my movements, which even to me are stilted. Dull. Forced. A Zamboni could do better.

My money shot combination is difficult tedium: I do a crossover into a triple flip. Then I go straight into a triple loop.

I stick the landing, but my loop is under-rotated.

Fuck. This. Shit.

I can feel Coach Olympe gazing impassively at my S-step sequence, or maybe at the way I sweep my arms. Whatever she thinks of it, I already know my routine is a far cry from how I performed at the last Winter Games. Hell, I don't even have music for the more technical short programme yet.

The truth of it is, I’m in a moderate—no, severe slump. Anyone in my skates would be. I’ve been figure skating for as long as I can remember. My life has been lived on the ice. My entire career—all my hard work and my gold medals, and even my first Winter Games where I didn’t place, were building up to two things: my second Winter Games’ short programme, and the subsequent free skate.

I broke an Olympic record in the former.

I broke my fucking ankle in two places in the final seconds of the latter.

I limped home with a silver medal and dashed dreams.

I haven’t been the same since.

Months of rehab, one missed season, and two disastrous exhibition tours later, my former skating coach, Septima Vector, ran out of ideas to bring my mojo back.

Her repeated diagnosis: I was “in no mental state to return to my peak technical form.”

As if to prove her point, I had a little menty b and told her to fuck off.

Well, she did, and that’s why I’m here in Gryffindor City, training under a new coach while Septima continues to hold a grudge.

I finish the last sequence of what I wish was a Celestina song, but Coach Olympe ends my suffering early and cuts the music short.

“Does this bore you?” she asks as I catch my breath.

“Do you want me to answer that?” Skating to some dead guy’s most sleep-inducing nocturne isn’t exactly fun. My routine begs for more energy. I can feel it in my bones.

“No.” Coach Olympe calls me off the ice. “Your first competition is in two months, and this is not it, Pansy. You must dictate your mood, not the other way around.”

“I’m not a robot,” I huff. I want to give it my all.

“Mmm.” She pulls an unimpressed, very French moue. She turns to where my training companion is pulling her skate guards off. “Hermione. Your turn.”

“Nice one,” Granger murmurs to me, and she’s actually being sincere. It’s all I can do not to stick my tongue out at her. I only sigh as we skate past one another and she makes her way to the middle of the rink.

I want to hate Hermione Granger, I really do. Skaters like us don’t really make friends, but since she’s not technically my competition, most days I can only stir up halfhearted resentment.

People call her the Golden Girl, and she and her injured partner, Percy Weasley, are the nation’s pride and joy. Together, they are the most decorated pair skaters the sport has ever known. Maybe it’s because they’ve been with the Madame Maxime all their lives. (It’s in her name, after all. Olympe.) I should probably feel some type of way about skating alongside Granger, but I don’t, because I’m here as Olympe’s charity case.

Percy, though, I adore. He’s the only one I allow to call me out on my bullshit and live.

He’s watching on the sidelines as usual, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

“Ew,” I greet him. “You finished rehab early.”

“Early enough to witness you bollocksing it out there,” he jabs back primly. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth and I immediately want to rip his freckled lips off.

I settle for snatching his cup from him and taking a large sip. “At least I can still skate.” 

"Excuse you,” he scoffs.

Percy tore his ACL last month and is benched for at least one season. That’s why Granger has taken to the ice alone: so she can work on her form while Percy recovers. His brace has just come off, so he’s been coming to watch every practice.

“Well?” I ask, though it’s unnecessary. Percy will issue his critique anyway, solicited or not.

“Your spins were sloppy on the windup and your jumps lacked confidence, but I’ll give it to you because, oh, what was it again? You twisted your ankle over a year ago?”

I told him about my phantom pains one time… “Bitch.”

Percy tuts, unbothered. “Touchy.”

“Shut up.”

He has to anyway, because Coach Olympe raises the volume of Hermione’s practice piece as she levels us a glare. “Pansy.” She beckons me over again. “Come here.”

I make a face at Percy and walk over, his cup of coffee still in my clutches.

“Watch.” Coach points to where Granger is executing a flawless Biellmann spin. She’s clinging to her left leg, which is extended behind her and above her head. Her back is arched into a perfect teardrop shape as she spins rapidly on her right foot. It’s one of the required spins in competitions, and one of many I haven’t been able to do with consistency since my injury.

“You can do it better.” She eyes me shrewdly, and I scoff.

“Maybe.”

“It was right, what Septima said about you. You must conquer and channel your moods so you can let your technical prowess shine again. If you manage it, you could be unbeatable.”

Unlikely. “So you’re saying I’m better than the Golden Girl?”

“Yes.” Coach Olympe says matter-of-factly. “Hermione, for all her skill, lacks emotion when she skates on her own. She brings the perfection. Percy brings the heart. You are capable of bringing both. At least, you used to be.”

Used to be. Has-been Pansy Parkinson, that’s me. I sneer. “Know where I can get a partner this late in the game?”

She slaps my free hand with her remote. “Listen to me. You and Hermione are two sides of the same coin. She thinks too hard, while you feel too hard. Do you understand? ”

I only rub my hand petulantly, so she dismisses me again. “Go sit with Percy.”

“You’re asking for trouble,” Percy says when I return, taking back his cup. “I don’t know why you talk back to Olympe that way.”

“Does Olympe know you call her that?”

“She hates it. Anyway, she has a point.”

“I know, okay.” I’m sick of everyone telling me what I already fucking know.

“Oh! Don’t look now,” Percy whispers suddenly, thwacking my arm, “but the guy who replaced my brother on the Lions’ lineup is here.”

I couldn’t care less. Hockey players are the bane of my existence. They’re all loud, rude boys who leave chinks and holes in the ice that the Zamboni can’t always fix. They’re the reason figure skaters everywhere need to train earlier in the day, because God forbid we get our own rink on our sport’s measly funding. Gryffindor Arena, with its too-hard ice, is no exception—it’s home to the Gryffindor Lions, who apparently have made it to the upcoming Stanley Cup playoffs.

Percy, on the other hand, has to care about hockey. He unfortunately belongs to an extremely large, extremely athletic, and extremely ginger family that fans have dubbed the Ice Weasels. (Hilariously bad, I know.) While his five brothers and only sister all became Olympic speed skaters and pro hockey players, Percy was never very interested in either sport. So he dropped his hockey stick and went on to become the first out and proud figure skater. (He still has to watch his siblings' events, though.)

“Which brother just retired?” I ask. “Charlie?”

“No, Bill.”

“How sad.”

“Don't look so heartbroken.”

“But I am. Bill's the fit one.”

Percy pretends to gag. “Okay, one, Bill’s married, and two, that’s the most disgusting thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

“Unless the new guy is somehow hotter, I’ll keep lusting over Bill,” I declare.

My eyes scan the stands until they settle on the lone figure sitting near the entrance. He’s wearing a beanie that covers most of his hair, but I know that shocking blond shade anywhere. “Percy, that’s Draco Malfoy.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, but he’s with the Snakes!” Draco’s also my childhood friend from Slytherin City, and the only hockey player I can actually stand.

“Not anymore.” Percy tells me that their manager poached him at the end of the regular season, which sounds like a faux pas of some sort. “But Malfoy had been wanting to leave anyway.”

“How did he do that? The Malfoys own Slytherin Stadium.” Among other sports mogul things. I doubt the Snakes would have let Draco go willingly. He is, to my knowledge, a superstar, his scion status notwithstanding.

Percy whistles. “Rich boy. Hermione’s in luck.”

“Granger?”

“You left early, but I think I saw him flirting with her last week.”

I snort. “Draco can’t flirt.” All the hockey roughhousing in the world couldn’t weed out his posh, antagonistic sarcasm—I know that for a fact.

“Neither can Hermione. I have a good feeling about this.”

It makes an odd sort of sense. Granger is nice, but she has a shit sense of humour. “The Draco I know would either hate her, or fall arse over teakettle for her.” In both scenarios, he would probably act the same.

“Even better.”

“You just want to see her be bad at something, for once.”

“I confess,” Percy says, “I do.”

Coach Olympe calls me back on the ice as soon as Hermione’s routine is over. She has us take turns drilling the required elements for the short programme, and takes notes while Percy plays the part of Unofficial Judge.

According to him, Hermione outscores me by three points. But he’s biased.

When we debrief off the ice, Coach gives me a serious look. “You know what I think you need?”

“A new ankle?”

She looms over me. God, she’s tall. “Besides the obvious attitude adjustment,” she says, side-eyeing me, “you need to go enjoy yourself. Why don’t you and Hermione go out and do something this weekend.”

“Do something?”

“Yes. Live some life. Do something to forget yourself a bit.”

“I thought you asked me to focus,” I retort.

Coach’s lips press into a line. “That will come after you let go of whatever’s… repressing you. Hermione, please?”

“Yes, Coach!” Granger says. Swot.

“What about me!” Percy cries.

“You rest.” Coach raps her pen over his head with an air of finality. We watch in silence as she picks up her bag and walks out of the arena.

Granger hugs herself. “Well, you heard her. Would you like to do anything, Pansy?”

God, what a do-gooder.

“Parkinson.” The deep, familiar voice of Draco Malfoy calls my name, and all three of us turn to watch him swagger down the stands towards us.

“Draco.” Grinning, I walk over on my skates to give him a hug. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I was about to say the same. You look good, Pans.”

“You too.” Draco’s always been handsome, and he is all too aware. I’m about to tell him off, but then his gaze darts over my shoulder. He only thinks he’s sneaky, but I know that look—he’s definitely eyefucking Granger. I’m low on good deeds today, so I decide to do him a favour.

“Come meet my training partners,” I say. “This is Hermione Gran—”

“We’ve met,” Granger snaps, crossing her arms. Her voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

“Oh?” I say, shooting Percy a look that says I told you so before continuing, “This is Percy Weasley. He’s Bill and Charlie Weasley’s brother.”

“Hey,” Draco says.

“Hey yourself.” Percy leers, and Granger smacks him on the shoulder.

Draco turns his attention back to me. “Physical therapy starts in a bit. Want to grab dinner later?”

“Like, a date?” I pretend to think about it. Draco smirks.

Behind me, Granger interjects, “We were going to get dinner, actually. Coach’s orders. Right, Pans?”

Okay, what the fuck is up with Granger?

“Dinner sounds…?” I look between her and Draco, unsure whose invitation I’m about to accept.

“Am I invited?” the chaos gremlin named Percy asks. “We could double. Hermione and Pansy, me and Draco.”

The other two balk.

Listen. I have very low tolerance for this type of pain.

“You know what,” I say, “rain check? I’m tired.”

“Well if you’re not going, I’m not going,” Percy says, positively thrumming with glee.

“Sure, Pans.” Draco smirks. He turns to Hermione. “What do you say then, Golden Girl?”

Oh, he’s using his best sexy purr. He’s down bad.

Hermione splutters, and her face goes tomato-red. “It’s Hermione, and no, I will not go to dinner with you!”

“Is Granger like this with every guy that asks her out?” I whisper loudly in Percy’s direction.

“Just the ones she likes,” he fake-whispers back.

Granger has just about had it, so she grabs her things and storms away in her uncovered skates. “Bye, Perce!” she shouts.

Draco is still smirking, so I pinch him hard.

“Ow!”

“I’ve never seen Hermione huff and puff like that,” Percy says. “I’m impressed.”

“What ever did you say to piss her off?” I ask.

“Misunderstanding,” Draco mumbles. “Charlie told me about your injury, so I said that if she ever needed a partner…”

Percy actually cackles. “Wow.”

“That can’t have been all.” I narrow my eyes at Draco. “Let me guess. When she got all uppity, you took it as your cue to pick a fight.”

He winces. “You’re not wrong.”

Percy’s phone buzzes. “It’s Ginny,” he says, typing up a reply. “My sister,” he adds for Draco’s benefit.

“I’ve met her,” Draco says.

“Is she here to pick you up,” I ask, “or to snog her new man before practice?”

“Both. I think they came over together. There they are—Gin!” He waves her over.

So, I lied. Ginny Weasley is probably the only other hockey player besides Draco that I can tolerate. She plays pro for the Holyhead Harpies, but since the ladies' league is in the off season, she stays in the city to watch her brothers and her boyfriend scrimmage.

She runs up to us and punches Percy in the shoulder. “I’ve been calling you.” She turns to me and Draco. “Hey, Ice Queen. Hey, Malfoy.”

Have I mentioned that Ginny’s something of a tomboy? I mean. Six older brothers.

“Ice Weaselette,” I reply coolly. Draco only smirks.

“Ugh!” Percy protests. “I’m injured! And you know the cell reception here sucks.”

Ginny’s boyfriend, Harry “Scarhead” Potter, joins us a second later and jerks a man nod at Draco. Potter is... well, I know he's the captain of the Lions. I’m also pretty certain he’s Granger’s best friend, so I wonder if he knows about this little thing she’s got going on with his new teammate.

“Locker room?” he asks Draco.

Draco nods tersely. “I’ll grab my gear.”

The two stalk off, and Ginny begins shimmying aggressively before Percy. If it’s to piss him off, it’s working.

“Get your tits out of my face,” he complains.

“No!”

“Don’t make me file a fucking restraining order against you.”

“Tsk. You’re not looking hard enough,” Ginny insists, pushing her breasts closer.

I reach over and pull at a few colourful stubs peeking out of her shirt. “They’re tickets, Percy.”

“Oh.”

“First game of the playoffs!” Ginny squeals excitedly. “This weekend. VIP. Lions versus Badgers.”

Percy takes the tickets from me. “Did you get these from Charlie?”

“No. You know he always gives his to Mum, Dad, and whoever he’s shagging that week. These are from Harry!”

“Why are you acting like a groupie? You play pro too, remember?”

“It’s my first time attending in a professional girlfriend capacity.”

“Took you long enough to bag him,” Percy mutters.

“What’s that now?” Ginny holds up a fist, and I feel a keen appreciation for the fact that I’m an only child. I could watch this nonsense forever, but living it looks tiresome. I sit down and untie my skates so I can leave.

“Oh, look! Three tickets!” Percy says. He pouts down at them. “I wish I could go, but I don’t want to.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “As if you have anywhere else to be.”

“Coach told me I needed to rest. Isn’t that right, Pansy?”

I nod with false seriousness.

“Whatever,” Ginny says. Her face brightens suspiciously as she grabs my arm. “Pansy! You should come! It’s a home game, so they’re playing right here.”

God damn it, I should have left ten minutes ago. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” I hate hockey, I want to say. I’d sooner do my boring routine ten times over, non-stop.

“Come on,” she presses, “it’ll be fun!”

Percy gasps, clasping his hands together. “That’s right! Ginny, make sure Hermione takes the other ticket. She’ll wanna support Harry. And the new guy.”

I blink, then suppress a smirk. Granger being forced to watch Draco play from VIP? Now that’s something I’d pay good money to see. “You know what? Count me in.”

“Enjoy!” Percy winks. “Tell me all about it.”

That’s how I end up watching the kickoff game of the Stanley Cup playoffs. I’m sandwiched between Granger, who’s admiring the view from our seats in the lower bowl, and Ginny, who’s talking my ear off about ice hockey. (Or at least, she’s trying to. It’s so loud in here, and the game hasn’t even started yet.) She was shocked to learn I didn’t know a thing about this sport, its rules, or its players. I mean, just because I’ve been forced to share a rink with hockey goons all my life doesn’t mean I have to understand a thing they do. Now, thanks to her, I finally know what all those dots, lines, and circles on the ice are for.

Once she starts getting into the rules, though, I order her to stop. Hockey’s easy enough. It’s just a bunch of overly padded guys skating around with sticks to smack a little black puck into a net. Oh, and they’re all wannabe boxers.

I’m genuinely curious though, so I ask, “Do women get into brawls too?”

“Oh, yeah. We don’t drop our gloves anywhere near as often, but it’s an essential part of the game.”

Granger makes a disapproving noise. “It's an injury risk.”

Ginny shrugs. “Emotions run high in hockey. Fighting provides an outlet.” 

I find that oddly relatable. Maybe I should get into a boxing match with Granger, just to sort out my allegedly unpredictable moods.

“You have to admit,” Ginny adds, “it’s kinda hot when the men engage in fisticuffs. All that testosterone.”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Hermione agrees with me!”

I glance at Granger, and she isn’t denying it. Interesting. “I’ve seen Draco get into fights, you know,” I bait her casually.

She sighs. “If he’s anywhere near as aggravating on the ice as he is in person, then it’s no wonder he gets into them.”

“Yes, he's eminently punchable. I’m just glad he hasn’t damaged his pretty face.” I pull up his Insta profile on my phone. She pretends not to look.

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “He’s fit. If I weren’t dating Harry already, I might’ve… you know.”

“He’s rather pointy, though, isn’t he?” Granger remarks.

I shrug. “I’ve heard him described as chiselled. Have you seen him without a shirt on?” I tap on his most recent gym bro photo. It’s not as bad as I’ve seen other men post, but still. Gross.

Granger turns to me warily. “How do you two know each other again?”

“We grew up together. In Slytherin.”

“Did you date?” Ginny asks. Granger looks even more suspicious now.

“No,” I scoff. “He has a type.”

“Do tell.”

“Mmm, brunettes… long, curly hair… more swotty and insufferable than he is.”

“I’m not his type!” Granger says hotly. “I’m not insufferable.”

I exchange a glance with Ginny and we hold each other as we cackle. Granger’s gigantic hair looms over us as she jumps to her feet. “Stop it right now!”

“Sit down,” I tell her as Ginny wipes her eyes.

“Yeah, Hermione. Pansy never said he liked you. If you agree that you check most of his boxes, that sounds like a you problem.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Draco owes me a drink.

The arena lights dim and colourful spotlights begin to circle the ice. Ginny and Hermione whoop, all teasing forgotten, as the announcer’s voice booms over the cheering crowd. He urges everyone to make even more noise, and then some cheesy, magic-themed manifesto video begins to play. The players featured in it are all dressed as… wizards? I don’t fucking know. 

Blah, blah, hockey, glory, magical Stanley Cup. 

Afterwards, the teams’ mascots, a lion and a badger, emerge. They come up to the section before ours and twerk for the TV cameras. 

The audience eats up their foolishness.

The mascots make their exit and the home crowd begins to chant. “GRY-FFIN-DOR! GRY-FFIN-DOR!”

Fog blasters go off on every corner of the rink. Dramatic music swells. The Jumbotron above us flashes live footage of a squadron of hockey players in white and red marching out of the locker room, followed by another team in yellow and grey.

“ARE! YOU! READY!” the announcer bellows. “THE LIONS!!!!! EAT!!!! TONIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!”

I hate it here.

The crowd screams as the two teams pour out onto the ice, skating circles around their respective sides of the rink.

The announcer rattles out the sponsors before calling over the din, “HERE!! ARE YOUR GRYFFINDOR LIONS STARTERS!! YOUR CENTER, YOUR CAPTAIN!! NUMBER SEVEN, HARRYYYYYYY POTTEEEEEER!!!!!!”

“Wooooohoooooo!!!!” Ginny hoots.

“Go Harry!” Granger cries as Potter’s face flashes on the Jumbotron. It’s a good photo—his signature lightning scar looks intimidating.

“AT RIGHT WING! NUMBER SIXTY-NINE, CORMAAAC MCLAGGEEEEEEEN!!!!”

“Sixty-nine?” I ask. “Really?”

“Cormac’s gross,” Ginny says.

Granger nods. “Agreed.”

“YOUR NEW!! LEFT!! WINGER!!!! WELCOME TO THE LION’S DEN, NUMBER SEVENTY-SEVEN, DRACOOOOOOOO MALFOOOOOOOOY!!!!”

Draco’s smirking face on the screen is met by cheers and jeers both, and I wonder at that as Granger squirms in her seat.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny says. “He’ll win the fans over in no time!”

“ON DEFENSE! NUMBER TWO, CHAAAAARLIIIIIEEE WEASLEEEY!!!!”

Weasley Number Two, whom I can identify from the unruly red hair poking from beneath his helmet, pumps his stick at the crowd and puts a gloved hand to his ear. The Ice Weasel fans are all too happy to oblige him.

“Boooo!” Ginny taunts merrily as though her brother can hear.

“NUMBER THIRTY, NEVIIIIIILLE LONGBOTTOOOOOOOOM!”

“Is that actually his name??” I demand incredulously. 

I frown up at the Jumbotron, and sure enough, the ticker below this guy’s face reads, ‘Neville Longbottom’. His photo shows him offering a shy, dimpled smile that doesn’t suit the scar on his lip, nor the stubble on his jaw. His dark hair is cropped short and neat, and it brings out his eyes. They’re a warm, mossy sort of green. I blink. He’s… really cute. 

The transition pane flashes, wiping his face away. 

“Nev’s a sweetheart,” Granger says.

“Ya,” Ginny agrees. “That’s him over there!” She points at a tough-looking guy who, even as the crowd cheers, is waving in an embarrassed sort of manner.

“AND FINALLY!” the announcer booms, “IN GOAL!!! NUMBER THIRTEEN, OLIVEEEEEER WOOOOOOOOD!!!!”

A burly man who’s padded up like an angry starfish races to the net.

Ginny snaps a photo of him. “For Katie!” she hollers excitedly as she sends it, presumably, to Katie. Whoever that is.

The announcer doesn’t even introduce the Hufflepuff team and instead makes us rise for the national anthem.

“Will this fanfare ever end?” I ask Ginny.

“Patience,” she tuts. “The opening face-off is right after this.”

True enough, the players and referees take their places on either side of the red halfway line. Potter stands in the middle, and directly across from him is the Badgers’ captain, who Granger says is named Cedric Diggory. The rest of them are hunched over like gargoyles, sticks at the ready as a referee holds a puck above the center circle.

I'm bored just waiting to see what happens. The last time I deigned to watch a game, it was pee wee hockey, which is just kids swarming around the puck, pushing one another while trying not to fall over. I’m not optimistic that pro hockey is much different.

The puck is dropped, and Potter and Diggory slap their sticks against each other to try and snatch it. Potter gives the puck a mighty whack, and immediately it’s in 69 Guy’s possession. He makes a mad dash for the opposite goal, sliding the puck between either side of his stick’s blade. The Lions get on the move, skating in predatory circles until 69 runs into the Badgers’ first line of… 

“Dementors?” I ask.

“Defensemen!” Ginny cackles over the roaring crowd. “They’re gonna do their best to make sure Cormac can’t score—look! He’s passed it to Harry! Harry to Draco! Draco slipping past their D— he shoots— can it get through the goalie’s legs, oh my fuck—”

“GOAL!!!” the announcer crows as the goal horn blares. “DRACOOO MALFOOOOOY!!!”

“SCORE!!!!!” Granger jumps and shrieks, pulling Ginny’s and my attention from the goal. She clears her throat. “That was just… really quick,” she says breathlessly, patting her skirt down.

Meanwhile, every single Lion save for the goalie hops out of the rink as a new set of five dash in. The Badgers do the same.

I frown. “That’s it?” 

“They use up all their energy in short bursts, so they swap lines every minute or so,” Granger explains in a rush. “All the sprinting and the rapid gameplay is why hockey’s called the fastest game in the world.”

“That can’t be right,” I say, but I immediately stand corrected. Things progress at a much faster, more violent pace than I could have imagined. In a flash, the first line is back on the ice. In another, they’re out again. There’s so much shoving each time gameplay resumes, and I cringe as the players’ skates and sticks bash against the ice as they sprint in one direction and then the other.

It’s a rapid exchange that I am certain is exhausting, and my heart is actually racing as if I were the one on the ice. I hate to admit it, but this is exciting.

Fortunately for the Lions, the Badgers’ charge doesn’t amount to anything, and the time in the first period is fast dwindling down.

I can barely follow, but Potter fumbles the puck amidst some heavy pushing. He falls hard and slides across the ice, and a Badger named Finch-Fletchley has the puck. He smacks it out to Diggory, who catches it and breaks away from everyone else in a mad sprint. 

“Where the fuck are the rest of them!” I scream.

In seconds, Diggory’s encroached upon the Gryffindor goal. But right when I think he’s about to score, the cute guy with the weird name—Longbottom—chases him down! He slams hard into Diggory, sending him flying into the glass.

“FUCKING BRILL!” Ginny hollers.

“Holy shit!” I cry, but it’s apparently a legal body check and it’s not over yet. The puck skitters behind the net and a mad scramble ensues. Weasley (I think) gains control, and then some Badger, and then Longbottom again. He passes the puck to Draco and then the Lions are charging back up the rink as the Badgers give chase.

There’s a whole swarm of men crowded around the Badgers’ goal. Draco passes to Harry, who passes it back to Draco. He feeds it to 69. They still can’t get past the barricade of sticks and bodies.

69 whacks the puck back out to the players on the outside. They’re so far from the net, but the Badgers jump to block them, quick as fuck. Charlie Weasley smacks it to Longbottom, who somehow finds an opening and—SLAP!

“SCOOOORE!!!” The announcer screams over the goal horn. “TWO-ZERO, NEVIIIIIILLE LOOOOONGBOTTOM!!!”

A rocked-up version of This Is the Night by the Weird Sisters plays, and I scream in spite of myself. Ginny is in raptures beside me.

“What a fucking shot!” she cries, and to my untrained eye, it had been. Longbottom had gone and smacked the puck into the upper right corner of the goal, clean past the goaltender’s head. An impressed tingle crawls up my spine.

My eyes track him as his teammates slap his helmet, back, and bum. I keep watching him as he and the rest hop into the bench area and another line of Lions takes over the ice.

He whips his gloves and helmet off and gathers big gulps of air. He glances up at the clock, and fuck, his Adam’s apple makes me swallow. 

And then his eyes fall… and somehow find mine from all the way across the rink. 

I’m not fucking making this up!

I startle, and my cheeks flush. Suddenly I’m out of oxygen.

We stare at one another, and it feels electric. His mouth twitches, and I can almost picture how it might feel against mine. But then Weasley Number Two jostles him back into the game, and he breaks eye contact. I take a dizzying breath.

“No, no, no!” Ginny is groaning next to me, because one of the Lions has committed some kind of foul.

He’s sent into what I know is called a sin bin, and Hufflepuff scrambles to maximise Gryffindor’s little time-out. 

It’s a messy final minute, and finally, the buzzer sounds. Just like that, the first period is over.

“That was mad,” Granger says.

Ginny agrees. “You’re lucky to be watching this one, Pansy! Two goals straightaway.”

The players march out of the arena, and Ginny informs me of the break between periods so they can clean the ice and the players can rest and strategise. It’s a good thing, because I need a break, too.

I lean back into my seat and take a sip of water. This is definitely not the same as pee wee hockey.

The teams are back out on the ice a few minutes before the second period begins, and I don’t think I’m imagining it when Longbottom skates closer to our side of the rink. His eyes trail up the stands, and when he gazes in our direction, I awkwardly whip my head towards the Jumbotron.

“Hi, Nev!” Granger waves, and I hazard a glance back towards where he’s still standing. He pulls a little grin, and I bite my lip. That dimple of his should be illegal.

“Uh-oh.” Ginny elbows me. “If they lose tonight, Pans, it’s gonna be all your fault.”

“Shut up.” I cross my arms as Neville skates backwards and into one of his teammates.

“Don’t worry. I’ll introduce you after the game.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased.

The second period is nowhere near as eventful as the first. There are a few scuffles, but it ends with Hufflepuff making a desperate attempt at a goal from much too far away.

The Badgers finally score in the third, when one of them makes a lucky shot between Oliver Wood’s legs.

The Lions, however, are quick to rally, and the rest of the final period is spent in a tough battle for possession of the puck. Even this non-scoring action is exhilarating—each team always seems to be on the brink of scoring a goal.

With only three minutes left on the clock, the Badgers are looking increasingly frantic. When Potter steals the puck from them in a particularly violent play, one of the Badgers, Smith, skates over to him and shoves him hard from behind. 

I gawk.

Potter whirls around and shoves him back. Smith immediately pulls his gloves off and grabs him by the collar. Potter tries to skate away, but Smith holds tight. He drops his other glove and continues to tug at Potter until Longbottom steps between them.

“What’s going on!” I shout over the crowd’s boos.

“Zacharias Smith is trying to instigate a fight,” Ginny explains. “He’s a spoilsport. Usually, fights start when someone believes their team’s been wronged, but in this case, he just can’t stand that they’re losing, so he’s acting out.”

Granger tuts. “You're so biased.”

“What Harry did was totally legal!” Ginny insists.

Smith’s behaviour irritates me for reasons I can’t articulate. I watch with frustration as Longbottom pries both players apart. “Why isn’t Potter fighting back? Why aren’t the refs doing anything?”

Ginny pumps her eyebrows knowingly. “Watch.”

A referee thrusts his arm out to one side, and Smith is sent into the sin bin. Ginny claps in delight. “Power play!”

The Lions already have their five best scorers on the ice, and in no time at all, Potter manages to score their third goal against the Badgers’ remaining four players.

The final buzzer sounds, and the fans go absolutely wild.

“They did it!” Hermione screams, and I want to scream too. But I contain myself, because hockey is still a boorish sport. I’d never hear the end of it from Percy if he found out I liked it.

The Lions are celebrating on the rink, clapping one another’s shoulders and clacking their sticks on the ice. Yet again, I’m drawn to Longbottom, who whips his helmet off and shakes out his sweat-slicked hair. I have to clench my jaw before it drops, because there’s literally! Steam! Emanating from his body!

It's an ordinary sight among ice athletes, but does he have to look so hot?

He nods modestly as his teammates jostle him, and he chances a glance in our direction—holy shit, I swear it, he’s looking at me—before disappearing with the rest of the team into the locker room.

“So? What did you think?” Ginny prods me as people get up to leave. She and Granger are waiting for Potter and Weasley Number Two, and since I came with them, it would be rude to just go home, right? Even so…

“I’m exhausted,” I confess, but I pull a compact mirror out of my bag to check my face and my fringe.

“But it was fun, right?”

“It wasn’t so bad.” In truth, it was exhilarating. It burned up my energy stores and woke a part of me that hadn’t felt this buzzed in a very long time. I’ll be real, though. The best part wasn’t even the hockey. I’m hoping it’s yet to come.

Granger is beaming. “Coach will be glad we did this.”

I nod indulgently. “Let it be known that I always do the assignment.” Do something, check. Loosen up, check. Lose myself in a hunky stranger's gentle, green eyes, also check. What do you fuckin’ know.

I briefly entertain the idea of purchasing VIP tickets to the rest of Gryffindor’s home games, but that’s extra poseur behaviour, so I dash it.

Ginny gets a text. “Come on, Harry says we can visit the lockers now! We have a bit of time before the post-game presscon starts.”

I sling my purse on my shoulder, ready to follow, but Granger grabs my arm. “Actually, Gin…”

My eyes spell bloody murder as I look at her. Her eyes are doing that weird earnest saucer thing, and I just know she’s about to kill the buzz.

Granger sighs piteously. “Pansy and I are training early tomorrow. You know how it is.”

“Hermione, you’re not even competing this year!” Ginny argues.

“Still.”

I whip out my phone and check my calendar. “Training doesn't start til seven.”

“Yes!” Ginny cries.

“Is there someone you’re trying to avoid?” I accuse Granger. “That’s the only other reason I can think of that you wouldn’t go.”

Ginny pokes her side. “See, even Pansy’s keen to stay.”

I jerk my head. “I’m not.” Fuck, but I am. In that moment, I just don’t want to look more keen than the Golden Girl.

Granger looks triumphant.

“Ughhh,” Ginny grumbles. “Fine. You guys suck.” 

We follow her as she all but stomps out of the arena, and as I think of another dreadful practice tomorrow, I’m not sure who regrets going home more—Granger, or me.

Chapter Text

I’m inspired, I can feel it. It’s been two days since the hockey game, and Coach Olympe is finally nodding with approval as she watches me perform my routine. My improvement over the last couple of days is great enough for her to commit to ending practice early today.

The reason behind my inspiration is shamefully obvious, and Percy is quick to clock me for enjoying the sport I’d sworn up and down I hated.

He gleefully points a finger between my eyes. “You like hockey!” 

“What did Ginny tell you?”

“Nothing,” he sing-songs. “I can just tell.”

I don’t deny it, because he isn’t wrong. When Ginny dropped me off at my flat the other night, I was still fuming because of Granger’s epic post-game twat-swat. For someone who’s allegedly very bright, she really doesn’t have a clue. I decided the only thing that would lift my spirits was to watch the game highlights on the telly while doing some comprehensive research on hockey. 

Okay, so maybe the scope of my research was a little narrower than that. Percy can’t ever get ahold of my phone, lest he encounter my deranged search history on Google:

neville longbottom

neville longbottom height

neville longbottom age

neville longbottom best plays

neville longbottom single or married

in love with someone I’ve never spoken to

is love at first sight possible

are soulmates real

longbottom surname origins

how to keep own surname after marriage

can husband take wife’s name instead

neville longbottom hot

neville longbottom shirtless

baby names that go with longbottom

hockey playoffs rules

nhl playoffs schedule gryffindor lions

how to date nhl player

signs i’ve gone insane

But like, I’m not entirely crazy, I swear. I made a concerted effort not to watch or read any of his interviews or even go too far down his Wikipedia page, because I figured I’d save that kind of stuff for when (not if, when) we finally meet. Even now it’s probably to my detriment that I already know how good he looks without a shirt on. Two words: Pavlov’s. Dog.

Coach calls an end to practice a full hour early. She wants to leave before the television crew and event organisers arrive to set up before Game 2 tomorrow. 

Percy groans.

“What is it this time?” I ask.

“Ginny’s shoved a ticket to tonight’s Lions game down my throat. I tried to beg off, but she told Mum. You know how Mum gets!”

“I’ve never met your mum.”

“She’s just like Ginny, except she gave birth to me.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“You have no bloody idea.”

Granger joins us, and I learn she’s watching the game too. I pretend I’m not seething inside. Maybe I should’ve bought those tickets after all.

Percy waves a hand in my face. “Hello? Pansy?”

“What.”

“You look like you’ve just had to kiss a toad.”

I roll my eyes. “I was just thinking.”

“Oh no, be careful.”

Granger smacks Percy on the arm. “Don’t you ever have anything nice to say?”

“I’m sorry,” he simpers. “Pansy, I really like your outfit today.”

“Thanks?” I look down at my plain black leggings.

“The turtleneck top in particular,” Percy clarifies. “Very Steve Jobs.”

I bark a laugh.

Percy invites me to brunch with them—he’s found some trendy new place down the way—but I pass.

“I need to work on my programme,” I say. “Anyway, we’ve still got the rink for a while.” I’ve also got what feels suspiciously like my mojo thrumming through my veins. What’s more, I don’t want to hear another word about the game I won’t be watching live.

“Don’t think too hard now,” Percy drawls. I send him off with a two-finger salute.

I skate figure eights around the face-off circles closest to me. I try out my trickiest choreo sequence to different parts of the music, and then replay the piece for just my jumps and spins. Something still isn’t right, and it isn’t my issues with landing on my healed ankle. 

I take my phone and scroll through my Spotify for a song that’s four minutes long. By some stroke of luck, I see it—This Is the Night by The Weird Sisters. And it’s exactly the right length. 

This might end up looking stupid, but I queue it and give it a go.

The first beat of the bass drum is my cue to begin.

Backwards S.

Rocker turn.

Axel-Half Loop-Double Salchow.

As soon as the guitar riff kicks in, I immediately know it’s not going to work out with my choreography. But the song is good and it reminds me of that really cute guy and his really powerful body and that really impressive goal—and, well, I must be a simp or something because just thinking of him on this very rink inspires me to just skate on the fly, and do whatever the hell I want.

I launch myself into a sprint like a hockey player, flying as if I had something to outrun. At the other end of the rink, I brake harshly on the edges of my skates. A small spray of ice shavings splatters against the boards, and I can't help the grin that spreads over my face.

Freedom.

Can I gripe about figure skating for a sec? 

I love my sport. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. But the technicality of figure skating is a double-edged sword. We’re scored not only on how perfectly we execute each element, but also on the artistry and feeling that perfection must impart. 

I’ve always wondered at that duality—while judges attempt to assign numbers to a feeling, most of the audience doesn’t even realise just how hard the stuff we do is. It’s the ultimate irony: in achieving effortless elegance, we’re also grossly underselling ourselves. Not like hockey, where players are celebrated for their bruises and effort and sweat. 

I hate that there are still people who think that figure skating is a sport for prissy girls (though Granger is kind of prissy… and Percy too, sometimes). The truth is that it pushes the human body to its fucking limits—all while skaters are expected to make it look soft and feminine and easy within the stiff bounds of the rules.

Right now, all I want to do is throw all the rules out the window.

So that's what I do.

I lean into the heady bass line and let the rhythm take over. I start with some footwork, and take my time on some complex patterns and power pulls. I kick each of my legs up high and then to the side at intervals, putting all my weight on my weak ankle. It feels good. 

Once the guitar solo hits, I move into a triple lutz that feeds into a triple loop, and then launch into a flying camel spin.

And because I’m feeling petty about Granger, I bend my spine into a layback, grabbing one skate behind me and easing my boot upwards and over my head. I fully extend my leg past the teardrop shape and into a full split. Voilà, a Candlestick Biellmann that I’m dead certain is better than hers.

The song reaches its final crescendo, so I gather all the momentum I can and finish in a one-foot spin. I tuck my arms to my chest to speed up my rotations, then extend them over my head. I let inertia do its thing, and go round and round and round until the music fades away.

When I slow to a stop, I discover that I’m not alone. Someone is standing by the rink entrance, bearing a manner of bulky equipment. A media roadie? My hour can’t possibly be up yet.

I squint in irritation as I catch my breath. “This is a closed…” I falter, trailing off, “…practice.”

Spinning never makes me dizzy anymore. But when I realise that it’s Neville Longbottom standing before me, I question if I’m still standing on two feet. He looks just as dazed.

“Sorry.” His voice is a gentle, low timbre. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

My mouth feels dry. What would I normally say in this situation?

“It’s okay.”

I cringe, because that’s not it. 

But that doesn’t make it a lie. It’s very much okay that Neville Longbottom has stopped in his tracks to watch me.

If it had been anyone else, I would have probably said something along the lines of, 'What are you looking at?' or 'Beat it.'

I’m not always that bitchy, but I’ve been subjected to enough commentary on my poor showing last season that I’ve grown wary of people poking their noses in my business.

My actual performance music is back on the speakers, but now it feels less like a boring nocturne and more like the soundtrack of this new romcom meet-cute where I’m the main character. Me!

Longbottom is staring at me with a look of recognition, and it emboldens me to ask, “What brings you here?”

His eyes drop to my skates, and he flushes. “Just dropping by. I left my stuff here yesterday.” He holds up a massive gear bag, flashing me a small grin. “I left in a hurry. I was hoping I could catch this girl I saw at my game last night. But she disappeared before I could introduce myself.”

I bite my lip. There’s a shy spirit beneath his confident opening—it makes for a charming contradiction, so far removed from the smarmy egotism of the men who play his sport.

I skate over slowly and lean over the un-glassed portion of the boards. “So you’re a hockey player?”

“I am,” he grins, and I immediately want to cut my lease so I can go live in his dimple.

“That girl you were looking for must be really pretty.”

“I thought so.”

I grin back.

“I’m Neville. Longbottom.” He reaches out his free hand.

“That’s a funny name,” I say, unable to help it.

He cocks his head. “Perhaps yours is nicer?”

“It’s Pansy.” I place my hand in his. It’s large and it’s warm, and my fingers itch to lace themselves with his. “Pansy Parkinson.”

The air feels charged with the same electricity I felt when we first locked eyes last night. It can’t just be me, though, because he says, “I honestly thought I’d never see you again.”

His admission tastes like permission to be just as candid. “I knew I’d meet you eventually.”

“If you’re friends with Hermione and Ginny, I should have guessed that you skated. You’re crazy strong.”

It’s a compliment I’ve never received before, and it’s a very welcome one. So welcome, in fact, that I don’t know how to reply.

“I mean,” he continues, “You’re really pretty—I mean, pretty amazing. You make it look easy.”

I snort. “Making it look hard isn’t a virtue, Longbottom.”

“Please,” he says, grimacing, “call me Neville. Nev.”

Nev. I like it. I grin like a vampire who’s just been invited into his home—by which I mean I’m smiling with teeth. I never smile with my teeth. “Nev, then.”

Nev shrugs. “I just meant… It takes a whole lot to make what you just did look like nothing. But you must hate hearing that.”

“How’d you guess?”

“I don’t know a lot about figure skating, but I could never imagine doing any of that myself. It’s not nothing, and people should stop acting like it is.”

This man continues to surprise me. I do him one in return. “Last night was the first pro hockey game I’ve ever watched in my life. What you do is no joke, either.”

“Really?” His brows quirk, and I like how they open his face just that little bit more. “Your first?”

I fake an aggrieved sigh. “My friends forced me to go.”

“You must’ve hated hockey players growing up then.”

“Sharing a rink with the likes of you? Of course I did.” I smirk, jabbing my toe pick into the ice for emphasis.

“I don’t blame you. Did you enjoy yourself, at least?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply coyly. “I did enjoy that second goal by that Lions defenseman, but I haven’t made up my mind.”

Nev seems pleased. “If I’d known I’d bump into you today, I’d have carried my tickets with me. Not to presume, but…”

“I’d love to watch,” I say. I’ve no clue why it feels so easy to be forthright with him—I don’t even doubt it’s the right thing to say. “I was gonna catch it on the telly anyway.”

He’s nodding as if he’s dumbstruck, and then he drops his bag. “Wait here, Pansy.”

And then he runs off in the direction of the locker rooms.

A giddy laugh bubbles out of me, and I cover my face.

Did that really just happen?

He’s gone for longer than I expected, and I’m back to figuring out a new step sequence by the time he returns. He steps onto the ice, and I finally get a true sense of his actual height and build. I’m in skates, but I don’t even come up to his shoulder. And he’s probably twice as wide as me, even without the hockey padding.

My uterus!

“Sorry,” he says. “I had to get these re-printed.” He pulls out three tickets from the pocket of his hoodie and hands them to me.

“I only need one!”

“This way you have options. If your friends are watching, maybe you can ask the folks sitting next to them to swap seats. They probably won’t mind.”

“That’s very generous of you,” I say, angling for a little more. “What’s the catch?”

“Catch?”

“What do you want in return?” Ask me out. Ask me out. Ask me out.

“Just the benefit of seeing you there. Or…”

“Or?”

“Maybe you can give me tickets to your next competition.” He gestures around the rink. “I take it you compete?”

I bite back a grin. His innocence is so fucking adorable. And because I still can’t help myself where he’s concerned, I joke, “You’ll just have to google me and find out.” 

But then he actually pulls out his phone!

“Wait,” I cry, lunging for his arm. “Don’t. I was kidding.”

But Nev is so bloody tall that he easily holds his phone out of my reach as I try to wrench it from him. 

“Hey Siri,” he smiles mischievously at me, “who is Pansy Parkinson?”

God damn it.

I cross my arms and cringe as his virtual assistant responds, “Pansy Parkinson is a professional figure skater from Slytherin City. Shall I continue?”

“No!” I shout.

“Yes,” Nev laughs into the mouthpiece.

“She is the most recent Olympic silver medalist in ladies’ singles, a two-time World champion, a one-time Four Continents champion, a two-time Grand Prix Final champion, a one-time World Junior champion, a one-time Junior Grand Prix Final champion, and a three-time National champion.”

Nev’s eyes widen, and a deep blush stains his cheeks.

“Holy shit,” he says. “I’m an idiot.”

I gently pry his phone out of his hand and wrinkle my nose. “I shouldn’t have brought it up anyway. So tacky.”

He huffs an incredulous laugh. “You’re so out of my league it’s actually insane.”

“I guess we’ll have to see about that.” I press his phone’s unlock button and hold it up, screen-first, to his face. It unlocks with a click, and I punch my number onto his dial pad. I hand it back to him. “Well?”

He hits the call button without even saving my contact details first. Nearby, my phone buzzes, and he drops the call. “Now you have my number, too. Can I take you to dinner? After the game?”

My early schedule for tomorrow flashes through my mind. Oh, screw it. “Dinner sounds nice.”

Nev takes small, slow steps backwards, a dopey grin on his face. God, he’s cute. “I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.” I wave. “Good luck later.”

And then he’s gone, and I’m tearing up the ice with renewed vigour.

I return to the arena in the evening to catch Game 2. Just as Nev predicted, the group next to the Weasleys and Granger is happy to swap seats with me. 

And just as I predicted, my erstwhile friends’ jaws drop when they see me there.

“Did you buy tickets?” Ginny asks.

“No,” I sniff. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to come again! You said it was just okay.”

Which, fair.

“I would have pressed mine on you had I known,” Percy moans.

“Wait a second,” Granger says. “If you didn’t buy your tickets, who gave them to you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing!” After a beat, she asks, “Was it Malfoy?”

I snort. She is so obvious. “Jealous?”

“N-no!”

“Don’t be. Because they weren’t from him.”

I suppose the smile on my lips is obvious as well, because Ginny goes, “Oh. My. God.”

"What?"

“Don’t tell me you got them from Neville!” She jostles me hard.

I grin like a cat that got the cream. “And what if I did?”

Ginny squeals. “See, Hermione? That’s how it’s done!”

“Miss Parkinson!” Percy screams.

“Not a word more,” I tell him primly, but I’m feeling all kinds of smug and he knows it.

He leans over and hisses with relish, “Ssssssssslut!”

Game 2 doesn’t start out as exciting as the previous game, but something else catches my attention in the first period: footwork.

The experience of watching hockey players skate from higher up is markedly different from being on the ice with them. It turns out they’re all unbelievably quick and coordinated, almost never needing to look elsewhere besides where the puck is.

Nev in particular is an interesting study, because he isn’t the guy in the thick of the action where scoring is concerned, but he’s always hanging back and calculating. There’s high intelligence in his movements—he’s in the right place at the right time, anticipating whether to block, defend, or check someone.

But it’s his skating that I find particularly entrancing. He’s always moving, crossing over one way and then the other in a sort of endless S-shape, going backwards and around teammates both up and down the rink. (I’m sure they all do it, but he’s my favourite one to watch.) It’s unexpectedly elegant and inspiring.

“What’s so interesting?” Percy asks when the first period ends. “No one’s even scored yet, but you’re leaning in like they’re in overtime.”

“I’ve just got a couple of ideas for my step sequences,” I say, tracing a curved line across the ice with my finger.

His eyes widen in surprise. “Good for you! I mean it. Let me know how I can help.”

Sometimes—just sometimes—Percy’s a good friend.

The game picks up significantly in the second and third periods, and the Lions pull out another win, 2-1.

“What are you guys doing after this?” I ask while shooting out a congratulatory text to Nev. He didn’t score, but if Ginny’s to be believed, he had a lot to do with their win today.

“Percy’s going home,” Ginny says, “but I’m gonna catch Harry after the presser. Hermione?”

Granger’s at a loss for words. “I—”

“Don’t you want to congratulate Draco on his goal?” Percy suggests. “It was pretty spectacular.”

“I do not,” she insists.

“Then come with me,” he says. “I’ll drop you off.”

“No, that’s okay.”

We all look at Granger in confusion. Finally, she sighs. “I’ll come with you, Gin. I want to congratulate Harry on his goal.”

“Sure, Jan,” Percy says, getting up to leave. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Granger says.

My phone buzzes. It’s Nev.

nev long🍑

nice game. congrats. :)

if u still haven’t saved my number… 😾

Hahaha

Thanks :) I saw you!

Cooldown and team debrief now. 

presscon after?

I’m not needed there lol

No one wants to talk to lil ol me

maybe i do.

Lucky me, then. See you in 20?

sure thing.

Ginny peers over my shoulder and gasps. “You’ve got so much game it’s scary.”

I shrug. “Dumb luck.”

I’m not even lying. Our instant connection feels like a small miracle. I don’t even have it in me to be snarky or play it cool—I’m really excited to see Nev later. I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever looked forward to something this much. It sounds extremely lame, but it’s the truth.

“Nev’s really great,” Hermione says.

“So you’ve said.”

“Because it’s true. He’s just such a good guy.”

“Amen,” Ginny says. “A gentle giant.”

“No spoilers,” I say. I want to find out for myself.

We walk to the locker rooms—our VIP tickets give us access—and make idle chit-chat while we wait. Soon, Nev turns up, gear bag in hand. He’s not alone.

“Pans,” Draco says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“She’s going on a date,” Ginny announces. “With Nev here.”

Nev’s blushing lightly, watching for my reaction.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Is this a date?”

Nev clears his throat. “It’s anything you want it to be.”

“Well?” Draco asks. 

“It’s a date,” I say firmly. “What about you? Here to ask Granger out too?”

Draco smirks at Granger. “Depends.”

“On what?” Granger huffs.

“On if you’re in the mood to be nice.”

“Nice?” she repeats.

I truly don’t see what the issue here is.

“You know,” Draco drawls. “A good girl.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Granger looks disproportionately livid over Draco’s idiotic baiting. She gapes in a way that would not win her any performance points on the ice.

Draco only squares up and says coolly, “I’ve got a presscon. In fact, I’d best get going.” He turns about and walks off.

“Later, mate,” Nev says, oblivious to the weird tension brewing between our friends. To me, he asks, “Shall we?”

Ginny answers for me. “You shall! Have fun!”

I roll my eyes. “You too. Update me on…” I shoot a meaningful gaze towards Granger, who’s scowling at Draco’s retreating figure.

“Oh, I will.”

Neville leads me through a secluded hallway that goes out to the private parking. He walks past sports car after sports car and stops at a big Jeep 4x4.

I’m stunned for a second. “Are you the outdoorsy type?”

“In the off-season,” he says, dumping his gear in the boot. “I don’t get to go hiking as often as I’d like, but that’s life.”

“Oh,” I say. At the risk of it being a deal-breaker, I admit, “I’ve never gone camping in my life.”

“That’s fine,” he says easily. “Everyone has their own thing.”

Thank fuck.

He opens the passenger side door for me, and once I’m inside, he rounds the hood to get into the driver’s seat. “I hope you don’t mind, I was thinking we could go to a steakhouse tonight.”

“I get it.” I nod. “Protein.”

He takes me to a small establishment called The Three Sticks that’s just far enough away from the Arena. It turns out he’s good friends with the owner, Rosmerta, who’s a big Lions fan. She seats us in a little booth near the back, a knowing grin on her face.

“Your usual, Nev?” she asks.

“Yeah, though Pansy might need to see the menu.”

Rosmerta’s eyes widen with recognition when she turns to me. “Pansy… Pansy Parkinson?”

“Yes.” I try to smile.

“My daughter is a huge fan! She skates, too!”

“Is she around?” I ask. “I’d be happy to meet her.”

“Maybe another time,” Rosmerta mercifully says. “It’s late.”

“Of course,” I say. “If this guy ever brings me back, that is.”

“He’d better!” she says with a wink.

I order a big chicken dish with a salad, and Nev doesn’t comment. I appreciate it—men are always telling me they like a woman with a big appetite, which is dumb. Of course I eat a lot. I’m an athlete.

“Imagine,” Nev says, “if I’d only found out why Rosmerta was so starstruck right now.”

“Thankfully, Siri already gave me away,” I reply dryly.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I googled you too.”

Nev laughs. “I’m flattered. Though I can’t imagine you’d find anything interesting.”

His shirtless photos flash through my mind. “I didn’t dig very deep. No scandals or brawls or anything.”

“Mmm, you’d be wasting your time. I’m not a hockey fight kinda guy. I never even wanted to be a hockey player.”

“But you’re so good at it!”

“Thanks, but I have a degree in botany. If this hadn’t worked out, I would’ve gone into plant research.”

“That’s cool, but I don’t buy it. Unless that scar on your lip is from a freak gardening accident?”

“No.” He licks that same edge of his mouth, and I try not to fixate on it. “I don’t make a habit out of getting into fights, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never gotten into one.”

“So it was a hockey fight.”

“It was,” he admits. “I was painfully shy growing up. And—don’t take this as some kind of sob story, okay?”

“Promise.”

He nods. “I lost my parents in a car crash when I was six, and all I wanted to do after that was sit in the garden. My gran thought I needed the company of other kids, so she enrolled me in hockey lessons.”

“Did you like it?”

“No,” he chuckles. “I got bullied a lot, even on the ice. I was just the big kid who skated around the outside. I didn’t think I was any good, and I was afraid of getting hit and falling over.

“One day, those kids started taunting me about my gran—she used to drop me off and pick me up every day after practice. They said stuff about how my parents didn’t want me, so they abandoned me with her.”

I gasp. “Nev, what the fuck.”

“Well... kids can be cruel. They probably didn’t even know my parents had passed away.”

“Even so.”

“Yeah. It pissed me off. Big time. I got into it with their ringleader on the ice, and things got ugly. I took a blade to my lip. It needed stitches. I also hurt my ankle.” He shrugs. “But you should’ve seen the other guy.”

“Does he still play?”

“No, he runs a car dealership. I bought mine from him.”

I laugh. “Karma is real.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Nev insists. “We were just kids.”

“What happened afterwards?”

“That fight was the worst of my fears balled into one. Funnily, it erased all my dread over falling and getting hit. Suddenly, hockey wasn’t so bad. Fighting wasn’t so bad. Still unnecessary, though. I avoid it when I can.”

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “you seem very well-adjusted now.” He’s calm and confident, though I wouldn’t say he’s suave. That’s why I like him.

“I got better at making friends. When I returned, I heard that the other kids had stuck up for me. That boosted my confidence and made me better at hockey. We still grab drinks sometimes. And, well, here I am now, the second most-hit guy on the rink.”

“Another sob story?”

He grins. “Just an occupational hazard.”

“Good for you, though. You got your mojo back.”

“And then some.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do here in Gryffindor.”

“Get your mojo back?”

“Yeah. I hurt my ankle, too.” And then I tell him my sob story about the Olympics, and how, in the last few seconds of my skate, my boots knocked mid-air and I stumbled on my final jump. How I felt an excruciating crack! in my ankle when I landed. How I smiled through the pain, and bawled as I got my scores. How the paramedics rushed me to the hospital right after—and how I didn’t even get to stand on the podium to receive my silver medal. 

Not that silver would have made me happy in any way. It’s the worst fucking medal an athlete could receive.

“I was the favourite to win,” I say ruefully. “Literally, Cho Chang got a lucky break. It just so happened to be mine.”

“Cho Chang?”

“My biggest rival. She ended up winning gold. She did send me a nice bouquet, though.”

“That was decent of her.”

“Yeah… I burned it,” I admit. “Peak insanity.”

Nev’s laugh eases my worries that he’d think I’m crazy. “Justified, I think. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“I’d be lying if I said I was over it. I’ve been a brat about my recovery. Everyone’s been telling me to suck it up. I don’t know why I just can’t.”

“I’d feel really down, too, if the stakes had been that high. I can’t relate—except for when we got knocked out in the second round of the playoffs the first time I made it. I got a taste of what it’s like and the guys and I wanted it so badly, but we lost. The series had gone to Game 7, too.”

“Ouch.”

“At least I wasn’t alone. I got to process it with the team. It took a while. You deserve to process your stuff, too. Though if what I saw earlier was any indication, I’d say you’ll be back on track in no time.”

I scoff lightly. “You’d think a professional athlete would be past needing to be coddled.” 

“You’re still a person,” he says seriously.

After all the tough love and the disapproving sermons I’ve received, his kind, encouraging words feel like a rink of fresh ice. They’re possibly what I’ve really been needing to hear.

Our food arrives, and we spend dinner talking about… everything. I don’t even really enjoy talking to people, but Nev is so sweet and genuine and funny (like, actually funny, I couldn’t fake a laugh to save my life) that I’m enjoying myself immensely.

He tells me about how he was so forgetful growing up that his gran would staple reminders on all his clothing. He got flagged once during a game because her reminders were pinned to the back of his jersey.

I tell him about my life in Slytherin, and dig up all my funny stories of sharing a rink with those insufferable hockey boys. Nev is so good-natured about it all that I even share my disaster of a first kiss with a boy named Marcus, who’d stolen it from me right on the ice.

Nev grimaces. “This is a long shot, but… by any chance, would you be talking about Marcus Flint? Of the Snakes?”

I blink in surprise, because Marcus Flint was that kid’s name. “I didn’t know he played pro.”

“Yeah.” Nev flexes his knuckles, his expression darkening. “He’s the dirtiest player in the league.”

“Oh. Just my luck, huh.”

“I’m sorry he stole your first kiss. That’s a pretty important kiss.”

“It’s okay, it was just… very wet. If it makes you feel any better, I slapped Marcus, and Draco gave him a black eye afterwards.”

Nev huffs a chuckle, but there’s little humour there. I want to fix it, so I say, “Draco isn’t giving you any trouble, is he? He was more of an ice princess than me sometimes.”

“He’s pretty intense,” Nev says. “It’s better to be his teammate than his rival, I’ll say that much.”

“Why? Does he play dirty?”

“No, no.” He takes a big inhale. “You weren’t kidding when you said you really don’t keep up with hockey, huh?”

I cross my arms, blindsided by the turn our conversation has taken. Have I blown it somehow? Is it some kind of red flag for him? “Does that offend? I was being honest.”

“Oh, no, Pansy. Not at all.” He holds out his hands in a placating manner. “I asked because… well, it’s fairly common knowledge that the Snakes and the Lions have the biggest team rivalry in the sport.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning that out of all the rivalries in this league—and there are many—none has the same sort of history we have with one another. There’s a lot of bad blood. Our fans hate each other, our predecessors hated each other… Hell, even our coaches hate each other. And they’re brothers!”

“Who?”

“Our coach, Sirius Black, is brothers with theirs. Regulus Black.”

“Oh,” I say. And then it hits me. “Oh my god! Was that why they were booing Draco so hard at the first game?”

“Yup. It was a very big deal that he left Slytherin at such a crucial time, and for Gryffindor of all teams. Our teams are both top seeds in our respective conferences. So if we ever meet on the ice, whether it’s at the Final this season or in the regular season next year, it’s bound to be…” He sighs tiredly. “Let’s just call it ‘newsworthy.’”

My jaw drops right along with my stomach. “I feel like an idiot. Here I was telling you all these stories about Slytherin, only to find out you hate it—”

“No, no!” He shakes his head vehemently. “I love your stories. And I actually like Slytherin City. I’ve visited a couple times as a tourist. It’s just that tensions are especially high right now.”

I nod slowly. “Do you know why Draco did it?”

“From what I hear, he was giving up more than just the team. It was something about his dad, too. That Lucius Malfoy guy. He cut himself off.”

Ah. Draco’s always had a poor relationship with his overbearing father, and I’m not surprised to hear it. Actually, I’m rather proud of him.

“And here I thought Draco just wanted to play dirty elsewhere,” I joke.

“He really doesn’t. Play dirty, I mean. But that guy who stole your first kiss? He’s the worst offender. It’s good you and Malfoy put him in his place.”

“Draco's a prickly arse. Fair warning, I’m prickly, too.”

“Good thing I’m a patient guy.” He grins, and I reach out to poke his dimple.

We share a rocky road sundae—a little cheat sweet—just because.

Time escapes us, and before I know it, Rosmerta is back at our booth with an apologetic expression on her face.

“Sorry, loves,” she says. “It’s 2 a.m. and we need to close up.”

“What!” I shriek. I have training in three hours!

Neville offers his profuse apologies, and leaves a very big tip when he pays.

He drives me home, and as my building comes into view, I wish for the first time in my life that I wasn’t a professional figure skater. Had my time been my own, I might have asked him to come upstairs with me.

He opens the car door for me and helps me down. “My car’s an ankle hazard,” he explains.

We both laugh softly, and our laughter fades into a nice silence.

“Thanks, Nev. I had a really nice time,” I venture first. I’ve never admitted as much to any guy after any date, ever.

“Me too, Pans.” My nickname feels right on his lips. Like he’s known me my whole life.

I step closer. “If I didn’t have training in a few hours—”

“May I kiss you?” he whispers, cutting me off. He must have seen my eyes widen in the dim light, because he backpedals, “Sorry. I didn’t want to be so forward—”

I pull him down by the collar of his jumper and plant one on his lips myself. He stiffens in shock, but his body relaxes quickly as he leans over to deepen our kiss.

He wraps his arms around me, and all I can feel are his warm lips on mine, and the soft scratch of his three-day beard against my face. I open my mouth to him, and he tentatively reaches his tongue out to touch mine. He tastes like chocolate and vanilla and him—just kind and warm and good.

He’s the first to pull away. His eyes are still shut when he murmurs, “Pans…”

“Yeah?”

“If I don’t go now, I may never be able to leave.”

I giggle. “Then stay. I could—”

He shakes his head. “Oh no, you don’t. You have practice. And I head to Hufflepuff City after breakfast.”

“Oh?” I forgot about that. “How long for?”

“Two games.”

“So, five days?”

“Four.”

“You’ll kill it.”

“Here’s hoping.”

He’s hugging me tight now, and I don’t ever want to let him go. Is one date too soon to decide that? Is one date too soon to feel so sure? Maybe I’ll google it later, just to say I did my due diligence.

“This isn’t over,” I tell him with what I’m sure is a cheesy smirk on my face. A promise for future nights that end better—or that don’t end at all.

“I’m counting on it,” he says. He leans in and plants one last soft kiss to my lips. “I’ll call you, if that’s okay.”

“More than.”

“Night, Pans.”

“Good night, Nev.”

It’s only when I’ve gone up the steps and entered my building that he hops into his Jeep and drives away.

I'm biting the insides of my cheeks to stop myself from cheesing so hard.

Practice is going to kill me later.

So fucking worth it.

Chapter Text

The Lions sweep the Badgers 4-0 and then make quick work of the Ilvermorny Thunderbirds after that. It’s an outcome that’s apparently news only to me. Still, the road to the Cup is long, and now, they are set to square up against the Durmstrang Wolverines in the Conference Finals. If the Lions win this series, they make their first trip to the Finals in seven years.

Between my daily practice and conditioning sessions and Nev’s increasingly crucial games, he and I have barely gotten to spend any time together. When we’re both in the arena, it’s all we can do to eye each other from afar. We’ve only managed a pitiful three snog sessions in some unused training rooms in the few minutes we could steal away. The rest of the time, we’re either video calling or going on dinner dates after his home games, which I now happily attend. Suffice to say we’ve been busy these past three and a half weeks—but not too busy to celebrate.

Nev’s invited me to a simple victory party after the Ilvermorny game tonight, with a promise that it’ll be wholesome because they fly out to Durmstrang City the next day. Ginny and Granger are going too, so after Granger and I finish at the rink, Ginny picks us up and we head over to a posh penthouse restaurant called Gastronomy Tower.

The players are already huddled around the bar, supposedly not drinking, when we arrive. Ginny immediately makes a beeline for Potter, who’s in high spirits thanks to his stellar hat-trick in the last game.

“Gin,” Granger cries at her retreating form.

“Forget it,” I tell her. “She’ll be canoodling with Potter all night long.” 

Granger scoffs. “As if you won’t be doing the same with Nev.”

“I can't promise it won't happen.”

I look around for my favourite Lion, but it seems he’s spotted me first. He’s already walking our way, with (surprise, surprise!) Draco in tow.

“I’m gonna join Ginny,” Granger squeaks out as they come near. I let her go.

“Congratulations,” I greet Nev and Draco, pecking them both on the cheeks. “Don’t you two clean up well.”

Draco in a suit, I’m used to. He’s been in a bunch of magazine shoots, and we’ve attended loads of social functions together back in Slytherin. But Nev is something else entirely. It’s my first time seeing him since their win in Ilvermorny, and my first time seeing him dressed up and groomed this way. While he’s positively delectable in his uniform, or even in a hoodie and jeans, he’s a novel sort of delicious in his crisp navy blue sport jacket. I brush his lapels in approval.

Nev wraps an easy arm around me. “You look incredible, Pans.”

I know—I wore this slinky, sage green number just for him to enjoy. “Hush, I’m objectifying you.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“As if I’d let you go another full week without seeing me.”

Draco snorts.

“What?” I snap. “You could have very well been in a similar situation, and you know it.”

“We’ve been through this before, Pansy,” he says slowly. “I don’t like you that way.”

“Fuck off!” I laugh. “You know I meant Granger. You and Granger, specifically.”

Draco’s jaw clicks, and I know I’ve touched a nerve. 

“Hermione?” Nev asks, cluelessly delighted. “Mate, you didn’t say!”

“That’s because Pansy doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Draco levels a glare at me. “Granger loathes me.”

“Hermione doesn’t hate anybody,” Neville says.

Draco says nothing, but his expression is so transparent and torn that I want to shake the truth out of his silly blond head.

Maybe later, though, because their other teammates join us, and Draco skulks off to the bar.

“Hey, big man!” 69 Guy claps Nev on the shoulder. 

Nev introduces me simply as “Pansy” to him and to everyone I meet afterwards. I do small talk with 69 Guy (Connor? Conan?) about his classy choice in jersey number, then proceed to engage in some light ribbing with Charlie Weasley over a hit he sustained to the bollocks early in the last game. I meet some of the other players—the enchantingly potty-mouthed Creevey brothers; Oliver Wood, who's very fit but speaks almost exclusively in hockey metaphors; and two men named Dean and Seamus who are sneaking ale from the tap. I endure their ignorant, borderline invasive questions about my “sparkly skating lingerie” before Nev finally leads me away.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a grimace. “They like you. Maybe a little too much.”

I shrug coolly. “I’m not sure I’m up to snuff with all the hockey talk.”

“You don’t have to be. You have the spirit of a hockey player.”

“Slander.”

Nev chuckles. “I just meant that you’re unafraid to call them all out on their bullshit.”

“Was I rude?”

“No, you just gave as good as you got.”

“I hope you weren’t expecting me to charm everyone. I wasn’t trying very hard.”

“Good thing, because I can’t have them flirting with my girl, can I?”

“Your girl?” I grin. “Am I your girl now?”

He squeezes my hand. “If you want to be.”

“I may be amenable.” Fucking score!!!

We sit down to dinner with Ginny and Potter, and Draco and Granger, who are stubbornly ignoring one another. They are so cute.

“So!” Ginny says. “How do you like our hockey boys, Pansy?”

“They’re bearable,” I admit. “Your brother is an incorrigible flirt.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Overall,” I say, faking a sigh, “they’re not as bad as the ones I grew up with.”

“Hey,” Draco protests.

“Malfoy’s all right,” Potter pipes up.

“I’m touched, Scarhead. But I’m just here because you lot needed the talent boost.”

Potter snickers, and I smirk. I’m glad Draco’s adjusted so well here.

Granger, however, snorts inelegantly.

“Got something to say, Granger?” Draco’s tone is low and dangerous.

“Only that at least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent. At least, they used to.”

The table stills.

“That’s not fair,” I begin to say, but Draco cuts me off. 

“And just who are you insinuating had to buy their way in?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Funny how the one with Daddy’s money at his disposal finds it appropriate to comment on anyone’s talent.”

The acid in Granger's tone makes my jaw drop.

Draco sneers. “Oh, yes. Because you know everything about that.” He balls his napkin up and leaves.

Granger crosses her arms, her own meal forgotten.

“Hermione,” Potter says in a tired tone, “we’ve been through this. Draco is all right.”

“Well, have you been through it with him? He’s one to comment on your talent—”

“It was a joke!”

“A joke?“ Granger puffs up angrily. “Well. It wasn’t a joke when he was making remarks about my skating.”

I clear my throat, and everyone turns towards me.

“Granger, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt because I don’t know what happened. But Draco isn’t—”

“I don’t need you to stick up for your friend, Pansy. He’s a pig.”

I scoff. “I hate to admit it, but you’re my friend, now, too. So humour me, please. What did Draco say to you that’s offended you so much?”

She looks to Ginny for support.

Ginny, however, looks as lost as everyone else at this table.

“Well,” Granger begins, “I stayed late at the rink one day and discovered him sulking there all by himself. I thought he was cute at first, which he’s not, and we got to talking. It wasn’t long before he put on his stupid, smirking face and insinuated that with my talent, I couldn’t possibly skate on my own. And then he said that if I, quote, ‘needed a partner,’ he’d be more than willing to ‘pick me up and take me for a spin.’ ” Her air quotes are aggressive.

I cannot believe my ears.

Ginny smacks her forehead.

Potter throws his head back and hangs it over the backrest of his chair.

Even Nev stops cutting into his steak to look up at Granger with incredulity.

“What?” she snaps. “What!”

“That’s the reason you’ve been pressed all this time?” I demand. “Granger, you’re a pairs skater. Percy is injured.”

“And? Every time I saw him after that he’s been nothing but a smug arsehole!”

That does sound like the Draco I’ve known all my life, but I also know he doesn’t retaliate unless someone gives him reason to. And even then, his bark is worse than his bite. But this, combined with all I’ve witnessed between them so far, only sounds like a case of a poor sense of humour.

“I’m going to say this very slowly,” I say, “lest it fly over your bushy head.” I pause to see that she’s listening. She’s indeed glaring daggers at me. “Draco. Was. Flirting. With you.”

It takes her a second to let that sink in, and her eyes practically bug out of her head. Ginny erupts into a loud cackle, and Potter tries to shush her. But he, too, looks torn between amusement and exasperation.

“Th-there’s…” Granger stammers. “There’s just no way!”

I’m not finished. “If it was unwelcome, that’s one thing. But you owe him an apology.”

“What for!”

“For everything you said just now. You don’t know half the story of why he came to Gryffindor, do you?”

“Bill retired—”

“And Draco cut himself off from his father’s fortune. That’s not easy to do when your father is Lucius fucking Malfoy.”

I hadn’t even had to ask Draco—after Nev had told me, I googled it myself. It’s Daily Prophet-verified.

Granger quiets, looking stricken.

I turn to Potter and Ginny. “Didn’t either of you tell her?”

“Hermione’s very good at changing the subject whenever I bring him up,” Potter says sheepishly.

Granger’s hair seems to have deflated along with her spirit, so I throw her a bone. “I don’t blame you for assuming the worst. Draco takes after his father in the sarcastic bastard department, but that’s it. If you ever get over it—and it makes me gag to say it—you guys could be good together.”

She glances down at her half-eaten plate. “I should… I’ll-I’ll be right back.”

Everyone watches her leave, and then turns their heads to stare at me.

I pick up my mocktail.

“I’d honestly given up on getting her to stop pretending she didn’t like him,” Ginny says.

“You’re a legend,” Potter adds reverently.

I scoff. “It’s entirely selfish, you understand.”

“No.” Nev grins. “You did good.”

Granger doesn’t return, and neither does Draco. As the meal ends and everyone says their goodbyes, Nev pulls me close.

“Can I take you home?” he murmurs.

I thrill. “If you mean to your place, then yes.”

Nev’s place is wonderful. I’ve seen boys’ locker rooms many times over the years, so I admit I didn’t have high hopes for his personal space. But it’s tidy, and despite its simple furnishings, it’s homey. Oh, and it’s full of plants that he’s named for his favourite hockey players, with each pot hooked up to an automatic watering system for the stretches of time he’s not around. Stretches which, he tells me apologetically, there are a lot more of in the regular season.

Is it lame that I’ve already given this some thought? The tricky logistics don’t bother me. My own career takes me from city to city for training and competitions too, and he’s got the salary while I’ve got the sponsors to make a long-distance, multi-city relationship possible.

Not that we’ve talked about our relationship besides the quick interlude before dinner.

Right now, though, I’m just glad to have him to myself.

He takes my coat and hangs it up with his jacket by the door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, undoing the top button of his shirt with a lopsided grin. He moves on to his sleeves, rolling them up so that I can see his forearms. Which are… Fuck. They are so nice. Veiny and sinewy and just the right amount of hairy. You know, man forearms. My man’s forearms.

And because I am one hundred percent capable of keeping cool, I drape myself upon his long leather sofa and watch.

Nev joins me a second later, two glasses of water in hand. “It’s not as romantic as wine…”

“I know.” I take one gratefully. “So responsible.”

“Someone has to be, when you’re on my couch looking like that.”

Let the records show that I am winning at life. “Says you.”

Nev fiddles with his phone and some Motown music comes on his stereo. 

“Old timey.” I grin. “I like it.”

“Hazards of growing up with an old lady.” He grins back, and his dimple is so adorable that I lean in and kiss it.

“It’s nice.” I get up and try to pull him along—an impossibility, of course, but he rises anyway.

Nev pulls me close, and we dance to a silly song called My Guy. He lifts me in the air, and I actually giggle because I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much fun moving to music. 

No score, no form, no expectations. Just me and him.

Dancing with Nev makes me want to be a pairs skater. Or perhaps an ice dancer. If it means I can get tossed around by him on the ice, sign me the hell up.

“Put me down,” I laugh. He moves his arm beneath my legs to carry me bridal style and sits us back down on the couch.

He arranges my legs across his lap and leans in to kiss me. I’m all too happy to let him. While he has my lips occupied, he runs a hand down my thigh, over my knee and my calf. His fingers pull at the straps of my kitten-heeled sandals, but he can’t get them undone.

I pull away from our kiss with a warning: “Don’t look at my feet. They’re ugly.” They’re the unfortunate product of years of skating, and no matter how religiously I see to my pedicures, my feet will never be photographable.

Nev ignores my command. He gives his current task his full focus, deftly unhooking my sandals and pulling them off. They drop to the carpet with soft thuds.

“How could they be ugly,” he argues, “when they’re the strongest part of you?”

“Ha-ha. I broke my ankle, remember?” Else I would have worn the highest heels I owned.

“And yet here you are.”

“On top of you?” I pump my brows suggestively.

“On top of your game,” he corrects me.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve seen it,” he says simply, “and I believe it.”

Nev reaches over and squeezes my toes lightly. “I like your nail polish. Red suits you.”

“Stop, Nev.”

“I like your feet. I like your ankles.” His hand continues its upward journey.

I hold in a soft moan. “Seriously.”

“I like your legs.” He stops respectfully mid-thigh, and thumbs the hem of my dress. "God, I like your legs."

“Oh, is that all, then? My legs?” 

His dimple sinks deeper into his cheek. “I really like everything attached to them.”

I open my mouth and shut it. I bite my lip, trying my hardest not to grin. 

“I like you, Pansy Parkinson.”

Fuck. Me.

I grab his face and pull his lips to mine.

Dinner must not have been enough, because I’m still hungry—but this time, it's for him. Before I know it, I’m straddling him, and the hem of my dress rides up until my knickers are flush against his trousers. I feel his hardness beneath the fabric and grind down on him as we kiss. Nev squeezes his eyes shut at the friction, which feels just as good for me.

“Pans…”

There had never been enough time for us to do this, at least not at the rink.

Even now, it feels like there isn’t enough time. There would never be enough.

Nev leans in, and I grin against his lips. Yes, yes, yes!

I guide his free hand up to my breast, and it feels woefully small in his palm. I’m feeling self-conscious about that, but then he murmurs, “Perfect.”

And damn if I don’t feel like the prettiest, tiddiest girl in the world.

It's like he was made to kiss me. Kiss me, and more. I feel so small and secure in his lap, and I’m more than happy to let his steady hands roam and touch where they like.

Because I like it, too.

My hands move of their own accord to unbutton his shirt. He lets me take it off without issue. I’m mildly disappointed to learn that he’s wearing an undershirt (how proper!), but this is negated by the fact that it’s V-necked and very tight indeed. The way it clings to his chest and biceps is especially nice.

Still, I must continue doing the Lord’s work, so I untuck his shirt from his trousers and run my hands up his torso as I push the shirt over his head.

His face looks almost pleading when I toss it aside.

“Pans,” he begs again, but I’m busy ogling what I’d only seen in photos. I almost regret having googled him so aggressively, because photos could never compare to the real thing.

Nev once told me that he had never put much stock in the way he looks, so it’s patently unfair (or maybe I should call it what it is and say I’m just insanely lucky) that he could look like… well, like this.

He’s broad and well-built, with a core that explains how he could withstand hard hits on the ice without toppling over. But there’s a lack of vanity in his build, by which I mean his abs don’t have the definition of a Men’s Health cover model—or even Draco, who I know puts in extra workouts just to get those dinner rolls. Nev has also clearly done little to groom his body hair, but I like running my fingers over the light dusting of short chest hair that tapers oh-so-invitingly into a trail down his trousers.

My hands are eagerly undoing his belt buckle when he covers them with his own.

“Pansy,” he says, his voice ragged.

“Nev,” I reply stubbornly. Let me, let me, let me!

“Not now.”

“What do you mean?” I whine. We’re finally alone! He flies out tomorrow! And from what I can tell by just sitting on his lap, he wants this as badly as I do. “Don’t say no.” 

Am I begging? Yes. I am.

He plants a soft kiss on my mouth, probably to distract me from the way he’s pulling my hands away from his belt and bringing them together behind his neck.

He rests his own hands on my waist and sighs, eyes closed. When he opens them again, they’re still dark, still hungry. “It’s not a no, it’s just a not yet.”

“But why?”

“I guess I’m a little traditional… I was raised by my gran, after all.”

Seriously? The one time—the one time I actually want things to move this quickly, and he just has to be exceedingly proper. I huff aloud.

“Just a bit longer, Pans,” Nev says soothingly. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh?” I raise my brow.

“I leave early tomorrow. And you have training, don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“But we’re finally together. Alone. What are we waiting for?” My wheedling sounds pathetic to my own ears.

“I’m sure you can feel just how difficult this is for me, too,” he says, pushing my hips down upon his hardness for emphasis. He’s big, I know it. I whimper, and he continues, “But I don’t want to do this until I can keep you until the morning after. Or many mornings after. Can you wait a little longer?”

I sigh, taking what I can get from the waning friction below. “Fine. But I’m sleeping over. And I want one of your old jerseys.”

He kisses my hair. “Done.”

I wish I could say I was able to seduce Nev last night, but he apparently comes pre-programmed with saintlike willpower. Despite all my wiliest efforts, he somehow managed to spoon me until I fell asleep, betrayed by my own body clock. This morning, he made me coffee before taking me home to grab my gear. And then he dropped me off at the arena with only a chaste kiss(!!! What the hell) before driving off to the airport.

The championship feels more distant than ever, but I’d never bet against Nev.

I’m done with PT, off-ice training, and my on-ice warm-up by the time Granger arrives, and she’s hideously tardy in the sense that she’s very late and looks a puffy, frazzled mess.

Coach only looks down her nose at her dishevelled Golden Girl and jerks her head to the lockers.

I take advantage of my time alone with Coach and approach her with an idea that’s been brewing in my head for a couple of weeks.

“It’s about my music,” I tell her.

Coach frowns. “I know you dislike your free skate, but it’s too late to change it now. Besides, you’re in excellent form lately.”

“Actually, it’s grown on me.” The truth is, I love it now. It reminds me of the moment I met Nev at this very rink.

“Then what do you mean?”

“My short programme.” It’s the first of two performances, in which I have just over two and a half minutes to perform seven required figure skating elements. And it needs to be technically pristine. “I know what music I want to skate to.”

Coach Olympe eyes me before gesturing to her speakers. I hook up my phone and scroll through my playlist to find the song that’s played non-stop in my mind since my very first hockey game.

I press play, and lift my eyes towards Coach.

Traditional figure skating music is classical or instrumental, but I need a change as much as my sport does. Songs of other genres used to be relegated to cheesy show skating, but just last season, the body that governs figure skating finally allowed music with lyrics to be used in competition. Still, I doubt that most people in our sport would take a chance on it. At least, not yet.

Coach listens impassively to the opening riffs, the verse, and then the chorus. “I know this song,” she finally says.

“We’ll have to arrange it,” I babble. “Shorten it, for sure. But it has lots of good moments.”

Coach ignores me. “Your new paramour’s team’s song, is it not?”

When I jerk, she only smirks at me.

“Percy told me. I suspected your newfound motivation could not have come from nowhere.”

I’m stunned. My love life isn’t really a secret—in fact, Percy’s been on my arse from day one—and it’s unquestionably been good for my skating. I’m not surprised that Percy’s given me away, but I am surprised that Coach seems… okay? With it? Vector would have had my arse for even entertaining what she surely would have deemed a distraction.

“You’re not angry?” I ask warily.

“Should I be?” Coach challenges me back.

When I don’t reply, she says, “Show me.”

I nod once and skate onto the ice. 

Coach hits play on my cue, and once the first drumbeat hits, I take off.

This Is the Night is not the song for sweeping movements, and the short program is not the moment for languid storytelling. It’s a gruesome two and a half minutes of technical excellence. But that’s still plenty of room for me to make a statement.

My demonstration is just a run through of the required elements—I break out jumps, spins, sequences, and combinations as I see fit, and coordinate impromptu dance movements to the rest of it. I sharply hit every mark I can to the riffs and the acrobatics of the electric guitar.

And despite the song being much longer than the required two minutes and forty seconds, I skate through it in its entirety so Coach can see and hear the nuances of the chorus. The bridge. The solos. The coda. The conclusion.

The music ends, and I’m panting where I stand. Coach Olympe’s face is unreadable when I skate over to her.

She asks, “What do you wish to impart?”

I take a moment to think, and when I open my mouth, the answer spills out effortlessly. “That I am on top of my game. And that I’m not afraid to fall.”

Her chest swells, and I can finally recognise the expression on her face. It’s pride. Respect.

Only one word makes up her reply: “Finally.”

I’m texting Tonks about our dance session this afternoon when Granger takes over the ice. Percy, too, has arrived, and he taps my thigh while I type.

“Look, Pansy. Look at Hermione.”

“Not now."

“Absolutely now.”

I send my message and peer up with a frown, but my irritation quickly morphs into bemusement.

Granger is skating like shit.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But she’s looking far from pristine, and she’s skating the way I did a few weeks ago. Her movements are distracted. Wan. Clumsy.

Coach Olympe shouts directives from the sidelines, which Granger either ignores or is unable to perform.

Percy gasps, scandalised, as she stumbles on a simple lutz.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

“You tell me.”

I think back to her blow-up with Draco and her subsequent disappearance from dinner. Her tardiness this morning. What happened last night?

“Pansy!” Coach barks. “On the ice.”

Percy and I exchange glances.

Whatever good mood Coach might have been in has vanished. She gets us executing tough jump drills as she bears down on Granger to perform.

I push every thought out of my mind and pour all my effort and attention into testing my ankle. Maybe my barriers to recovery truly had been mental, because as I do my jumps, I cannot feel anything wrong. It’s a fact that’s been difficult to trust—after all, my ankle was perfect before it suddenly let me down.

We go our separate ways for a quick lunch break, which I spend squeezing updates from Nev. He lets me know that they’ve landed in Durmstrang and checked in at their hotel. He sends me snaps of his room, which has a great city view and two king beds. One of them is already occupied by his roommate, whose head is covered by a pillow.

nev long🍑

who’s that in the other bed?

Draco. I might take a nap, too

We have a long review this afternoon

i’d kill for a nap right now.

u know why...

👀 

worth it, though.

Patience, love. I’ll be home soon.

Love? I finish lunch with a stupid grin on my face, and then gift Nev with a naughty photo of me changing into a skimpy dance outfit once I get to Tonks’ dance studio in the afternoon. 

Nympadora Tonks is, in my opinion, the best choreographer in the business. She’s just cool and willing to take risks—and it’s much more than her offbeat fashion and her shock of pink hair. It's unsurprising that she was thrilled about the direction I want to take my short programme.

The concept is simple: dirty rock and glory.

Tonks and I cherry pick expressive moves and theatrics from rock stars and guitarists: hip gyration, hairography, marching, and even a neat knee slide that would take me down a long stretch of ice if I did it right. After that, we plot out my selection of complex jumps, spins, and step sequences. I tell Tonks about a specific footwork sequence I want to land: an agile but graceful pattern of acceleration and deceleration that I’ve stolen from Nev. It’s unorthodox for figure skating, which is precisely why I want to do it.

We work to eliminate anything that might be interpreted as cheesy, gala-only choreography, and the initial outcome is beyond promising. It’s—dare I say it—actually fucking cool.

The execution, though, will be much more difficult. I’ve got an anthemic rock song that lends itself to powerful skating, but I will need to pull out my best stage presence while making the actual routine come across as effortless. It’s so contradictory that I have my doubts about pulling it off.

“My first competition is in just over a month,” I tell Tonks, but she’s unworried.

“It’s minor,” she reminds me. “You have months to perfect your routine before the big ones—you don’t need to win this one.”

“Yes. But I still want to.” I will never be satisfied with a good-enough skate.

She laughs. “That’s why I love you, Pansy. We’ll do our best.”

Later, as we schedule additional studio and ice sessions, Tonks asks about my free skate. “Compared to your short programme, it’s certainly a lot more traditional.”

“Maybe, but I’ve found my inspiration.”

I tell her about the changes I’ve been working on, and the story of how I met Nev. The reason I now liked the piece.

“Who is he?” Tonks gushes.

“Just some guy.” I grin, but I pull up Nev’s Insta nonetheless.

“A really cute guy. So you’re in love?”

It’s only been a few weeks, but… “I'll let you know.”

I really think I could be.

All my good mojo carries into the next day, along with Granger’s inexplicable sloppiness. Percy pulls me aside to ask, “Have you put some sort of amulet on her? Drained her vitality like a succubus?”

I roll my eyes. “I wish.”

Percy’s right to be concerned. It’s as if Granger and I have swapped report cards, and Coach Olympe, who had been toying with the idea of Granger entering as a singles skater this year, has suddenly expressed doubts that it’s worth the risk.

“All I know is that she got into an argument with Draco.”

Such a trivial matter shouldn’t be enough to get an Olympic medal skater so far off her game, least of all someone who’s as clinical as Granger can be on the ice. But she’s so miserable after even our second on-ice session today that I offer, “Want to catch the Lions game with me tonight?” I already had plans to watch it anyway.

“Oh, no,” she says. “That’s okay.”

But Percy overhears us, and insists that we do go. “Come on! It’ll be just us girls.”

Ginny’s on the road with Potter, so we take an Uber to The Three Sticks to watch. Rosmerta recognises me from last time, and Percy, Granger, and I take a photo with her daughter, a sweet kid named Esmeralda. Rosmerta ushers us into Nev’s booth and proceeds to deliver us two orders of Nev’s protein special. It’s more than enough for us all.

The game comes on, and Percy talks us through the finer points of hockey in sassy, sarcastic lingo that makes it much more enjoyable to watch. But the Lions aren’t on top of things tonight, and Draco fumbles the puck a few times too many. By the end of the first period, Durmstrang is up 2-0 on his watch.

Granger isn’t even looking at the screen. She keeps sighing, and it’s distracting enough that Percy holds his steak knife up to her and goes, “Okay, Hermione. What exactly is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles.

“Tell us,” Percy commands, jabbing the air.

“No.”

I’ve watched enough of her and the game to voice my guess aloud. “Did you and Draco get into another fight after the victory party? Because he’s playing like shit.”

“I… We…” 

Percy’s eyes widen. “No. No, Hermione Granger, you did not!”

“Not now, Percy.” Granger drops her napkin and runs to the ladies’ room.

I stare after her, confused, and then turn to Percy, who’s shooting me a look of urgency.

“What?” I ask.

“Hello?? I can’t follow her in there! Go!”

I sigh. “Fine. Update me on the game.”

The door to the ladies’ is unlocked. I push in and find Granger splashing water on her face over the sink.

“Are you okay?” I ask slowly.

“What does it bloody look like, Pansy?”

I scowl at her shrill tone. “Not cute, I’ll say that much.”

Granger takes a few calming breaths. “Why are you here?” she asks, not unkindly. “I’m sure you want to catch Nev play.”

“Percy’s orders.”

She leans over the counter, head bowed.

“Your hair is going to get wet,” I warn her.

A sigh. “I just… I need a few minutes.”

I leave her to it, and Percy tells me excitedly, “Neville’s just scored a goal!!”

I swear. This is what I get for being a friend.

We’re watching the Lions’ valiant attempt to recover when Granger returns. She’s still got a grim expression on her face when she confesses, “I slept with Malfoy.”

“I knew it!” Percy shrieks.

My shock must be showing on my face because Granger says, “Don’t look at me that way.”

We settle down, the hockey game forgotten as she tells us, “It was during dinner. I went out to apologise, and before I knew it, we were in his flat and…” she sighs.

“Was it bad?” Percy asks.

Granger blushes to the roots of her massive hair. “No…”

Percy squeals.

“It was a mistake,” Granger stresses. “At least, that’s what I told him when I left in the morning.”

“Sounds to me like you made that mistake over and over again,” I accuse her.

She groans, but doesn’t deny it. “I was so late for practice…”

“Why would it be a mistake?” Percy asks. “You liked him enough to have sex with him.”

Granger’s face looks absolutely tormented. “You saw how I’ve been skating. Malfoy and I… we’re not like Ginny and Harry, okay? It’ll never work out.”

“Why not?” I demand.

“Because we’re too explosive. Everything just has to be an argument with him.”

“But you love that,” Percy says. “A little too much, if you ask me.”

“He’s just something I needed to get out of my system,” Granger says. “And now, I have.”

It's totally unconvincing.

“Draco might be a sarcastic arse,” I venture, “but he’s a good person. He’s worth a shot, if you like him as much as I think you do.”

“I can’t take that risk.” She looks tentatively at the telly. A close-up of Draco has popped up. He looks miserable.

“Hermione,” Percy says, “You skate at the highest level in the riskiest category of our sport. You let me toss you in the fucking air for a living.”

She only shakes her head.

The final buzzer sounds, and the Lions lose 2-1.

I sigh. “I hope you change your mind.”

Chapter Text

It’s a new week now, and Nev is back in the city. The Lions lost the second game in Durmstrang, after which they headed home to play two more games in Gryffindor. Coach Black apparently demoted Draco to the third line for the next two games, a development which Nev told me Draco was incredibly sore about.

The pressure on the Lions to win means that I haven’t gotten to spend much time with Nev—their training and tape-reviewing has eaten up all his days and nights. But Draco did manage to redeem himself in style, and tonight, it was he who led the Lions to win the Conference Final series over Durmstrang, four games to two. I didn’t even get to watch live—my dance session with Tonks ran unbearably long.

Nev is incredibly tired by the time he drops by my flat.

“Hey,” I say. “Congratulations. You’re through to the Finals!”

“Thanks.” Nev pulls me close and presses his nose into my hair.  “How’ve you been? I’ve missed you.”

“As if we haven’t been FaceTiming all week.”

He kisses me. “It’s different,” he whispers when he pulls away.

It really is.

I haven’t finished moving all my furniture into my new home yet, so I pull him towards my room and hop on the too-small double bed. I pat the space next to me with a smirk.

“We can’t,” he yawns in warning.

“I know.”

He toes his shoes off and gets into bed with me, pulling me into his arms. He smells good—like rainwater and pine—after his post-game shower.

“How’d you guys pull it off in the end?” I ask, burrowing deeper into his side.

Nev’s chest rumbles with amusement. “That might be a better question for Draco.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Nev?” 

He’s fallen fast asleep.

I wake early the next morning to an empty bed and the sounds and smells of cooking in my kitchen. I pat my hair down and make my way out to where Nev is standing by my stove, a mug of coffee in hand.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, leaning in for a kiss.

I cover my mouth. “I haven’t brushed.”

“That’s okay.” When I don’t pull my hand away, he kisses my cheek.

“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve made you coffee, eggs, and porridge.”

“Not at all. How’d you guess that’s what I eat?”

“It’s all you have in here,” he shrugs.

“Caught me.”

As we sit for a quiet breakfast, Nev updates me on their sport. “Slytherin’s won their conference, too. It’s as historic for them as it is for us.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the first time we’re meeting in the finals since Dumbledore and Grindelwald started our rivalry back in ’45. Did you know they used to be secret lovers?”

I nod. “I googled it.” Dumbledore played for the Lions, and Grindelwald, the Snakes.

He chuckles. “Of course you did.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“I mean, I’m pumped. It’s my first trip to the Finals. But it’s gonna be tough. Even now, we’re feeling pretty beat up.”

My training won’t allow me to fly out for every single game, but I want to support Nev. “I’ll watch every home game.”

“You don’t have to,” he says hurriedly. “I know how much time our games eat up, and you’ve got training.”

I smirk. “Where else am I going to wear your jersey if I don’t?”

“You might actually be putting yourself in danger.” Nev frowns, rubbing his beard. His thumb lingers on the scar on his lip. “It could get ugly.”

I slap his arm lightly. “How bad could it be?”

Nev sips his coffee, deep in thought.

How bad could it be, she said. Famous last words, because the Finals are shaping up to be a grudge match of epic proportions.

First, there’s the fact that the Lions and the Snakes have had bad blood for decades. Their coaches, Sirius and Regulus Black, have been making digs at one another all season long, and just this morning, I caught highlights of their joint Finals presscon that was embarrassingly full of nasty exchanges.

Second, there are the fans, who have begun to attack the players and one another online. The news is swirling with fears that the fans might resort to violence at the slightest provocation, and the League has hired extra security to hopefully prevent it. Team management, too, has beefed up security for their players, which is both hilarious and frightening because the lads are already jacked on their own. 

Third, there’s Draco, the eye of the storm. His inconsistent performance in the last series hasn’t won over many Lions fans, and the Snakes have dubbed him “blood traitor” since he left his father’s team. He’s the single biggest target for backlash on both sides, so he’s been keeping a very low profile in the lead-up to the first game.

So concerned are Potter and Nev for our safety that they’ve asked Ginny and me not to attend their games. We argue that they're being too dramatic, so our boyfriends compromise. We can watch live if (and only if) the game is a Championship decider in Gryffindor Arena.

Because the Lions have a better win record, they host the home games first. Granger and I join Ginny and the Weasleys in their family home as we tune in to watch Game 1.

The fans in the arena are unbelievably rowdy, and they’re split nearly 50/50 despite Slytherin being hours away by plane. I can barely hear the commentator over their cheers and jeers, and gameplay is stopped at one point because some Snakes fans have tossed their cups onto the ice.

The players aren’t much better. Draco, unsurprisingly, is the main target of the on-ice violence. He sustains several big hits from two goons named Crabbe and Goyle that begin to affect his skating, even if Weasley Number Two is quick to come to his defense. (Charlie is what his sister calls an enforcer, which explains why he’s often the first to throw a punch even if he isn't the one who's been wronged.) Nev, however, is doing his best to play hard but clean. His head is in it, despite him also being a constant target of illegal checks that go unnoticed by the referees. It’s infuriating to watch, but then again it’s immensely satisfying when he finally gets into it with Marcus Flint. It earns him and Flint a penalty, but they’re far from the only ones.

The number of on-ice scuffles have led to players from both teams being penalised and shifting the whole game dynamic with every subsequent face-off. By the time the final buzzer sounds, the Snakes win 4-3.

The Weasleys groan in unison.

“Fuck,” Ginny laments, and Granger slouches over in tired disbelief. 

I’m more concerned about Nev, so I shoot him a text.

nev long🍑

hey nev. sorry about the L. u played hard.
i saw u hit marcus
is everything ok?

It takes him over an hour to see my message, and I’m already home when my phone buzzes.

Hi Pans. Thanks for watching.
I’m okay.

I scramble to reply.

want me to come over?

Maybe not tonight.
They’ve got bouncers at our doors.

oh, for real?
ok. tomorrow then?
Read: 1:01 AM

Listen. I’m normally not one to read into this sort of stuff. I, of all people, understand what it’s like, and Nev is a pro athlete playing the most important games of his career. But damn if it doesn’t sting until I go to bed.

Granger and I meet Coach Olympe at the rink early in the morning, though we’ve been informed of an early interruption. It seems the Lions will be regrouping on the ice, right after we finish. Nev hadn’t told me.

Still, that doesn’t stop me from putting on a show when they arrive in full training gear. The players jostle my blushing boyfriend as he gets his first glimpse of my short programme—yes, the one I’m currently skating to their goal horn music.

The Lions clack their sticks on the ground and holler their approval as I drum up a performance-level finish, much to Granger and Coach Olympe’s shared amusement.

Nev is already waiting by the rink’s exit when I swap out with Granger. 

“Go Lions,” I greet him.

“The lads thought you looked really good out there,” he offers somewhat awkwardly.

“Really good?” I tease, attaching my skate guards to my blades. “Is that all?”

“I believe the words Finnegan and Thomas used were, ‘smokin’ hot,’ and, ‘goddamn, LB.’”

“I wanna know what the words you used were.”

“I believe they were, ‘I can’t believe that’s my girl.’”

I grin.

“I didn’t know you were really using our song,” he says. “That first time, you told me it was just for practice.”

I cock a brow. “I might have told you if you’d replied to me last night.” Or even this morning, but whatever.

Nev winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I get it. Rough game. Tough series.”

Coach Black’s whistle sounds, and Nev turns his head to where his teammates are huddling. “I gotta go.”

“Text me later?”

“Yeah,” he says distractedly.

“Hey.” I jerk my chin out behind Nev. “Take Draco with you.”

Nev follows my gaze to the edge of the rink, where his teammate is staring pensively at Granger.

If Game 1 was bad, Game 2 is somehow worse. Once again, I’m watching with Granger and Ginny, this time in Granger's flat. According to them, the Snakes are bringing back the ‘80s definition of playing dirty—which means there’s more fighting than actual hockey going on. Even the players I knew as Draco’s good buddies have begun snarling unknown threats in his face to try and bait him into hitting them first. Zabini? Nott? Cancelled.

Draco takes it all with dignity, and I can’t help but sneak looks at Granger any time something happens, just to see her reaction. We haven’t talked about her confession since that night because she returned to the rink the next day skating like her usual self. Clinically perfect. Even now, she’s impassive. It seems she really has gotten Draco out of her system.

Whatever. He deserves better.

The Lions are up 3-2 in the third period when the worst of the physical violence occurs. Crabbe and Goyle gang up on Harry, which causes Nev to place his body between them and shove them apart. Goyle punches his face, and he punches back once. Hard. It’s a four-man altercation that lands them all in the penalty box, and Slytherin tie the game because of another underhanded play by Marcus Flint.

“The refs are blind fucking arse cheeks!” Ginny screams into a throw pillow, and I heartily agree.

Nev’s fuming expression is blown up on the telly. His nose is bruised and bleeding, and I fucking hate that I’m not at the arena. I knew his sport was rough, but until now, I hadn’t actually seen any blood. 

“We need to go,” I tell her. “After the game.”

“Hell yes, I’ll take you,” Ginny fumes. “Hermione? Are you coming?”

Granger still has her hands folded on her lap. “Okay.”

Draco somehow manages a goal in the last ten seconds of the game, trying the series 1-1.

Ginny hops up. “Come on, let’s go.”

The drive to Gryffindor Arena is quick, what with all the traffic going in the opposite direction. Ginny parks the car and rushes us all into the building, past the crowds and through to the locker room.

She and Granger wait as Harry finishes up his interview, but I’m looking only for Nev.

He’s nowhere to be found.

I’m worried, so I pull my phone out.

nev long🍑

hey, i’m at the arena. where are u?
Read:  10:01 PM

He doesn’t reply, so I try calling him. Four times. He doesn’t pick up.

nev. come on.
did u head home?

nev?
Read:  10:47 PM

Wow.

I tell the others I’m going home, but I book a ride and head for Nev’s place instead. Some of the lights are on, so I walk up and ring the doorbell.

A big, burly man comes to the front door, but it isn’t Nev. His name patch reads R. HAGRID, and he’s even taller and broader than Nev.

“I’m here to see Neville,” I say.

The bouncer—Hagrid, I guess—scratches his scraggly beard. “Mr. Longbottom ain’t seein’ no one tonight.”

“Does that include his girlfriend?” I raise my brow at him.

“Mr. Longbottom doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“Doesn’t have a— Nev!” I try to push past Hagrid, but he’s built like a bloody wall. He picks me up like it’s nothing and carries me down the drive. The nerve!

“Nev!” I holler louder. “Put me down! NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!”

“What are ya, crazy?” Hagrid grunts. “Please, miss! I’m just doin’ me job.”

I hear a door open, and suddenly Nev himself is tapping his bouncer on the shoulder and requesting that he set me down.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Hagrid says sheepishly. “You ain’t the first ‘girlfriend’ that’s come round to see him.”

I cross my arms, unsure if I’m more angry with Hagrid or with Nev.

“Thanks, mate,” Nev says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll take it from here.”

Nev ushers me inside his home, down the dark hall and into his dim kitchen, where he’s got a steaming cup of tea on the counter. Next to his cup is his phone. What the fuck?

“Why haven’t you answered my calls?” I demand bluntly. It’s bad enough that that’s the reason I’ve decided to come, but the incident with Hagrid has really torn my patience to shreds. But something else—something sour begins to pool in the pit of my stomach, and I refuse to give it a name. “I went to the arena. After the game.”

Nev won’t look at me. He shakes his head.

I lean in. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me see, then.”

“No. It’s okay,” he says, but I reach over and gently tilt his face to mine.

Even in the low light of his kitchen, I can make out a swollen, purpling bruise on the bridge of his nose. The blood has long since been cleaned up. “It’s not so bad,” I say softly, my anger dissipating. “Is it painful?”

“Leave it, Pans.” His eyes are low, and his tired, defeated tone is so at odds with his team’s victory just an hour ago. I drop my hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Nev looks away again. “It’s not you,” he says, and I just… know.

I’m not used to being the loser in any sort of relationship. In truth, I’m not used to being in a relationship at all. But Nev’s distant behaviour over the past couple of days has felt all sorts of wrong, and now it makes sense: maybe, just as quickly as we’d fallen into our relationship, Nev’s gotten over it.

Over me.

I stand still for a moment, the reality of the situation hitting me with stark clarity. Oh, god. I’m an idiot. All the signs pointed to this—his failure to reply, his screening my calls, his not wanting me at his games, his refusal to have sex. He hadn't even bothered to tell his security detail about me. Obviously, it was too much, too soon. 

The thought stings more than it should for a relationship that's only a month old. God, it sounds so lame. I wouldn’t expect anyone to understand the connection that Nev and I… Fuck. 

“I’ll get going, then,” I say mechanically. “Sorry for wasting your time.” I turn around to hide my hurt grimace, and march back out into the hall.

“Pans…” 

When I hear his barstool scraping back, I walk faster. 

“Wait.” His hand circles around my elbow. I whirl around and yank it away. 

“I have been waiting,” I cry. “I know that we’re in the early days. But you’re someone that I...” I look everywhere but at him. My eyes are getting watery and I fucking hate it. All I wanted was to know he was okay. I’m not ready to deal with this. “I don’t—I didn’t expect you to be able to reply to me every second of every day. I get that you’re in the Finals, and that’s a big deal, and I… I just came here because I was worried. You got hurt. And I wanted to check on you, because I thought…” I peer at my shoes. “Never mind. I was wrong.”

Really fucking wrong. Maybe Granger was right about not taking risks on hockey players. This hurts.

I turn back around, ready to cut my losses and walk out of Nev’s life. “Don’t call me.”

“Wait,” Nev calls out again. He sidles past me, but stays by the side of the door. “I won’t stop you if you want to leave, it’s just…” he sighs. “At least let me drive you home. You won’t find a ride so easily from here, and it isn’t safe to walk.”

Is he being considerate, or is he mocking me? I can’t tell. All I know is I don’t want to be anywhere near him right now. I turn my nose up at him. “It’s not that far.” I could use the half-hour walk to be alone with my thoughts.

“Then I’ll walk with you.” He grabs a jacket from his coat rack and throws it over my shoulders.

“Stop, Nev.” I shrug the jacket off and press it back into his hands. I’m thankful for the shadow over his face, and hope mine is just as shrouded in darkness. I’m too humiliated, and I can’t keep this up for long. I hope he grants me some mercy when I admit, “I’d like to keep whatever pride I have left.”

He stares at me. “What?”

I groan. This is too dramatic for what the relationship was. If I could even call it that. “There's no need to draw this out. We’ve only been dating for, what, a month?” It was dumb of me to get so attached so quickly. “You’re a good guy, but…” No ‘but.’ I’ve fallen in love with you anyway. I thought you were great. It was the best month of my life. “All of this just tells me you don’t like me enough. And that’s… that’s okay.”

A big, fat lie. It feels like there’s a puck lodged in my throat.

“No. This is all wrong.” He pulls at his hair. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” I repeat with false conviction, even if it’s anything but. “Give me a week. I’ll get over it.” Another lie.

And because I don’t want to hear his excuses, I cross my arms and begin my walk home.

“It’s not about you. I fucked up.” He’s making long strides to keep up with me now, and my pride cannot bear it. I will my legs to keep moving. “Pansy.”

“Go back inside, Nev,” I say bitterly. “Get some rest. You have a championship to win—”

“I’m in love with you!” he nearly shouts.

That stops me in my tracks. Suddenly, it’s my turn to whirl around, and blink, and gape, and… “What?”

He’s taking big, heaving breaths now, uncaring that we’re out in the streets where anyone could see. His brows are knitted hard, and he’s staring at me even harder. “You heard me.”

It doesn’t make sense. He’s been avoiding me for the last couple of games, and if I think about it harder, he’s been weird about the Finals for a bit longer than that. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” I sigh. “That’s beneath you, Nev, and I don’t want your pity.”

“No.” He shakes his head adamantly and takes a step towards me. Then another. “No,” he says again.

“What do you mean, ‘no.’”

“I didn’t want you to see me play.”

I frown. I’ve watched all his games since I met him. “Spare me. You could’ve just told me it was too much. I’m not some groupie.”

“I don’t…” He sighs heavily. “I know how much you don’t like hockey goons. You said it enough on our first date. I really didn’t want you to see me being just that on the ice, hitting another guy for reasons that I’m not strictly part of. I’m really not proud of it, and I didn’t want you to look at me and think that… that being a bruiser is all I’m good for. Or that I was capable of…” he trails off, but something that feels like hope bubbles traitorously in my chest.

“Capable of what?”

“Of hurting you like that one day.”

“You wouldn’t,” I say. Not that way, at least.

“No, I wouldn’t. Ever.”

His oath hangs between us.

“Nev,” I say slowly, “you didn’t do anything that wasn’t part of the game.”

“Fighting isn’t strictly allowed—”

“And yet you played as clean a game as you could, given the circumstances.”

He’s peering at me with caution. “Do you still want to leave?” He takes a step closer, and I stand still. “Have I scared you off?”

I shrug. “You almost did, just now.”

“Pans…”

I huff wryly. How the tables have turned. “It wasn’t the hockey. You hurt my feelings.” His face crumples, but I add, “Would it have killed you to answer my calls?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. I never told Gran when I got hurt.”

“I’m not your gran, Nev. And look how great that turned out.” I shake my head. “I thought you must have found me too clingy, or something.”

“I don’t think that at all.”

That’s good. “Well, then, you’re gonna have to get better at replying to your girlfriend's texts when you inevitably get hurt while kicking those dirty Snakes’ arses.”

Nev finally pulls me close, and the smell of his body wash just makes me sigh with relief. Thank fuck thank fuck thank fuck. “What you saw in the last couple of games is as violent as it gets. I promise.”

“You don’t understand.” I say it slowly: “I like when you fuck shit up.”

A confused laugh bubbles out of his throat. “You do?”

“Those arsewipes are really doing a number on Draco—protect him like you normally would. As it is, Weasley is spending more time in the penalty box than out on the ice.”

A chuckle. “Yes, Coach.”

I let Nev take my hand and lead me home. His home. He gives me a new toothbrush, lets me take a shower, and sets out an old Lions T-shirt for me to use. It’s comfy and it hits mid-thigh—and Nev doesn’t know it yet, but it’s mine now. My underwear… well, I don’t sleep in underwear, anyway.

Nev’s quiet when I enter his bedroom.

“I was thinking,” I say when I join him in bed, “I’m really glad we talked about this.”

“Oh?” he says, but he’s lying there so stiffly I can tell he’s still nervous.

“Yeah. If we’d broken up, you never would have had a shot at winning the Cup. And I would’ve had to change my music for my—hmmmph!”

Nev has pressed his lips to mine, so I kiss him back with just enough pressure that says I forgive him, but he has some making up to do. I don’t intend for him to grovel… much.

“Don’t talk like that,” he begs, moving his lips to my ear and down the column of my neck. “I can’t take it.” His hands slide around my waist and he gently rests his weight over my body. “I’m sorry.” He rests his head on my chest, and I cradle him with my arm.

“It’s okay,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. But this time, as I brush my fingers through his short hair, I’m certain I’m telling the truth. “I’m sorry, too.”

I close my eyes, and we rest in silence for a moment. I can still feel Nev’s long eyelashes brushing against my shirt as he blinks.

He sighs.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. This time, I’m expecting a proper answer.

“I meant what I said. Earlier.” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard. His lips are moving against my shirt, lightly muffling his words but not the feeling behind them. “I’ve asked myself if it was possible to feel this way about someone so quickly. I’ve never really attached myself to anyone like this… yet I took one look at you and I knew.” He lifts his head up, and I briefly mourn the loss of his body heat. But his earnest green eyes more than make up for it when he says, “I’m just completely head over heels for you, and every day you give me another reason that strengthens what I’ve known all along. I want to be right for you, Pans, and it’s put me in a crisis.”

“I’m far from perfect,” I remind him, thinking back to my outburst not an hour ago. My heart is hammering in my chest, and my joy is tempered by the fear that he might have put me on a pedestal.

“I’m not asking you to be.”

“I’m not asking you to be, either.” I tilt my head so I can look Nev straight in the eyes. “A lot of the time, you seem too good to be true. I feel bad for assuming things the way I did earlier, but you should know that it scares me how much I…” How much I already love you. “How much I care about you. It made sense that you’d push me away. I thought I was the crazy one.”

I hedged because it’s what I do. There’s no going back on my feelings now, yet as much as I don’t want to be afraid, there’s still a part of me that is.

But Nev is looking at me like he sees right through my defenses. His own expression is as patient and gentle as I know him to be. He’s been honest with me about his worst fears, and I owe it to him to try.

Should I tell him? Would that cheapen the moment?

I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he says, as though reading my mind. “Not until you’re ready. I might not have said it under the best of circumstances, but I meant it all the same. I love you, Pans. And I love getting to know you.”

My heart feels like it’s about to burst. “Nev, I—”

“Shh. Take your time,” he murmurs, kissing my chest over my heart. “One day, when you’re ready, I’ll tell you all the reasons I love you.”

Chapter Text

Nev doesn’t say it again. Not when he leaves for Slytherin the next day, nor on any of the days that follow. But the clarity between us has done a lot of good—I feel easier for simply hearing from Nev the way I’ve wanted to, and he’s playing much better for it, too.

Here's something delightful I’ve learned about Nev in the last few days: he might be my gentle giant, but on the ice, he’s a fucking bruiser. (I know what I said before, but Nev is really the exception. It’s so appealing.) And no one is happier to see him in top form than Ginny. She’s nearly rabid over the Snakes getting their comeuppance for their dirty machinations in the last two games.

Game 3 of the Finals is a masterclass in how to be an old school enforcer, courtesy of Nev and Weasley Number Two. It’s an extremely physical role that defensemen haven’t really had to play in years, not since the sport began recruiting smaller, faster forwards in order to lessen the fighting. (You know, so actual hockey could take place.) But since the Snakes have been playing dirty, it’s fallen to Nev and Charlie to have an answer for them—not to initiate violence, but to defend Potter, Draco, and 69 Guy (Carlos? Cormick?) from the likes of Crabbe, Goyle, and Flint.

Nev tried explaining the unwritten rules of fighting to me. When a player instigates a fight over a poor play, his target is usually obligated to fight back until one of them is down on the ice. It’s a caveman’s sort of honour system, but fights can help a team change momentum. 

He and Weasley still wind up serving two penalties each. It’s worth it, because the game ends in an epic Lions win that takes them to a 2-1 lead in the series.

Nev calls me after the game, when he’s back in his hotel room.

“Hi, Pans. Did you see the photo I sent?”

“Yup. Very cute. The blood on your jersey adds a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Ha. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I told you. It’s hot.”

Nev rolls his eyes good-naturedly. 

“If it makes you feel better,” I say, “I googled it—”

“I’m sure.”

“—and you’re not even on a single Top Dirtiest Players listicle. Even the fans on Twitter were pumped about the penalties, ‘cause you’re quote,‘such a nice guy.’”

“I don’t care what they think,” Nev says soberly. “Only you.”

“You already know what I think.” 

I believed Nev when he told me he didn’t enjoy the violence. I could also tell by his displeased grimace while he was stewing in the penalty box. Charlie, on the other hand, appeared to be having the time of his life.

“Weasley all good?” I ask.

“Yeah. Only lost one tooth.”

“And you?” The mental image of him grinning with a missing front tooth or an incisor is amusing, but not ideal.

He flashes me a smile. “My teeth are fine.”

“And your hands?”

“A little less so.” He shows me a bruise on his right knuckle.

“Where’d you pick up those boxing skills, hmm?”

Nev hesitates. “We get coaching now and then.”

“Is that required skill in hockey?”

“It shouldn’t be, but it is. We do it mostly for conditioning, though.”

“Naturally.”

“And balance.”

“Right, right.”

“I’m serious!”

“Maybe you could throw me against the ropes sometime.” I resist the temptation to crack a joke about a pounding—I’m sure he gets the idea. I do, however, give Nev a better view of the tiny camisole I’m wearing to bed tonight. His brows shoot up.

“Pans!” someone hollers, but it’s not him. “I beg you, shut up! Nev, wear your earphones, man.”

Nev chuckles, tilting his screen closer to his face. I pull my top up higher, and his eyes darken. “Sorry, Draco’s here with me.” 

“You’re apologising to her?” Draco complains.

Nev turns to his unseen roommate. “Don’t talk to my girl that way, mate.”

I snicker. “You heard him, Draco. You shut it.” I reward Nev’s gallantry by pulling my top off entirely. “But Nev, you should get some rest.”

He bites his lip and rushes to the bathroom. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasps, rubbing a hand over his beard.

“And me!” Draco hollers.

Busybody! Drama king!

Two days later, Game 4 is much the same. Momentum is clearly on the Lions’ side, because five different players on their roster score one goal each. The Snakes don’t have an answer for them at any point in the game, which ends 5-2. The Lions lead the series 3-1, and they fly home to Gryffindor in hopes of sealing the deal.

Nev calls me as soon as he lands. Lucky I answer, because I’ve just finished ice training for the day. I’m freshly showered by the time he arrives at the arena, not looking tired at all from his flight. He has a restless look in his eyes when he takes me in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask.

“You know what,” he growls.

Okay, so I may have sent across a few tasteful nudes, in exchange, of course, for highly-solicited photos of a similar, but masculine nature…

“Can’t say I do—Nev!” I laugh as he sweeps me into his arms and kisses me like a soldier come home from war.

“Missed you,” he says into my hair. "Minx."

Nev carries me around the hood of his Jeep and opens the passenger door.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he deposits me inside.

He pauses. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“Tired?”

“Just a little.”

“Then you have two choices: your place, or mine?”

I choose his place, if only because it’s comfier, and he has a bigger bed. 

Not that I’m thinking about the bed. 

Much.

On the way, Nev asks about my week.

“Not much to tell,” I say. “I’m not the one gunning for a championship.”

“When’s your competition, though?” he asks. “You promised I could watch.”

I'd hoped he'd forgotten.

“This one’s just the first qualifier for Nationals,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. “The ones I want to do well in aren’t for another month and a half.” That’s a lie—I want to win, but I need him not to make a big deal out of it.

“Still.”

I shrug. “I’ll let you know. But things are coming along. Oh, and my costumes have finally arrived.”

Nev’s eyes light up even as he’s driving. “Can I see?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“You know everything I’m up to, Pans. I want to know about you, too.”

“And you will. But some things,” I say smugly, “are worth the wait.”

“Where’s your bodyguard?” I ask when we get to Nev’s. He’s checking on his plants, and I think he’s picked up a couple more since the last time I was here.

“I gave him the night off. It’s been a long flight, I’m looking forward to resting tonight.”

“Just resting?” I smirk.

“My girlfriend’s always telling me to rest after my games.” He takes a step closer to me.

“She sounds really smart.”

Another step. “Very. She’s also a pain in the arse.”

“Oh?”

“She’s been sending me these sexy photos all week, knowing full well I couldn’t do a thing about it.” 

“I hope you sent her a few, too.” Wink wink. He did.

“She has a talent for, ah, long-distance negotiation.” He’s standing before me now, and I need to tilt my head back to look him in the eye properly.

I smirk. “She must drive you mad.”

“I’m half-insane already,” Nev professes, placing his hands on my hips.

“I thought you were a patient man.”

“Even patient men have their limits.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

He picks me up. I wrap my arms and legs around him as he transports me to the bedroom, where I’m all too happy to let him be as impatient as he pleases.

He sits me on his lap and places hot kisses on my mouth. His tongue is in a playful mood today, and he flicks it against my tongue and my lips so suggestively that I don’t immediately notice his hands moving up beneath my short dress.

I squeak when I feel his fingers on the skin of my waist. Nev’s eyes are dark but apologetic when he pulls them away.

“May I?” he asks.

Oh, hell yes.

“Take it off,” I command him, and he pushes my dress up and over my head. My bralette quickly follows, and I’m left sitting upon his lap in only my tiny knickers.

Nev hasn’t noticed them. He’s still staring at my breasts, which he’s only seeing in the flesh for the first time. (I know. I can’t believe it myself.)

I take advantage of his distraction to pull at his shirt, and it’s off before he can think to stop me. That in itself is a triumph—I’ve got a growing collection of Naked Nev in my phone’s camera roll, but as with everything that pertains to him, it doesn’t compare to the real thing. Nev’s body has a smattering of yellow and purple bruises all over, many of which he’s already shown me. I press my fingers to them softly, doing inventory as I make a little trail down his torso. There’s something else I want to see, but Nev stops me before I get to his jeans.

“Nev,” I whine. Not again!

“No,” he says. “This is about you and your tempting photographs.”

“You sent me some too,” I protest. “Let me see you—I want to see.”

Nev shakes his head. He knows I’m a brat, okay. And I think… I think he likes it. “I believe that between us, you’re the one who shows no mercy. So be good for me, love, and let me do what I’ve been wanting to do to you all week.”

Well, how the hell is a girl supposed to say no to that?

I rest my hands on his shoulders and allow him to lean in. He plants kisses on my neck and collarbones, his hands working their way up from my hips, to my waist, to my breasts.

“Kneel for me,” he says.

“On the floor?” I suggest.

He shakes his head. “Over my thigh.”

I prop myself up so my chest is level with his face. He lifts his hands to touch me, and I shiver.

You know how a lot of men are with tits? It’s like they never outgrow their juvenile obsession with this particular part of our anatomy? They see breasts and go, Oh shit, time to suck on these bad boys and knead them like pizza dough!

Yeah, Nev is the absolute furthest thing from that.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So beautiful.”

I push my breasts together with my arms. “Not too small?”

He tugs my arms away. “Whoever put that idea in your head is dead wrong.”

I preen. Nev’s looking at me like he’s discovered religion, and my skin pebbles from just the heat of his gaze. I arch my back expectantly, and he lowers his face to my breasts like a reverent prayer.

He kisses my left breast above my heart. Then he kisses the other. He languidly grazes his lips against my flesh, avoiding my nipples. 

“What are you doing, Nev?” I complain.

“Patience,” he reminds me. He's the one who hurried to get us home, but now he’s acting like we’ve got nothing but time!

He nuzzles me, scraping his stubble gently against my skin. It feels as good as it tickles. I giggle, writhing to escape his grasp.

“Hold still,” he says. He takes both my breasts in his hands—god they’re big—and squeezes them just hard enough that they ache. A soft, pleased moan escapes my lips.

Nev sweeps his hands aside and finally, finally brushes my nipples with his fingers. I sigh in approval, so he runs his thumbs over them over and over. “You like that?”

“You know I do.” I trail my hands up his arms and shoulders, and gather his short hair in my fingers. When I tug his head downwards, Nev chuckles.

He kisses the underside of my breast, and I like it so much that I beg him to do the other. I feel a smile on his lips as he indulges me.

Then he moves his hands down to my ribcage and replaces his fingers with his tongue. 

I yelp and shove his head away by impulse.

“How sensitive you are,” he murmurs.

And I am—it’s been so long since I’ve been touched, and never in this way. 

“Relax,” he murmurs into my skin. He wraps his arms around me, resting one hand on my back and the other on my bum. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I breathe.

He picks up where he left off, flicking my nipples lightly with his tongue until I swear I see stars. When he begins licking circles around them, my head falls back.

“Fuck—ohhh.” This is wild. A fucking revelation. I’m panting heavily, but I can’t catch my breath.

My whimpers only seem to fuel Nev’s attentions. He alternates between open-mouth kisses and little suckling nips to the flesh surrounding my nipples. Then he grazes his teeth over my peaks, never biting down, though I wish he would. I want to feel all of it, even the pain, and his gentleness ironically makes me want to bear down on him hard.

I’m spoiled, reeling from the contact, and I can’t do anything but mewl and grab at his shoulders for purchase. Forget what I said about being put on a pedestal, because it’s like I’m a goddess, and Nev is my ardent worshipper with his enthusiastic and talented tongue.

The only noises in the room are the sounds of his mouth, and my moans that are getting embarrassingly loud. It’s the most sensual, erotic thing I’ve ever experienced, and Nev hasn’t even touched my most intimate part yet. I don’t know if I can come from this alone, but I’m so turned on that I very well might. My thighs quiver, and my cunt flutters and clenches over nothing. I’m tense all over, flushed, and ready to explode.

He brings his hands back up to cup my tits, then he pinches my peaks between his thumbs and forefingers. The zing is electric, and I cry out.

My knees buckle, and suddenly I’m straddling his thigh. I grind down as he suckles me hard. The pain and the friction give me sweet reprieve. But it’s not enough. 

I reach for his straining erection, but he takes my hands and places them behind his neck. 

“Let me touch you,” I beg, moving my leg over his other hip. “Please, please.”

He still hasn’t let me see his cock, which feels like a violation of my rights somehow. Because from the photos, I know that Nev has a really nice cock. It’s long and girthy and lightly curved, and I just know(!!!) it would be weighty in my hand. Or my mouth. Or…

Nev lifts me away from where I’m pressed against his bulge and brings a hand down to my thong. He pulls it to the side and brushes my clit with his knuckles. “Do you always wear these little underthings?”

“I got used to wearing them for p-practice.” I moan out his name, spreading my legs wider so he can pleasure me with his fingers. He’s a giver, Nev is. It isn’t long before I come—and I come so hard that my ears ring. He hasn’t even pushed a finger inside of me yet!

So when he lays me on the bed… it’s to my absolute surprise that he gets up, hard-on and all, and walks away. 

“Where are you going!” I demand, propping myself up on my elbows.

“The bathroom,” he says. He returns with a moist towel and wipes me down gently.

My jaw drops. “After all that, you’re still not going to fuck me?”

“Not yet. My girl once told me that some things are worth the wait.” He smiles, and for a second, I want to blast that dimple off the face of the planet.

“She’s an idiot!” I screech. “Don’t listen to her!”

“As we’ve established, I think she’s very smart.”

“Don’t start things you won’t finish,” I complain. When he only laughs softly, I ask, “Is this a punishment? It feels like a punishment.”

“I just wanted to make you feel good.”

I reach for his cock, which is still rock-hard in his jeans. “What about you?” 

“This was just for you.” Nev gently removes my hand and presses a kiss to each of my breasts. They’re peppered with love bites.

I petulantly cover myself with a pillow.

Nev leans over once more, caging me between his forearms. I don’t feel trapped—though I still want him to trap me. “I want to keep you until the next morning, and the mornings after that. That’s the promise I made you, Pans, and I intend to keep it.”

I pout. That’s nice, but… ugh, fine. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

“Honestly? I don’t have much left in me to do that.” He kisses my mouth gently and pads to the bathroom.

I horny-thrash on the bed when I hear the shower run.

Game 5 the next day is a Championship decider, so Ginny and I are finally invited by our boyfriends to watch live. Nev and Potter have secured us rinkside seats closest to the team bench, so that in the event that they do win, we’ve got a front row view, or something. Or maybe we'll get to join them on the ice? I don’t know.

It doesn’t hurt that Coach Olympe is so over this entire affair. She’s already cited traffic and the days-long cleanup as reasons to suspend practice and go on a quick holiday. I don’t mind, because besides my conditioning and off-ice training, my time will be my own. Today, for instance, I can take my time getting ready for the game with Ginny.

“Nice jersey, Ice Queen!” she ribs me.

Today I’m wearing Nev’s jersey from last season, which he gave me the first time I ever slept over. I’ve altered the sleeves and sides to fit me more snugly, and I’m actually pleased with the result. (To my credit, I’ve picked up some sewing skills over the years. Skating costumes are notoriously fragile.) Even so, the top is still loose. That’s why I’ve worn it over a hoodie, along with tight leggings and my sportiest sneakers. “Thanks. It's original.”

“Oh, so you guys are serious-serious.”

I only smirk.

The one damper in my plan to enjoy myself is Granger, who shows up at the Weasleys’ late.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was undecided on whether or not I should come.”

I don’t care to ask why, but I take the opportunity to press her with a heavy warning not to distract Draco.

“I won’t,” she promises.

“I mean it,” I reiterate coolly. We haven’t spoken about Draco in the last couple of weeks, and while I initially hoped Granger would give him a chance, all signs point to her being over him. If that’s indeed the case, then I’ll make sure to keep her away.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” she says. “I know how it looks, but I have no plans of toying with Draco’s feelings. I never have.”

I scoff. “Draco?” Since when…?

“That’s what I said.”

What the fuck?

The traffic is mad, no doubt caused by the hordes of fans trying to get to Gryffindor Arena. We make it there just minutes before the opening face-off. The pre-game hype isn’t the same as the Playoffs opening, but this time, I’m buzzing with excitement along with the massive crowd.

“GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR! GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR!”

I’m barely able to shoot Nev a good luck text when the lights dim, and a mighty lion’s roar sounds through the stands. It’s followed by heavy metal music as the commentator shouts, “LADIEEEES AND GENTLEMEN! YOUR GRYFFINDOR!!!!! LIOOOOOOONS!!!!!”

The Jumbotron lights up with a livestream of the players marching out of the locker rooms in white and red. They’re met by deafening cheers as they sprint onto the strobe-lit ice, the noise compounded further by a live drumline. The announcer calls out the starting lineup by name, and I scream my absolute loudest when Nev pops up on the screen.

I only catch a glimpse of him as he skates by, but I lose him quickly. It’s too dark, the spotlights are dizzying, and there are too many men skating circles on the ice.

The Snakes make their way out next, to loud boos from the fans. From what I saw before the lights went out, the Lions have a significant crowd advantage tonight. Maybe the Snakes fans didn’t think it worth the money to watch their team lose?

Whatever the case, the Snakes do have everything to lose. So when the first puck drops, things get nasty right away.

Potter is checked hard on the shoulder as Flint makes a rough dive for the puck. Flint slaps it to Zabini, whom 69 Guy chases down as he makes his way to the net.

Nev is anticipating him, but Crabbe comes out of nowhere and crashes into him from the side. 

Luckily Wood is on point, and he denies Zabini’s first attempt at a fast one.

The lines change. Nev hops into the bench next to us, not even noticing me. His scowl is deep as he talks to Coach Black.

A few minutes in, the first line is back on the ice. Potter’s got the puck, and he’s weaving through an imposing group of Snakes down the neutral zone. He’s fast, but he needs an opening, stat.

Potter passes it to Weasley, and Weasley punts it to Draco. Draco avoids a collision with Goyle and sends the puck to Nev. Nev fakes an attempt at the goal, but hits it back to Draco, who’s now in position by the net. Draco whacks the puck past Pucey—

“GOOOOOOOOOOAALLL! DRACOOOOOO MALFOOOOOY!!”  

The goal horn sounds. Elated Lions jostle a serious-looking Draco as the fans roar their approval. I snort. How fickle people are.

Though the first goal came easily enough, the succeeding attempts on either side are fraught with heavy contact. The first scuffle of the night comes when Higgs from the Snakes nearly clotheslines one of the Creevey brothers, and then the other Creevey throws down his gloves to retaliate. The next comes when Crabbe barrels into Potter unnecessarily. Weasley Number Two all but beats Crabbe to the ground.

“Get him, Charlie!” Ginny screams.

“Oh, honestly!” huffs Granger as the men are separated by the refs and sent to serve their respective penalties.

The Snakes get their elbows out as often as they can. It seems, though, that they’ve saved the ugliest of their manoeuvres for Draco. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s been checked, illegally or not. Somehow, he stays totally cool. (Granger, however, is flinching at every turn.)

Flint pokes the puck from between Draco’s legs and it winds up in Nott’s possession. That’s fine, but then Flint fucking yanks his stick so that Draco trips over it and skids across the ice???

“Foul!!!” Ginny shrieks, but the refs don’t call it.

Nott breaks away, and in a deft move, he shoots the puck into the lower left side of the net.

“GOAL,” the announcer deadpans over the Snakes’ horn. “THEO NOTT.”

Outside of the fighting, this game is fast-paced but unproductive. No one scores in the remainder of the first period, and coming into the second, things remain the same. Still, there’s no shortage of attempts. The Snakes are going hard, but the difference, Ginny points out, is Nev.  

Defense wins championships, I’ve heard it said. But when Nev isn’t trying to protect the forwards, he’s shredding the ice to thwart the Snakes at every turn. He doesn’t do it alone, but he’s almost certainly the quiet backbone of a very efficient defensive operation. Now that I’ve noticed, I can’t look away.

“Is it just me,” I ask, dazed, “or is Nev really good at this?”

“Are you kidding me?” Ginny laughs. “He’s a bloody All Star!”

I’ve admired Nev’s skating many times before. I’ve even admired, if not fully appreciated, the finesse with which he seemed to anticipate and adjust to movements on the ice. But Nev is playing with a dogged sort of intensity tonight, and I can’t believe I never really paid attention. All because my eyes were glued to the dumb puck.

Nev performs a slick crossover to corral Zabini into a corner, and a clean, well-placed check from him frees the puck for 69’s taking. It doesn’t result in a goal, but it’s one of many understated moments of brilliance I see from Nev in the minutes that follow.

It’s only towards the end of the second period that I notice a pattern in the Lions’ offense.

“Why do they keep giving the puck to Draco?” I ask. “Anyone else could score.”

“I reckon they’re making a statement,” Ginny replies. “It’s the ultimate fuck you to the Snakes, and it’ll set Malfoy up well for next season.”

I’m impressed, but also concerned. “Draco is clearly their number one target. Why don’t Potter or the others go for it?”

“If they get the chance, then sure. But like Harry said, Malfoy’s not bad. He deserves a real shot here at Gryffindor.”

Draco sustains yet another heavy check from Nott as he crosses the ice. He shoves back, though less aggressively than I would have expected. Granger emits a strangled sound. I ignore her.

“Why isn’t Draco hitting back?” I demand. “He’s going to get himself killed!”

From the corner of my eye, I notice that Granger is pale.

I frown. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I need to talk to Draco,” she whispers.

“What?”

The horn blares, signalling the end of the second period with the game still tied 1-1. Granger rises, but Ginny grabs her arm.

“You can’t just go into the locker room, Hermione!”

“But—”

“Let them play. We can go after the game.”

“Why would you want to go now, anyway?” I ask.

“Because Draco’s acting like an idiot, and I don’t want to see him get killed because of—” she clamps her mouth shut.

I narrow my eyes. “Because of?”

She bites her lip. “Because of his father.” Her head turns slightly to the arena’s luxury box behind us. “Don’t look, but he’s here.”

Ginny whips her head around anyway.

“What are you talking about?” I demand.

Granger releases an aggravated sigh. Her voice is a whisper when she says, “I don’t know how or why, but Lucius caught wind of the news that Draco and I have been seeing one other.”

“Since when?” I shriek.

“Since he flew home. From Durmstrang.”

That was after we watched at the Three Sticks… Oh my god. No wonder her skating had returned to normal. And Draco’s, too.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“It was all very tentative. Harry texted that they’d landed, so I went to Draco’s to apologise. And then…” Her cheeks go very pink. “I… we…”

“Okay, I get it,” I say. “What did Lucius want?”

Granger looks down at her hands. “He let Draco know in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t stand down today, I’d be on the receiving end of his goons’ violence.”

I gape. I’ve heard whispers of Lucius’ connection to a Mafia-esque gang called the Death Eaters. The man is wholly capable of such things. Granger could become the victim of a bat to the knee. Or planted doping. Or paid-off judges. The possibilities are vast.

“What the fuck?” Ginny said.

“What are you doing here, then?” I ask. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” Granger sets her jaw. “I’m a big enough celebrity in my own right, and after this, I fully intend to take his threats to the Daily Prophet. With Draco’s permission, of course.”

“How?” I frown.

“Draco told me we should stop seeing one another last night. He’d recorded their conversation as proof. I said he should think about it, though.”

“Why?”

“Because I have Rita Skeeter in my back pocket,” Granger says primly. 

“No shit?” Is Granger saying what I think she’s saying? Skeeter is the Prophet’s biggest journalist—even if she does write overly sensationalised drivel.

“Yes. And if it means Draco and I have to go public a little earlier than I might have wanted,” she says, “then so be it. But first, I need to tell him to get his head out of his arse and win this!”

I sit back in my chair with a newfound respect for her. “That’s really brave,” I say. Not to mention ruthless. But that part is unsurprising.

“I just took a page out of your book, Pansy.”

“Meaning?”

Granger shrugs. “Love is a lot like skating… and I shouldn’t be afraid to go all in.”

I lean back in my seat. All in?  She gives me a little too much credit. But she's not entirely wrong. I do want to go all in, too.

Granger is standing by the bench with an intense scowl on her face when the teams return for the third period. Unfortunately, Draco and his linemates skate directly onto the ice before she can catch him.

“Ugh!” She stomps her foot.

“You’ll get your chance,” I assure her. But considering how Nev hasn’t even looked my way, I highly doubt it.

The period kicks off. Potter wins the face-off, and Weasley Number Two scores a goal in the first minute.

“GOOOOOOOAAALLLLLL!” booms the announcer. “CHARLIIIIIEEEEE WEASLEEEEEEEY!”

“Fucking finally,” Ginny mutters as the scoreboard ticks. 2-1.

A few possessions in, she observes aloud that the Lions have changed their offensive strategy. Evidently they’ve noticed that despite Draco having scored the first goal, he’s currently their biggest liability on the ice. Coach Black has others sub in for him more often than not, so Draco sits down to brood on the far side of the bench.

Granger sees her opportunity and bangs her hand against the glass. She catches the attention of Dean Thomas, and it’s not long before she’s able to call Draco over. He looks stunned to see her.

She’s whispering urgently into the gap between the glass panes—fuck, I can’t hear—and when she and Draco pull away from each other, he’s got renewed fire in his eyes. He shoots a glare in the direction of the luxury box and then marches over to Coach Black.

The next time the first line is on the ice, he’s back in the game with them.

Draco is skating like a man possessed—and his linemates recognise it, too. Nev feeds him an assist and he scores a beautiful, soaring goal right past Pucey’s head. Then he crows in celebration, sending his signature Bastard Smirk out to the crowds and to the Snakes as he exits the ice.

I’m not well-versed enough in hockey to even begin to describe the madness that ensues after that. It’s as if the Snakes have given up entirely on playing hockey, because any time a Lion takes promising possession of the puck, it’s only a matter of time before he, or the man defending him, gets barreled over or knocked hard by a Snake. The Lions are playing just as rough, and the fans roar over every missed goal, every backhanded hit, every tough spill on the ice. This game has escalated in physicality far beyond my liking.

“Why the hell aren’t the refs calling that?” I protest when Flint issues Nev a huge hit to the shoulder.

“Flint didn’t use his stick,” Ginny explains.

That was legal? “It’s still a rat bastard move!”

With seven minutes left in the game, Nev steals the puck from Flint and punts it out to Draco. Draco makes a break for it, only for Flint to bash him into the glass right in front of us. Draco’s helmet flies off, and he falls onto the ice.

The ref blows his whistle as we jump to our feet. Holy shit, whose idea was it to seat us here, anyway?! I don’t know shit about penalties, but that’s bound to get Flint ejected!

“Oh my god!” Granger is screaming. “Did he hit his head? Draco!” She beats her fists against the glass. “Draco Malfoy, get up!”

He does, and his nose is bleeding. His eyes are steely with rage.

Flint skates over to Draco before the refs can get to him. I think for a second that he might apologise, but he only leans in with a sneer. His voice is muffled through the glass, but we can all still hear it when he says, “Pussy blood traitor.”

So fucking vile!

“Say that again,” Draco growls back, grabbing Flint by the collar. 

One of the referees blows his whistle again, but there’s nothing to be done. They’re all too far away when Flint spits, “I’m going to kick your arse, and after this I’m gonna steal your girl and get paid by your daddy to do it.”

That’s all it takes for Draco to lose his shit and deliver the first blow to Flint’s chin.

Flint grabs blindly, but he catches Draco’s jersey and slams him back down onto the ice, hard.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Suddenly Nev is there, jumping on Flint’s back. He pulls him off of Draco, but Flint tags his face. Nev grabs Flint by the jersey and shakes him hard. “That was a cheap shot, bud!” he shouts, teeth bared. 

Oh god, that’s hot. I grip my seat harder. What is wrong with me!

Flint throws an elbow, trying to struggle out of Nev’s grasp, but Nev holds tight and decks Flint across the face.

Holy shit.

Holy shit!

“Get him, Nev!” Ginny screams over the fans’ jeers. “Hit him harder!”

He does. Twice. But Flint isn’t down and out just yet. He tries unsuccessfully to yank Nev’s jersey off as they both land powerful hook shots to each other’s bodies.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, exponentially more worried than before. 

The ice is littered with sticks and gloves as furious fists fly on both sides. I don't know where to look! Potter and Nott are clashing, 69 has Zabini in a headlock, and Weasley, Crabbe, and Goyle have joined the big man dogpile. I guess it’s a full-on line brawl??

Things take a turn for the ridiculous when even Wood and Pucey join in. It’s as though the goalies were feeling left out at their posts, because they skate to the center of the rink and grab at one another like misplaced sumo wrestlers.

The benched players beat their sticks against the boards and howl, egging their men on as the referees scramble to pry the brawlers apart.

Flint is the first to go. The refs wrench him from Nev’s reach and eject him from the game to the fans' resounding boos.

I vaguely hear Ginny observe that Draco has also skated off the ice to get checked by the medics. I think Granger makes her excuses to leave. But my eyes are on Nev alone.

He’s stopped fighting and is now muscling his own teammates away from the Snakes. The refs give him grateful nods as he helps untangle a livid Weasley from Crabbe and Goyle both. He even strong-arms Weasley into their penalty box with him, and gradually, all Snakes and Lions on the ice are stuffed into separate little glass boxes across from us.

After a lengthy discussion among the furious coaches and the tired referees, two new lines of players assemble on the ice.

Four smaller fights break out in the first few minutes, and even more players are sent to the sin bin.

“This is getting out of control!” I shout over the boos of the crowd. They’re going to run out of players if this doesn’t stop. “Are they all trying to get kicked out of the game??”

“Tempers were bound to boil over,” Ginny hollers back. “This would be an ugly way to win the Finals.”

Indeed. 

Ginny groans when Carrow scores for the Snakes. Above us, the scoreboard now reads 3-2.

In the penalty box across us, Nev appears to be giving his teammates a stern talking to. Potter nods in hearty agreement with whatever he’s saying, and they clap each other’s backs as they look out at the ice.

I somehow catch Nev’s eye, just like I did at their first game. I give him a little wave, and he blinks, stunned. Has he really not seen me here until now?

He lowers his gaze to the ground, and I can almost read his mind. He probably hates that I witnessed the mess so up close.

The first lines finish serving their penalties with just two minutes of gameplay left. The game has also stalled long enough that Draco has returned to the rink. The fans scream to welcome him back, but he takes a seat on the bench and has a word with Coach Black. “I’m all right,” he’s insisting. “Put me in, Coach.”

“Where’s Hermione?” Ginny asks.

I look around. “No idea.”

Coach Black gives Draco a grim nod and calls for a time-out. Draco finally returns to the ice with the rest of the first line. The Snakes send out their first line as well, with only Flint missing.

The puck drops, and the Lions begin playing the cleanest game I’ve seen all series long. The Snakes’ desperation is palpable as they reach for every foul, but none are called, even as the lines change and change back. 

In the dwindling seconds of the last minute, the Snakes are in possession of the puck. Crabbe forwards it to Nott. Nott skates past the Lions’ defense and whacks it out to Zabini. Zabini doesn’t have a clear shot—he skates around the net and tosses it out to Goyle, who is perilously close to the net. The puck is literally in the air, but then Nev attacks and steals it away in a stylish swoop.

The Snakes give chase, crowding Nev as he defends the puck mightily. He passes it to Potter, who skates off in the other direction to the crowd counting down to zero.

The final horn sounds just seconds after that, and the crowd roars ever louder. The Lions have done it!

Celebratory music blares as the announcer bellows triumphantly, “YOUR NEW!!!! CHAMPIOOOOOONS!!! THE GRYFFINDOOOOOOR LIIIOOOOOOOOONS!!!!”

I watch with my hands over my chest as the Lions bench pour out onto the ice and crowd around Nev and Draco. Their grins are wide as hell, and for once, Nev celebrates with his arm punching into the air.

The staff passes around caps that read CHAMPS, and as soon as Nev receives his, he skates around the rink and waves at young fans until he gets close enough to me. He brings his face to the glass and I press my lips upon it, uncaring that Ginny is heckling us while snapping photos. I know that when Potter comes around, she’ll do exactly the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” Nev says, but I shake my head.

“Don’t be. I’m proud of you.”

Nev shoots me a bright smile, his dimples deep in both of his cheeks. His eyes drift downwards, and then back to my face. He quirks a brow, tugging at his jersey like a question.

Ah, yes. I forgot I’d worn his old uniform today.

I tap my index finger upon it silently, right over my heart. And then I point at him with a small smile.

His eyes widen infinitesimally, but then his attention is pulled away by a ruckus to the side. The organisers have brought out a big, silver, stovepipe-shaped trophy onto the ice for the team to receive. Shit, that thing looks heavy.

I shoo Nev with both hands, signalling him to go.

He does, and after Potter and Draco hoist the cup in the air, they hand it to him.

To the crowd’s cheers, Nev raises it over his head with both hands, beaming with pure joy. It makes me smile, too.

They take a few hundred photos, and Nev, Draco, and Potter are stopped by reporters. But soon, they’re all trudging towards the locker room, high-fiving the fans they can reach. Ginny says they’re in for a massive locker room celebration. She hauls me along so we can join in.

Whatever I was expecting, the Lions’ celebration is louder and rowdier than that. 

Men are whooping, music is blasting, ice from the coolers is flying. Champagne is spraying, and the players and coaches are drinking it out of the cup. Someone is even passing cigars around, and no one seems to mind!

Granger is watching from the hallway to the locker rooms with a small smile. She’s not alone for long—Draco walks up to her, and she cups his face with a tenderness that I’m surprised to witness.

“Hey.” Nev’s voice pulls me away from the sight.

“Hey, Champ. Congratulations.”

He’s smiling, but he also looks a little sad.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You know what.” He holds up his fist, and his knuckles are bruised and a little bloody. I take his hand and squeeze it gently.

“I really don’t. You did all the right things. It was very sexy.” I smile until he believes me.

Behind Nev, the players are beginning to strip off their uniforms to an old R&B song. It looks like they’re ready to hit the showers and get out of here, but Potter and Draco are being wrangled by PAs. One of them is already headed our way.

“Uh-oh.” I smirk.

Nev pulls me to the side. “Listen—”

“I’ll go,” I say, squeezing his arm through his champagne-soaked jersey. “But I’ll be back. Don’t leave.”

He nods. “I just need half an hour for the presscon, tops.”

Granger is nowhere to be found, so I grab a lemonade with Ginny, then she’s off to meet Potter. I make my way back to the locker room and slip past the bouncers—Hagrid recognizes me and lets me through. It’s empty now, and very cold, though the showers are still running.

“Nev?”

“Just a minute,” he calls.

The floor is wet and sticky, so I follow the room’s perimeter to the section near the showers that escaped the champagne spray. I sit on a padded bench by the lockers and scroll through the photos Ginny sent me—there’s a cute one of me kissing Nev through the glass. I’m dying to post it, but I’ve never shared a photo of us online before. I’ll have to ask Nev first.

It occurs to me that I could, or maybe should, join him in the shower. Just as I begin considering the logistics, the water shuts off, and Nev rounds the corner a moment later with just a towel slung low on his hips. There are fresh bruises on his body, no doubt from his altercation with Flint. But they don’t distract me from the overall picture, which is impossibly delicious.

“Pans.” Nev flushes. “Did you wait right here on purpose?”

I look around. “Where else was I supposed to wait? This is the only dry spot in the entire locker room.”

“That’s fair,” he agrees. He gestures behind me. “But this is my stall.”

I check the tall, rectangular compartment and spy his duffel and his shoes within. If that wasn’t clear enough, his uniform has also been discarded upon it, right along with his skates. 

“So it is,” I say. I reach for his wet jersey. “Can I have this? Or should we frame it?”

Nev licks his lips. “And what would you do with my jersey, love?”

“Sell it online?”

“I was rather hoping you’d say you’d wear it.”

“I’m wearing your jersey right now,” I remind him. 

“I know. Have I mentioned how good you look in it? You broke my brain, wearing my name across your back like that.”

I smile, because I know Nev isn’t saying it to be smooth or anything like that. He’s just being honest.

“Oh, really?” I ask anyway.

“Really.” His face is actually twisted. “My self-control is in shards, Pans.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“But it is. You’ll want to wait outside.”

I look around. “Is anyone still here?”

“Just me. They’ll clean up when I leave.”

“In that case… Have I mentioned how good you look in just a towel?” I tug at the terrycloth and it slips off his hips, pooling on the floor. “Oops.”

“Not here, Pans,” Nev says, picking it up and holding it over himself. “Not right now.”

But he’s already hard, I’ve seen it. And, he has a very firm bum. Nev’s whole, however, is so much better than the sum of his parts. Never mind that we’re in the locker room—he looks every bit my weary hero, deserving of being immortalised in stone and in the stars, or perhaps of resting in the arms of his waiting lover. Does that even make sense? I’m not poetic by any stretch of the imagination, but Nev makes me want to try. If he’s my hero, then I’m his lover, and… “Maybe I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“What’s a few minutes more?” he asks. “Let me take you home.”

“No.”

“No?”

I meet his eyes, though I let my hands roam up his thighs. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks. The last few days, especially.”

“I wasn’t teasing. I made you a promise, and this isn’t where I’d like to break it. Even if I’d really, really like to break it.”

A frisson of excitement courses through me. “What if I told you that you wouldn’t be breaking any old-fashioned promises?”

“Nice try.”

“I’m serious. I have the next two mornings off.” 

I can see the cogs turning in Nev’s head. “You do?” 

I nod before faking a sigh. “Then again… you probably have a victory party to attend—”

“It’s not ’til tomorrow.”

“—and you’ll be busy in the coming days, I’m sure.”

“Maybe. But I can definitely sleep in.”

“Can you sleep late, too?” I smirk, bringing my hands up his thighs.

“As late as you want,” Nev promises distractedly.

I nuzzle my nose against his towel. “What was it you said? The morning after, and the mornings after that?”

I pull the offending towel away and wrap my hand around the base of his cock. Then I take the head into my mouth and lick the sensitive skin just beneath it. He tastes good. So clean. I release him from my lips with a pop.

“Stop. Let me take you home.” He actually sounds pained. “I just need to get dressed.”

I drag my hand over him, squeezing a little tighter. “We have all night. Can’t we have our own locker room celebration first?”

“Pansy,” he grunts. “I haven’t got condoms.”

I smirk. “IUD.” I got one as a precautionary measure, but it’s gone untested since I did. I press another kiss to the tip of his cock. It’s begun to weep, and I lick the salty taste of his precome off my lips. “But if you’re too tired…” 

He tilts my chin up. “Don’t play games.”

“I’m not,” I say. “Want to know what I’m thinking?”

“That a dirty locker room is no place for us to have sex for the first time?” He takes my hand off his cock and holds it in his. It’s almost funny because he’s completely nude, but he sounds as vulnerable as he currently looks.

“Beg to differ.” I look around. “I think it’s perfect. This arena is where I first saw you. It’s where I first spoke to you. It’s where I f—” I withdraw, insight suddenly dawning on me. “Was there… something you were hoping to hear first?”

Nev flushes, and I know the answer is yes. But he shakes his head.

“Well…” I fucked up. He’s just won the Cup. I’ve just propositioned him. He’s already standing naked in front of me. “I obviously can’t tell you now.”

I don’t usually have a problem saying things I want to say. My smart mouth has gotten me in trouble more times than I can count. But this thing, this one thing, has been dancing on the tip of my tongue for a while. Ever since Nev told me he loved me, I’ve been trying to find the right time to say it back. To let him know. To go all-in.

“I don’t expect you to tell me anything,” Nev says kindly, picking his towel up off the ground. He wraps it back around his waist. “We can just go home.”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

I shoot up and grab his arm, and my words come out before I can think. “Just because I haven’t told you doesn’t mean I don’t…” Fuck. I snap my mouth shut. “Never mind.”

Nev cocks his head at me.

“What?” I sniff.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says again, his dimple slowly making itself known on his cheek.

I cross my arms and stick my nose up in the air. “I wasn’t going to.”

He’s grinning now, and he bites down on his lip to stop his smile from getting even broader.

“Stop it, Nev.” A mortified laugh bubbles out of my throat. “You’re ruining everything!”

He takes a moment to school his twitching mouth. “Says my girl, who seems hell-bent on seducing me in a messy locker room.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had big plans, you know. Candlelit dinner, rose petals… the works.” His grin tells me he’s joking.

“Your girlfriend sounds high maintenance if she likes things like that.”

“She is, sometimes. But I think she likes it when I do cheesy things for her.”

“So, you know.” I cock a brow. “You know that’s incredibly cheesy.”

Nev chuckles. “Come on, Pans. Give me a little more credit.”

I scoff lightly. “You should extend me the same courtesy, then.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I was never after just sex with you. Regardless,” I sigh, unfolding my arms, “there goes my fantasy of us shagging in the locker room. We can go now.”

“…Fantasy?”

“Mmhmm. Long-held.”

Nev swallows. “How long?”

“Long as your shower was long,” I wink. “At least you have good memories of this room as is. Like winning the Cup, or hanging out with the boys…”

“You’re better than any of those things.”

I shrug. “All I’m saying is, I would’ve given you another win if you’d let me.” 

Nev’s brows are still knitted together as he studies my face. I’m unsure what he’s looking for, but he seems to find it. He heaves a deep breath, and I can pinpoint the exact moment he reaches a decision. It’s a little shift in his jaw, a determined glint in his eye.

“You asked for it,” he warns me.

I snort. “I did. I have been.”

I emit a small scream when Nev scoops me up and perches me on a high barstool by the wall. He leans over and presses a fervent kiss to my mouth. When I open my mouth to him, his tongue tastes like champagne and sweet victory.

“I’m taking these off.” He pulls my shoes off and tosses them aside. He reaches for my leggings next, and I lift my bum to assist him.

He groans when he beholds my knickers. “You and your little thongs. I love your little thongs.”

“Would you like me to keep it on?”

“No.” Nev pulls it down with unnecessary slowness, but I allow it. 

I reach between us and untuck the towel at his hips. It falls to the ground, where I’m certain it will stay this time. I stroke his cock, tugging lightly so he’d step closer.

I spread my legs wide, and Nev bites down on his bottom lip so hard, it turns white. He licks his fingers and takes them higher and higher between my thighs. As soon as he feels me, his eyes widen. “How are you so wet?”

“I told you. I like when you play rough.”

Nev nods, but I don’t think he truly comprehends. He's always so gentle with me, but I want to feel some of his power too.

He moves his fingers over my clit, softly at first, but he increases his pressure when I gasp. I have no idea what senseless little words I string together after that, but Nev doesn’t stop, nor do I want him to. He’s doing an even better job with my clit than he did yesterday.

He kisses me, moaning into my mouth as I stroke him back. With my other hand, I coax his fingers lower. He watches my face as he pushes one long finger into me, and it’s all I can do to nod my approval.

“So tight,” he whispers.

“Then move,” I urge him.

He pumps his hand, reaching for my wound up spot within. He pulls out to flick my clit, and then dips back in—a maddening cycle of him pushing deeper with each turn.

“Can you take another?” he asks.

I nod.

Two fingers are twice as nice. I clamp my legs around Nev’s hips as he stretches me out, curling his fingers and drawing out my pleasure. It’s hard for me to reach his cock from this angle, so I cling tighter to him instead. When I burrow my nose in his neck, I inhale clean rainwater and pine. I feel his pulse in his throat… I wonder if it’s as quick as mine.

I lay kisses on his chest, envying his nakedness. I want to feel his skin against mine, so I begin to peel my top—his jersey—off.

“No,” he growls. “Leave it on.”

I lift it just high enough so he can see my tits. I didn’t wear a bra today—I smirk up at Nev when he sees.

“Fuck, Pans.”

I love it when he swears. 

“Nev. I’m ready.” So ready, it’s almost painful. I run my fingers down his sides and squeeze his bum. That’s a whole other thing I’ll need to explore later, but for now…

“Are you sure?” He withdraws his fingers from my cunt and taps them over my clit.

“Yesss.”

I brace myself. My heart is hammering, and when Nev takes his cock to line up against my entrance, all I want to do is yank him closer with my legs. Because I’m romantic like that.

But then he takes his time, sliding his cock over me before finally, finally pushing inside.

He thrusts slowly at first, and he’s big enough that I feel a slight pinch when he’s got just the head and a couple of inches inside. 

“Oh!”

“You okay?”

I’m quick to reassure him. “Don’t stop.”

“I don’t know if I could. You feel so good.”

It helps that I can see all of him—all of us —where we’re connected, and the visual of his cock sliding in and out of me is such a turn-on that I relax until he’s filled me to the hilt.

“Goal,” I joke when his balls finally brush my cunt. “Neville Longbottom. Your name does suit you.”

Nev laughs. He tilts my chin up with his finger and kisses me. God, he’s a good kisser.

He takes advantage of my distraction to bring his arms beneath my knees and lift me up.

“You don’t have to carry me everywhere, Nev,” I laugh, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Protecting your ankle,” he mumbles into my neck. “Hold on.”

He shoves the stool aside and hoists me up so my back is against the wall. Our bodies are pressed together this way, with only his jersey between us. Just because I can, I bring my hands up to his damp hair and pepper kisses on his face and beard. We’ve paused the sex just to snog, and it’s really nice.

When Nev begins to snap his hips, it feels so good that I throw my head back and hit it on the wall.

“Ow!”

“Pans!” Nev slows down. 

“No,” I laugh. “Keep going.”

He quickly falls into a rhythm. His fingers dig into my hips as he fucks me, and when he opens his eyes to meet mine, I can’t help but grin. This is fun.

I make a surprised noise when Nev hoists me up higher, and it’s like he’s doing bicep curls with me the way he bounces me on his cock. I can feel every inch of him this way.

“That’s goooood,” I moan.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Hold on tight, love.”

I grip his shoulders. He lowers me a little, thrusting harder and faster than before. Oh my god. I spoke too soon. This is good. So good. My eyes roll to the back of my head. My toes curl and I keen appreciatively. His breaths run jagged, too, and I know it’s only a matter of seconds before I—

Suddenly, Nev cries out and presses his body against me. I gasp. “Did—did you come?”

Wincing, he huffs, “No. Cramp.”

I giggle, though I do feel bad for him. “Oh no. You didn’t cool down, did you?”

He shakes his head against my shoulder. To his credit, he hasn’t dropped me yet.

I gingerly lower my legs, lamenting the feeling of him slipping out of me. “Sit down,” I tell him.

Nev hops on his right foot and takes a seat on the padded bench of his stall. “Give me a moment,” he says, straightening his left leg to one side. 

“Shin?” I ask.

“Glute,” he admits, ears pink.

Is it bad that even when he’s in pain, he’s adorable? And with his legs spread wide like that…

I kneel before him and reach around him. I press my fingers to his tight arse cheek, and he flinches in pain. I almost laugh. He’s a big bruiser on the ice, but totally helpless in the face of a muscle spasm.

“Maybe I can distract you,” I say. I’m far from done with him, anyhow. I slip his jersey off my body and show him my tits. Some of the love bites he left on me are still nice and bright. I run my hands up his thighs and over to his cock, which understandably has gone a little soft. But that’s nothing I can’t fix.

I lean in and give his cock a long, wet lick along the vein that runs along the underside. Then I take his length—or as much of it as I can—in my mouth. He tastes different now, like both my essence and his. I bob my head slowly, stroking the base of his shaft with my hands. I suck harder and Nev groans, though I’m not sure if it’s from pain or pleasure. He’s still suffering, but as his cock stiffens in my mouth, I’m certain his agony won’t last for long.

Nev leans against the thin wood panel of his locker stall and buries his fingers in my hair. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his mouth hangs open as he breathes heavily.

“Pans.” His voice is tight. “If you don’t stop—”

I smirk. “Oh, fine.”

He’s as hard again as he was earlier, so I clamber onto his lap and guide him back inside of me. I seat myself upon him completely, and, oh, I feel the head of his cock a little too deep this way. It’s more than okay, though. I give my bum a little wiggle. “All right?” I whisper before sucking on his earlobe.

“Fuck.”

“As you wish.”

Whatever Nev might have wanted to say next comes out a garbled mess. I tilt my hips up and slide down on him slowly. Being on top has never been my move, but Nev’s moans and mumbled praises are empowering. I pick up a steady, dirty rhythm, and brush my clit against his trimmed thatch of hair as I ride him. He’s staring with eyes half-lidded at my tits, happy just to watch them bounce. His hands trail to my bum, and I know he’s recovered when he grabs me and begins thrusting in earnest.

The warmth that’s been pooling in my belly rises, along with a tension that I can feel up to my lungs and throat. “I’m coming, Nev,” I pant. “Oh—”

The hot coil breaks, and I come apart on top of him, screaming his name.

Nev fucks me even harder, chasing his own pleasure now. Over my wails of remnant orgasm he growls, “Tell me where, baby.”

Holy shit. Yes.

“Inside,” I beg, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Inside.”

Is it too soon for me to be coming again? 

No, no, apparently not.

“Ohhh my goddd,” I scream. Nev’s shaken up my entire world, and it’s not long before he spills inside of me with a low moan. It’s messy and exhausting and perfect, and we both laugh as we catch our breaths.

I lean in and kiss him, savouring the feeling of his lazy tongue on mine, and his come slowly dripping down my thighs. I give his pulsing cock a squeeze with my cunt. Nev’s hips jerk.

“Too sensitive,” he pants.

“I’m sorry.” (Not really.)

“Worth the wait?”

“Hell, yes. Especially when you called me…” I trail off, grinning wickedly.

“Baby?” Nev’s face is already pink from exertion, but he actually blushes deeper.

“I liked it.”

He closes his eyes—all the adrenaline has probably worn off. But we’re sticky and sweaty and naked, and this locker room is still freezing.

“Come on, Champ.” I climb off his lap, feeling wonderfully sore. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

“And then will you let me take you home?” he requests for the third time.

“Yes,” I say at last.

Showering together is a more languid affair. Nev shampoos my hair while I pretend to soap his chest. He tenderly washes me between my legs, and I get the tough spots on his back. I smell like him now, and though he doesn’t have conditioner, I’ll live. There are fresh towels outside, so he takes one for himself and wipes me down with the other.

Having to re-wear my dirty clothing sucks, but Nev reminds me that he’ll take it all off when we get home—well, to his place anyway.

Later that night, Nev and I sleep naked in each other’s arms. No, he does not make love to me again for hours—he’s much too tired for that. Honestly, so am I. 

Tonight is a victory for me and him both, but I’ve a little ways to go before I can truly say I’ve won. I press my bare skin to his and dream about the promise the morning holds.

Chapter Text

Despite being trained over the years to wake at the ass crack of dawn, I’ve never been a morning person. I’ve never been able to afford a love affair with my bed, and my body gets up before my alarm and heads for the bathroom before my soul is even fully awake.

This morning is different. I’m still in bed when my alarm goes off, and before I can kick my legs out, Nev’s hand reaches over to my bedside table and shuts my phone off for me. He’s never done that before. He’s never had to, not once in the handful of times I’ve slept over.

“I don’t mind, but if you want to brush,” he murmurs into my hair, “feel free. But come right back, okay?”

“What about you?” I ask.

He blows his minty breath into my face. “I woke up earlier than you did.”

I love you, I nearly blurt.

When I return to bed, his arm is outstretched and waiting for me. I snuggle right in.

This. This is what mornings should be like.

Nev makes slow love to me the way he says he originally intended. He insists he isn’t ticklish, but I discover a few spots for myself. His ears, his feet, behind his knees. 

“I love you,” he murmurs between my thighs, on my lips, and into my neck.

I try to make us brunch afterwards, but then he has me for brunch right there on his kitchen counter. So, extremely hard-boiled eggs and coffee will have to do.

It’s only after our midday nap that I get to check my phone… only to be inundated by a flood of texts, links, and screenshots from Percy about last night’s game. Specifically, about me at the game.

percy weaseliest 🔪

bitchhhhhhhhhhh!!fsudxhfushf EXPLAIN URSELF

hello??

miss pansy louise

what the hell

done with PT

i’m at the rink

no one is here

are u and hermy both busy getting shagged by fit gorilla men or 👁️👄👁️💦

don’t make me call Olympe

WAIT COACH CANCELLED ICE PRACTICE?

AND NEITHER OF U WHORES THOUGHT TO TELL ME??

fuck my life

even GINNY KNEW???

kjxujhuhduhf

i’m surrounded by selfish hags

i knew i shld have gone to that stupid game

ur not even reading this

tell me u at least read the stuff i sent

????????????

percy wtf

i’m so lonely

So, remember that cute photo I wanted to post? The one of me kissing Nev through the glass? I never got to post it. It seems I’ve been beaten to the punch by a bunch of media outlets, who I hadn’t realised had the ability to capture moments even outside of the game. I mean, duh.

From Percy’s screenshots, I learn that the gossip outlet Which! Weekly has posted a photo on Insta of our glass moment and captioned it, “LIONS BRUISERS NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM AND DRACO MALFOY OFF THE MARKET? Swipe to see cute photos of them and their new lady loves at last night’s Championship-winning game!”

The damn official Gryffindor Lions account even reposted it on their story with the caption, “Number 30’s lucky charm!”

Even the Prophet’s sports column saw fit to write us into the Finals article: “Longbottom and Malfoy also won twice in one night, and celebrated after the game with Olympic figure skaters Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger (pictured). Potter's partner, Ginny Weasley of the Holyhead Harpies, was also in attendance...”

A quick peek at my own account reveals that I’ve gained a few hundred followers overnight, along with a few dozen haters, too. I never realised how big a following Nev had as a talented, likeable pro hockey player—and a handsome one, to boot. I mean. I never claimed to be smart.

Nev catches me cringing at my phone and asks, “What’s wrong?”

I have no choice but to show him.

“Does it bother you?” he asks.

“No,” I reply. “Your fan club is out for blood, though.”

 Nev snorts. “What fan club?”

“Seriously? There’s an account called @nevsdimple blowing up my notifications. Among others. I doubt your dimple would say such unsavoury things to me.”

“Oh.”

I scroll through my phone wistfully. “I just wish we’d gotten to post something ahead of all this.”

“Tonight,” Nev promises. “At the victory party. Be my date.”

I smirk down at our naked bodies. “If we manage to put some clothes on first.”

It becomes abundantly clear at the victory party that the Lions’ one objective is to get smashed. Most of them, I believe, achieve that goal—and 69 Guy, whose name I now know is Cormac, is the evening’s MVP. (Most Vomity Player? No? Fine.)

I have a little too much to drink myself, as does Nev. We wind up booking the penthouse suite in a Diagon area hotel, where Nev gives me the hardest, filthiest, daddiest fuck of my life while overlooking the city.

I regret the alcohol at my afternoon workout the next day. The sex, not so much. In fact, we have more of it at my place, where Nev discovers his new favourite activity: testing the bounds of my flexibility.

(“You can get your leg all the way over your head?” Nev goggles.

“Forwards and backwards,” I brag.

“God, Pans,” he groans, sinking deep into me.)

Honestly, we could do this forever and I wouldn’t get tired of it. I may just need to retire early.

A week later, all thoughts of retirement have faded into distant memory. I'm sitting here thinking, where the hell did the time go? My first competition is in three days—that’s really bloody close, and my coaches and I are still making last-minute adjustments to my skating programmes. It will be months before they’re fully optimised for the biggest competitions, but even as early as now, I need them to be as close to perfect as possible. 

Why? 

Because the pressure surrounding my comeback has been crippling since the news broke that Nev and I were together.

I never did get to post a photo of us. Now, I don’t know if I even want to. It’s probably for the best—Nev and I used to be able to walk around in relative anonymity, but his celebrity has only grown since their win… and with it, the public’s attention towards us and me.

On Monday, there was a small band of paparazzi waiting for me outside the rink, and the next day, a gossip primer on Which! Weekly called Who Is Pansy Parkinson? detailed my career down to my injury and my terrible last season. By mid-week, Nev’s fans began popping by our usual haunts, ostensibly to take sneaky photographs of me for their stories, or to catch a glimpse of my boyfriend. Rosmerta could only offer us our meal free of charge—which Nev refused—to compensate for the fans storming his usual booth for autographs. They even tried getting into the rink during practice hours, and I’ve had to stop on more than one occasion because they were trying to film me.

To add to that (though, I guess it’s only tangentially relevant), on Thursday, the Prophet ran a damning exposé in the form of a very thinly-veiled blind item. Its subject? Oh, just the threats a certain Sports Tycoon allegedly made towards his Professional Athlete Son and his even more Highly Decorated New Girlfriend.

Granger’s is certainly the bigger story. And while I agree that she and Draco are best protected in the public eye, the spillover scrutiny in my direction has also made my comeback competition a bigger deal than I ever wanted—and it's thrown me far off the progress I’ve made in the last couple of months. Last I heard, Cho fucking Chang had even signed up to skate in my qualifier next week. I’m not saying she’s doing it to benefit from the free press, but she’s absolutely doing it to benefit from the free press. Which is just what I needed. Really. Truly. Fuck her.

It’s been bad enough for my skating and my mental state that I’ve deleted all the social media apps from my phone, and Nev’s done the same. He’s even gone so far as to personally hire Hagrid to escort me to and from practice. The one upside is that I’ve been spending my nights at Nev’s and enjoying his cooking. (And it goes without saying, but sex is always on the menu.)

If not for his support, I don’t know that I could have mustered the courage to keep going.

Take today, for instance. I’m at Gryffindor Arena, worrying on the sidelines after a particularly bad run, when—

Snap! Snap!

“Pans, hello?” Percy waves in my face. 

I blink out of my daze. “Fuck.”

“Oh, thank God. I thought we lost you.”

“What is it?” I sigh. I don’t even have the energy to snark at Percy anymore.

“Since you asked…” He sips his coffee. “I could see your hands shaking before the music even started, so I can only imagine how your legs were feeling. Then you made that mistake in your opening combo when you doubled that lutz, and your spins were slow and sloppy. Not to mention you stumbled twice—”

“I know,” I say with a sigh. “You’re not helping.”

He tuts. “I don’t like seeing sad Pansy. Bring back sassy Pansy.”

“Pansy is not sad,” I snap, “Pansy is stressed. And Pansy is too stressed to be sassy right now.”

Percy gives me a pitying look that I resent more than any bitchy thing he’s ever said to me. “Oh, hun.”

“Don’t, Percy. I couldn’t bear it if you started being nice just because you felt bad for me.” I have a stupid lump in my throat, so I get up and march over to Coach Olympe, who is only pretending to watch Granger. Might as well get the sermon over with.

“What's on your mind?” she asks instead. I know she isn’t asking about my skating.

“I’m thinking this is bullshit.” I glare at the group of burly men watching us by the doors. They were hired by Draco to serve as Granger’s security detail—leave it to him to be extra even about that. But they’re the least bothersome part of my entire predicament.

“You know,” she says, “you remind me of an old protégé of mine. I’m sure you know Fleur Delacour?”

“I’ve met her,” I venture warily. Fleur was a professional singles skater some ten years back, but she retired early. Now she’s married to Weasley Number One, and she coaches their young daughter who also skates. “She was all right,” I add. Which is charitable of me.

“No.” Coach shakes her head. “She was spectacular.”

I run through my mental catalogue for any programmes of Fleur’s that might have been considered memorable. I can only think of one—and she had just started out then. I try my best not to feel insulted. “Respectfully, she’s no Granger.” Modesty aside, Fleur is no me, either.

“She did not ultimately achieve Hermione’s levels of success, or even yours. But she had what it took.”

I only sigh. I’m so fucking tired.

“Do you know why you remind me of her?”

Best just spit it out. “Because I’m bound to become a washed-up non-champion long before my time? That’s it, right? That’s what you think?”

Coach shakes her head. “Fleur was a very passionate skater. She had vision. Her Swan Lake free skate is considered among the greatest of all time.”

I agree. “What went wrong?”

“She tuned in to the noise.” Coach Olympe tuts. “The criticism over one bad skate at her first and only turn at the Olympics overwhelmed her. She was blinded, and she second-guessed everything she’d achieved so far to get there. Her passion turned into anger when it could very well have translated into fantastic skating. She retired before the next Winter Games. Fortunately, motherhood and coaching has been kinder to her.”

I’m biting my cheek so hard I know I’ll soon draw blood. “If that’s where you think I’m headed, maybe I should just stop now.”

“Case. In. Point.”

I scoff.

Coach continues, “I thought for a time that you were simply moody because of your ankle. But that injury has long healed. And with your new short programme, I thought your spirit had rallied, as well. I understand it is not easy to skate while surrounded by all this brouhaha. A broken ankle, attention in the papers… whatever. They are all the same. If you allow the noise to sow fear, it will always show.” She turns to me. “Do you know what I hate more than anything?”

“What?”

“Unfulfilled potential. You have so much to show. Fortunately, a skater is meant to be seen. ”

I can’t even put to words how much I hate that right now. Until I can shake this, nobody look at me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t breathe in my direction. Just fucking let me skate in peace.

“Pansy, you are ready. You were ready before this media circus. People might be watching your every move right now, but they will be watching you regardless, every time you’re out on the ice.” She pets my head. Damn her for being so tall. “Find your quiet. You must.”

Her words stick with me even after training ends and she, Percy, and Granger (plus Granger’s posse) have all gone home. I don’t text Hagrid. Instead, I skate around the rink listlessly, knowing that the kids who come for lessons won’t be here until late afternoon.

I’m in the middle of rehearsing my free skate without the music when a side door slams and startles the hell out of me. I stumble and fall on the center of the hard ice, and then I just lay there, profoundly irritated.

Not now. Fuck.

“Closed practice!” I shout. I hear the sound of running footsteps and cover my face with my hands.

“Are you okay?” Nev’s worried voice makes me turn my head to look.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He’s rubbing his neck sheepishly on the other side of the glass. “Rubeus called. He said you weren’t answering your phone, and you and I had lunch plans.”

“Shit. Sorry. I forgot.” I know that today is the last I’ll see of Nev until after my competition—he has a big solo hike planned for tomorrow, and I leave the city on Monday.

He rounds the rink so he can speak to me properly over the open section of the boards. “You can keep practising if you need to. Do you want me to go?”

“No, wait. I was done anyway.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” There’s no way I’m skating another round with him watching.

“Is making snow angels part of your routine?” he asks.

I sigh, and reach for an excuse. “It’s just the ice. It sucks here.”

“Maybe if you got up…” Nev hops into the rink and reaches out both hands. I take them gratefully, and he pulls me to my feet.

He inspects the surface contemplatively. “What do you mean the ice sucks? Gryffindor Arena has some of the best ice around.”

“Maybe for hockey, but it’s always too cold. Too hard for figure skating.” It’s the least of my concerns right now, but it’s been bothersome all the same. “Let me get changed. Then we can eat at that hotpot place you like.”

Nev’s still staring at the ice when I return from the locker room.

“All right?” I ask.

“Hmm?” He looks up. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Hotpot is exactly the right call. I’ve spent much too long on the ice today, and the soup warms me right up. Nev, however, is overzealous about feeding me all the beef, so I protest through my stuffed mouth, “Stop! I won’t be able to jump tomorrow if you go on like that.”

He sets his chopsticks down. “You’re training tomorrow? It’s a Sunday.”

Ah, shit.

“Yeah,” I say, trying for casual. “Competition’s coming up.”

“When is it?”

I take a sip of water before admitting, “Tuesday.”

“What?” He gapes incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He whips out his phone and taps on his calendar. “I have… ah, bollocks. The team’s booked me for a couple of interviews then. I can postpone—”

“No,” I interrupt, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. He can’t! “Don’t.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not a big deal. Where’s your competition? Will I need to book a flight?”

“N-no. Nev—”

“Ah. Then I can drive you.” He grins. “Maybe I could meet your mum and dad there?”

I raise my brows, stunned. My parents never particularly cared about my competitions, and I never really minded that they didn’t attend. To them, skating was something that kept me busy after school—at least, before it took over my life. I simply used to bring my medals home, and that was that. “They don’t go to my competitions,” I tell him. “Nobody does.”

“What? Why not? Are they, er, too old? Like Gran?”

I stir my broth quietly, but I’m freaking out.

“Pans.”

“What?” I snap. 

Nev’s staring with a hurt expression, and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. “I’m full,” I sigh. His pot is empty, too. “I’ll get the bill.”

Nev insists on paying, and I don’t say another word.

When we step out of the restaurant, there’s a lone paparazzo waiting for us. I flinch, but he’s able to snap a few photos before Nev asks him very nicely to bugger off.

“Are you all right?” he asks when we get in the car.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Can I take you home?”

I know he means to his place, so I say, “I think I’ll just stay at mine today.”

“Want me to keep you company?”

“No,” I rush out. “I… I need some quiet.” 

“Oh. Okay.”

The drive home is silent, but the noise in my head is unbearable. I turn on the radio, and fuck, of all the songs, This Is the Night is playing, and the song’s just begun. I reach for the console, but Nev stops me.

“What’s really wrong?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Is it the reporters? Or the fans?”

Yes. “Not exactly.”

“Tell me.”

I shake my head. I can’t admit to him that I don’t want him to watch me compete. I don’t want anybody to watch, because I’m skating like shit. It doesn’t escape me how hypocritical I’m being right now—I did just get upset with Nev the other week for refusing to talk to me about his own issues.

The song’s verse plays softly, buffering the silence between us.

Your hands are shaking baby

You ain’t been sleeping lately

There’s something out there

And it don’t seem very friendly, does it?

It’s the original version—a much slower tune than the one they play at the Lions’ games, but thanks to their win, it experienced a surge in popularity all the same.

“I never did ask why you chose this song,” Nev says. I wonder if he’s chosen an adjacent topic because he knows, or if he’s just making conversation. “Is it just because you watched us play?”

I snort. “You wish.”

“I think it’s cool.” He takes my hand. “My girl, skating to our song.”

“It’s not our song.”

“But it’s the song that was playing when I first saw you.”

“It’s a breakup song, Nev.”

Nev chuckles. “You’re right.” He sings along softly to the chorus. “So take your hands off me, tonight I’m breaking free… This is the night.”

“You’re a terrible singer.” He isn’t though, and he knows it.

“Why are you skating to a breakup song, then?”

“Mostly…” I cringe. I guess if there’s a time to not be a bloody hypocrite, it’s now. But… “The reason sounds lame. Like, it’s really lame, Nev. I don’t want to say it out loud.”

“I won’t laugh.” When I cock a brow at him, he adds, “I swear on my houseplants.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Oh. Serious, then.”

He hums.

I don’t even think I’ve ever tried putting it to words. “It’s a good song. With a lot of... moments, I’d call them. Tempo changes. Swells in the music. I had it edited down to the best bits to fit my programme.”

Nev nods. “Of course.”

“It’s a risk, though. People don’t compete to rock music. It doesn’t always play in our favour to skate to music like this, because—”

“You’re supposed to make it look dainty?”

“Yeah. Effortless.”

Nev shakes his head. “Anyone who skates knows how hard what you do is.”

“It’s bullshit. So using this song felt like… like taking my power back. I know it’s corny,” I rush out preemptively, but Nev doesn’t make a peep. “The first time I watched your game… before that, I mean. That day was a shit day. In a string of bad days. A bad couple of years, actually.”

“Because of your injury?”

“Yeah, and…” I fiddle with the buckle of my purse. “I blamed everyone around me for why I couldn’t get over it. Why I couldn’t do the things I used to do to perfection. But even then, I knew my issues were all in my head.”

I look out the car window at the sidewalks and the shops. I wish it were dark out—then I wouldn’t have to hide my stupid, shiny eyes. “I was miserable for a long time, and it showed. The song was a way to let go.”

Right then, I realise that the past couple of months had ushered in, by sheer dumb luck, a number of things that allowed me to channel the mess that was all of my feelings. 

The song had given me an outlet for my frustration. It made me feel powerful again.

And to catch all my softer emotions, even my ugly ones… there was Nev.

Only I’m still afraid. Of falling, literally falling on the ice. Of failing again. I feel so fucking fragile and I hate it.

It’s just harder to do something well when all eyes are on you. I suppose my moment of reckoning just came a week early, because if it had come next Tuesday… Well, fuck me.

“Are you nervous?” Nev asks. “About your competition.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I joke, but my voice is flat.

“If you are, you shouldn’t be. From what little I saw, you were amazing. And that was a couple of weeks ago, now.”

My sigh sounds wistful even to my ears. “I felt great.”

“And you don’t now?”

They say that what sets the best athletes apart from everyone else is mental toughness. What if I don’t have that? All it took for me to crumble was a few days of being hounded by the press. I wasn’t ready for all of that. I’m still not. But I don’t want my Championship-winning boyfriend to know that, so I squeeze his hand and force a smile. “I do. I’m fine now.”

He looks doubtful.

“I promise,” I lie.

When we get to my place, Nev asks, “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” I say. “Stay. I’ll miss you tomorrow.”

It’s not very Prime Athlete of me to admit, but Nev is my last lifeline, my single straw of sanity in what’s been the second most trying week of my life, after my injury. Am I selfish, am I cowardly for needing him to stay, but not wanting him to witness what’s sure to be a failure?

Maybe.

But that’s what I’ve always been.

A selfish coward. 

Nev doesn’t stay the night, but he’s at my door early the next day, insisting on driving me to practice.

“Don’t you have a hike?” I ask, looking around his car. I don’t see any camping gear.

“Godric Park's just an hour away,” he explains.

Thankfully, no one’s around when we arrive. I head to the training room within the facility. I'm there an hour before Granger joins me, and I have another hour before I finish.

I return to the rink, and I’m surprised to find Nev sitting in the bench area, his phone in both hands. He doesn’t seem to hear me—from the sound of it, he’s too busy playing Plants vs. Zombies on the tiny screen to notice. 

I wait for him to finish his level before I make my presence known. “What are you still doing here?”

“Gah!” He startles, nearly dropping his phone. “Pans. I thought—”

“I didn’t think anyone still played Plants vs. Zombies, but of course you do.”

“It’s fun,” he mumbles, and tucks his phone away in what looks like…

“Is that your skate bag?” I point at the triangular carry bag at his feet.

“Yeah. I had to test something out. Well, now that you’re here, I’ll need you to test it with me, too.”

“Huh?”

“Lace up, Pans.” He unzips his bag to do the same.

I check the clock in the corner of the rink. Granger won’t be on the ice for another forty-five minutes or so. “Okay.”

Nev’s out on the ice before I am, and he’s got a grim look on his face. I’m about to ask why, but then I skate onto the ice and I understand.

My skate glides more smoothly now, and by the feel, I’m nearly certain it’s the perfect softness for figure skating. It’s probably too soft, too slow for Nev, but… “You adjusted the temps,” I marvel.

“I didn’t,” he says. “Argus did.”

“Who?”

“Argus Filch. The head ice technician.”

“I’ve never met him.”

“Yeah, well. He makes himself scarce.” Nev sounds unimpressed by that, and so am I. “The temps should be ready for you in the morning, and then gradually be brought down for hockey in the afternoon.”

“He should do that every day,” I say. 

“He should have been doing it long ago.”

I nod. “Maybe if he had, Percy would never have gotten injured.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Nev says.

“It’s not your fault.” Maybe I should have tried harder to get it done, too. “And luckily, Granger has kneecaps of steel.”

He snorts. “Argus will want to do his job properly now that he’s got multiple championship winners on his rink.”

I bury my face in Nev’s jumper. Those words bubble up in my throat, but I lose my nerve. “Thank you,” I say instead.

“Don’t thank me yet, give it a try.”

“Race you.” We do a lap around the rink, but Nev’s skating much more slowly than me. “Speed up!”

“I don’t want to wreck the ice,” he explains. “Argus just resurfaced it.”

“Sure,” I laugh. I feel really fucking free. As we round the final corner, I launch into my triple toe-double toe loop combination, and my landing is so smooth I can barely even feel it.

I enter into a camel spin and pull out into a neat backward spiral. Nearby, Nev whistles.

“Thank you, thank you,” I turn and bow to an imaginary audience. Roses! Stuffed animals!

“There’s that smile,” Nev says as I skate back towards him.

I get on my toe picks to reach his lips, and he holds me tight right there on the ice. Right now, I just feel so complete I could cry. “Thank you, Nev. I really needed this.”

“Hmm?”

“This good ice.” And you.

“You deserve good ice, Pans.”

I shrug.

“You do.” Nev reiterates. “So… will you let me see you skate on Tuesday? Or shall I content myself with this little demonstration?”

I bite my lip, the old fear creeping back in. Nev looks so earnest that I can’t bring myself to say no outright. “I never said you couldn’t…”

“Which I think is Pansy Speak for ‘no.’”

He has me there. “Um…”

His smile fades. “You really don’t want me there? It’s not like you’re going to beat up some other skater on the ice, are you?”

“It’s a bit different.”

“How? That was our deal, wasn’t it?”

I remember. “It’s just… no one I know ever comes to watch. I’m not used to it.” For real. No one in my life has ever wanted to watch me skate before.

“Couldn’t you do with a cheerleader in your corner?”

I sigh. “I really don’t know.”

“I want to be there for you,” he says finally. He sounds hurt. “I know I can’t force you, and I won’t. I just wish…” he shakes his head, pulling away. “Never mind.”

“Nev, wait.” I skate after him, but he heads right for his things. He’s calmly undoing his laces by the time I catch up. “Are you angry with me?” I ask.

“No, Pans.” His voice is gentle. Even. He neatly places his skates back in their bag and slips his trainers on.

“Then…”

“Don’t worry about it. Really. Just focus on you.” He gets up. “Have a good practice, okay? I’d best get going. I may go camping overnight.”

Overnight? “Oh. Have fun.”

“Okay.” He shoves his hand into his jacket’s pockets. “Will you me know how your competition goes?”

“I-I will.”

He presses a kiss to my hair. “Go get 'em,” he whispers with a small, sad smile. And then he picks up his skate bag and walks away.

“Wait.” I say it too softly for him to hear. 

I watch him go. He’s just given me what I asked for, but I know now that it's the last thing I want.

My thoughts are still clouded by the time Granger and Coach join me on the ice.

“What’s this?” Granger’s mouth is hanging open as she completes her first lap around the ice. “It’s—it’s good ice!”

“Nev had it fixed this morning.”

“How thoughtful! That Mr. Filch is really difficult to work with. We’d given up asking, you know.”

“What? You can’t sic Rita Skeeter on him?”

She sighs. “Unfortunately, Mr. Filch has nothing to lose.”

I shrug. “Nev has his ways.”

His mysterious, thoughtful ways.

“You’re really lucky,” she smiles.

“I’d say you are too, but Draco’s being a little overbearing, is he not?”

Behind us, five hulking men are guarding the doors as if she were the Mona Lisa and everyone else was a potential art thief. 

“They’re good men,” Granger says. “Draco’s a good man.”

“Good you know,” I sniff. “How is he now? How are you?” I haven’t actually asked.

“We’re fine. We’ll be fine,” she says with an air of certainty. “Draco’s with his mum now, talking the whole thing over. He’s expecting his father to make things hell.”

“Aren’t you worried about what might happen to you?” I ask.

“Yes and no… Career-wise, the worst has probably already happened.” She chuckles, and I’m certain she means Percy, who’s begged off today. “The important thing is that Draco and I are there for each other.”

I don’t know how Granger thinks she drew any sort of inspiration from me, because I only wish I had her sort of conviction. Well, it’s not too late. I’ll ask Nev to come.

After extended practice, I give Nev a call. Or, well, I try to. Ten times. And all ten times, I get a recorded message from his service provider telling me he’s out of their coverage area. I suddenly recall that Nev mentioned camping overnight—damn it. I call Hagrid to drive me home, and I busy myself with packing for my trip to Beauxbatons tomorrow.

Then I go to bed, or I try to. The morning light is upon me before I can shut my eyes for longer than a few minutes.

I check my phone—nothing.

I miss Nev. I regret leaving things the way I did.

It’s probably too late now, but I text him anyway.

nev long🍑

hey, nev. i’m leaving for my competition today

i didn’t get to tell you that

well, no

i didn’t tell you

because i was afraid

and i’m sorry.

it’s been a shitty week

i didn’t want you to watch me fail.

i’ll get you tickets if you want to watch anyway. but no pressure!!!!

hang on

I look up the ticket website and check, but—oh my god.

Sold out??

The skate rink I’m going to is on the smaller side, but Qualifiers never sell out. Unless…

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I return to my Messages app, clutching my phone with trembling hands.

nev long🍑

nev, they’re out of tickets

i can’t believe it

my little skate competition must have caught the attention of people other than cho.

it’s my fault, i’m sorry i stalled this long.

i’ll make it up to you at the next one, i promise.

just wish me luck, please?

I tuck my phone away before I’m tempted to doomscroll or google myself. I deserve this, seriously. I asked for it.

Hagrid takes my things, and I hop into the waiting car so we can pick up Coach Olympe. From there, it’s a four-hour drive to Beauxbatons. Against all odds, I drift off to the sounds of Coach and Hagrid making oddly friendly conversation along the way.

We check into our hotel—I have my own room, Coach has hers, and Hagrid assures me he has his own accommodations, too. After a quick lunch, we head to the competition venue to scope out the rink.

Beauxbatons Ice Center is a figure skater’s dream. It’s a dedicated figure skating rink, with no glass above the boards and no hockey markings on the ice. It’s where Fleur Delacour grew up skating, and while it’s a little older than most rinks, it’s well-maintained and updated.

The rink is a flurry of activity, with competitors of all skill levels gliding upon the ice. The men's singles competition is later today, so I can’t do much more than orient myself. It’s probably for the better—too many people are looking at me. Others are taking photos. I pull my zipped jacket’s collar up over my mouth.

Still, we have the hour, so I finish my rounds and then agree to some photos with some junior skaters before I go.

What I don’t agree to, however, is being photographed by the small horde of paparazzi waiting outside. Someone must have tipped them off about me, because as soon as Coach Olympe and I exit, they begin crowding around us.

“Miss Parkinson! Miss Parkinson!”

“Pansy! How do you feel about your return to the ice after your disastrous last season?”

“Miss Parkinson! Where is Neville Longbottom!”

“Miss Pansy, do you plan to become a full-time WAG if you don’t make it past the Qualifiers?”

Of course they’d think that. Fuck my life.

“Out of the way,” Coach Olympe commands them. Hagrid moves to shield us from the photographers and ushers us into the car. Once we’re inside, Coach gives him an appreciative pat on the shoulder.

I’m pretty shaken, and I’m sure Coach can see.

“Tune it out, Pansy,” she says. “Tune. It. Out.”

“I’m trying.”

We get to the hotel and rest in our own rooms for the afternoon.

There’s nothing left to do, so after my bath, I get into bed and take out my phone.

Nev still hasn’t replied.

My heart sinks. He said he wasn’t angry with me, but is he? Or is he disappointed? 

I hope not—he hasn’t even read my messages.

Right now, I need nothing more than to snuggle into his chest for comfort, but he isn’t here. I’m a lonely ball of self-pity. And it’s all my fault.

I worry myself to exhaustion, and as I watch the dregs of my phone's battery drain to zero, I fall into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

Riiing.

Ring riiing.

Riiing.

Ring riiing.

What the hell. Is that the hotel phone? I crack my eye open. My room is so dark. I reach for my mobile—damn, it’s dead—then glance at the digital clock on my bedside table. 8:01 AM?

Oh shit. I slept for over twelve hours!!!

I grab the phone. “Hello?” I blurt urgently. My heart is jumping like I'd just done sprints.

“Good morning! This is a wake-up call for Miss Parkinson from Miss Maxime!” The receptionist’s cheery tenor sounds tinny through the receiver.

“I’m up,” I sigh, reclining with relief. “Thanks.” 

I move to hang up, but then he adds, “There’s a visitor for you in the lobby. He’s been waiting here a while.”

My heart stops. “Who?”

“I don’t have his name, ma’am.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s very tall and has a beard.”

“May I speak with him?”

“Of course. Sir?”

There’s a shuffling noise, and then a deep voice comes to the phone.

“Eh, sorry ‘bout that, Miss.”

The world is cruel. “Hi, Rubeus.” 

I should not have gotten my hopes up. Nev’s busy today—he’d told me before.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“You didn't, don't worry.” I give him my room number for breakfast. “Eat ahead if you want. I don’t think I’m up for the buffet.”

“Ya gotta eat somethin’, Miss. I’ll bring it to ya.”

“Maybe something light? Thanks.” I hang up, holding in a sob.

I should call Nev. I plug my phone in and trudge to the shower.

Remember when I said this competition was supposed to be tiny? I meant it. The Beauxbatons Open Skate is the smaller of two Qualifiers the city is hosting this season. It’s on its last day, and all the Women’s Singles competitors are slated to perform in the early afternoon. I already missed the practice days over the weekend—like I said, this wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a warm-up. But as I secure the belt of the hotel bathrobe around my waist, it feels like I’m headed for the Olympics, or, I dunno, to war.

I slap my face with both hands. Okay. Time for rituals.

I drink two bottles of water from the mini fridge and walk back into the bedroom. I light some pine-scented candles I packed and then draw the curtains. Sunlight streams into my room, creating a bright patch on the carpet where I choose to sit. I close my eyes and breathe, willing my thoughts to settle.

It’s just a Qualifier.

There will be others.

I don’t have to win.

But Cho Chang is skating today.

And people are watching.

People with cameras.

And Nev’s not here.

“Fuck.”

It isn’t just because of Nev. Honestly, it’s not. My anxiety has been high since before I met him, though lately I’d been in a healthy enough place that I thought I’d overcome it.

Skating used to be automatic—it was my outlet for all my emotions. It didn’t matter if I was alone, angry, or afraid when I was on the ice. I was invincible… until I broke my ankle. The aftermath made me realise how alone, angry, and afraid I was all the damn time. Getting back on the ice only served to make it worse. Failure was suddenly a possibility, and I had no one to turn to.

I dust off the mantra I adopted for the Olympics and try again:

This is my day.

I’ve done the work.

I'm strong.

I am a bad bitch.

I am all I need.

Except I’m not. The only thing I’ve learned for certain is how lonely I’ve been, and the one person who’s wholeheartedly wanted to be in my corner, I’ve somehow managed to push away.

Right now, I’m just desperate to hear from Nev.

My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets when I check my phone. Nev’s texted me a bunch of times, and who knows how many times he’s tried to call while my phone was dead.

nev long🍑

Hi love, I’ve just read your messages. No service in the park

Sorry about that.

Are you okay? Have you gone?

I could have driven you

No, I should have.

I’ll go to you anyway. I’ll cancel my interviews for tomorrow. Where are you?

I looked it up, is this you? — https://www.triwizfigureskating.org/event/qualifying-beauxbatons-open-skate

The dates check out, and it’s just a drive away.

Do you want me there? Please tell me.

I’m trying to call you.

Pans I’m worried.

Pansy?

The timestamps tell me he’s been texting throughout the evening, but I’d already fallen asleep. Isn't that just my luck!!!

I’m about to call him up and cry when my doorbell rings. That’s probably breakfast... not that I have an appetite.

“Just a second.” I get up and answer the door.

It isn’t Hagrid.

“Nev?” I can’t believe my eyes.

“Hi.” He doesn’t budge, and I realise it’s because his hands are full. 

“What’s that?”

“Your breakfast. I got it from Rubeus.”

“Huh?”

“You weren’t answering my calls, so I asked Rubeus where you were last night. When I got here, he was having breakfast with your coach. She suggested I take some to you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind?” I repeat. He just drove four hours to see me. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

So fucking happy I— “You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be angry?”

“Were you upset? The other day?”

He cocks his head and sighs. “A little. I decided to go camping so I wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“I didn’t want to force the issue when you clearly didn’t want…” He shakes his head. “It was a mistake. I was worried about you.”

“It’s my fault,” I say. My throat feels thick. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

We stand in silence for a moment, so I step aside. “Would you like to come in?”

Nev gives me a small grin. God, I missed his face.

He sets my food down on the table and looks around.

“Ignore the mess,” I say, blowing out my candles.

“It’s not so bad.”

He’s being nice. My stuff is strewn everywhere, physical proof of my frazzled state of mind.

He takes a seat on my bed. “Come here.”

It’s all too easy to obey. I sit on his lap and just let him hold me. Tears begin to well in my eyes and I feel both wretched and relieved. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“You know I wanted to be here. I’ll always want to be here, just like you've been here for me.” He wipes a thumb over my cheek.

I squeeze his hand. “I couldn’t get tickets.”

“That’s fine. I still told your coach I’d bring you later. I’ll stay as long as I can, and if I can’t get in, then I’ll watch you from the nearest telly.”

“Okay.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, now that you’re here.” It’s the truest thing I’ve said all day, but still. “Nev…”

“Hmm?”

I take a deep breath and confide my fears: “I don’t think I’ll do very well today.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That I’ll fail in front of everyone. And you.”

“It’s brave of you to tell me.” He presses his fingers down on my stiff shoulders and makes a surprised noise. “You’re very tense.”

My attempt at a scoff is watery. “No shit.”

“When’s the last time you saw your PT?”

“Friday.”

“Where else do you carry stress?”

“Feels like everywhere, honestly.”

He plants a kiss on my cheek. I turn my head so I can kiss his lips back. It’s mind-meltingly good, like a mug of hot cocoa after a long day on the ice.

“Would it help if I tried to relieve it?” he murmurs into my mouth.

I pull away. “How, with a massage?”

“Yeah.” He runs his hands down my sides and wraps his fingers around my bathrobe’s tie. “Would you like one?”

“Nev,” I laugh.

“I’m being serious.” He presses kisses to my neck as he pulls at the knot. I pull back cooperatively and let him unwrap me. He groans, probably because I wasn’t wearing anything beneath the robe. Then he scoops me up from underneath my legs and tosses me onto the bed. I scramble for purchase, but he’s on top of me faster than I can react.

“Flip over,” he says.

“No.” I pull him down upon me and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

I release a sigh. His weight on my body is a comfort to my nerves, and I immediately relax under him as he lays light kisses to my neck and shoulders. His fingers dig beneath me to press at knots I didn’t even realise were there. By no means is he being methodical—it hurts, but it also feels wonderfully real. Nev’s actually here, and I can finally push everything else out of my mind except him.

He busies his mouth with my breasts in the meantime, and I dig my fingers into his hair, focusing on the pleasure and the pain.

“Better?” he asks after a while.

Honestly? “Yes.”

“I think we can do better than that.”

“What do you mean?”

He kisses his way down my body until he reaches my hips, and I quirk my brow at him.

“Really? I’m competing later.”

“What time is it?” He nibbles my hip.

I check the clock. “N-nine quarter.”

“Then we’ve got time.”

He presses his lips against my inner thigh, and then the other. With gentle, firm hands, he coaxes my legs wider apart.

“My pretty girl,” he murmurs. “The prettiest.”

I laugh. It’s so funny when he talks to my pussy like this. And yet— “Oh!”

His eyes don’t leave mine, and his beard tickles as he nuzzles my sensitive flesh. He presses open-mouthed kisses upon me, zeroing in on my center. Then he flattens his tongue and gives me one long, slow lick across my seam and up towards my clit.

My head throws back into the pillows at first contact. It feels like it’s been too long—too long since I’ve thought of anything but him. I grab at his hair, feeling greedy. He chuckles against me.

“Do you like that?”

“Yessss.”

He spreads me apart with his fingers, exposing my clit. He massages it lightly with one finger before going back in with his tongue.

This is better than any ritual. I can’t even think. It’s like I’ve short-circuited, courtesy of Nev's attentions. All my blood and consciousness is focused only on my clit, and what he's doing to me. But the building pressure—the good, no, the best kind—isn’t enough.

I push down on his face, feeling my wetness spread across his chin and my thighs. “Please,” I beg. I can feel him grinding against the bed. I can hear it squeaking beneath us. He wants this too. “More.”

He pushes a finger inside me, then another, curling them deliciously upwards. It isn’t long before I’m arching my back against his chin.

In seconds, I’m overcome by a crest of mind-numbing pleasure. What remains of me is a puddle of goo.

“Come up here,” I demand weakly, pulling at his hair, his shirt, his hands.

But he doesn’t budge. Instead, he kneels up on the bed, his own desire straining in his jeans.

“No. You’re competing later. Though I wouldn’t be opposed to a celebratory shag afterwards.”

“Ughhh!” I burrow my face into my pillow. How dare he remind me!

“You’ll do great,” he says, laying on the bed next to me. He pulls me into a spoon, and if this is all I get for now, then I might as well milk it. I take his hand and place it on my breast.

Nev laughs, giving me a light squeeze. “You’re impossible.”

“Do I need to win to get the prize?” I ask softly.

“Even if you don't win, it wouldn’t matter. Not to me. It doesn’t get any better than you.”

“You haven’t even seen me skate.”

“That’s the point.” He brings up my hand to kiss my fingers. “I’ve seen your performances on YouTube, though, and confirmed that you are definitely out of my league.”

I roll my eyes fondly. “Have you seen yourself?”

“I have.” He nods. “In hockey… and in life, guys like me don’t always get the shot. And that’s okay. I know my role. But if I get the opportunity, best believe I’m gonna take it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pans, you’re the best shot I’ve ever taken. You don’t need me to do amazing things—you’ve done it all before. And maybe that’s made you think you have to go at this all alone. Maybe that’s what you’re used to. But that’s not true. You might not need me, but you have me anyway. And I would very much like to be here to see you do what you do best.”

I’m stunned. That Nev even gave this much thought to my unspoken insecurities... “I never told you that.”

“You didn’t have to. Even if you don’t think so, you wear your heart on your sleeve.”

“I do not. You take that back.”

“Ask Draco and Hermione. They’d agree.”

“Gossips,” I grumble into his chest.

“Your heart is always in the right place, even when you’re being grumpy. And you’re very, very cute when you’re grumpy.”

I snort. “Just cute?”

“Beautiful. The most stunning woman I have ever laid my eyes upon.”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

“I’m not. I love you, Pans,” Nev says. “Don’t push me away.”

I drink in the earnestness in his face. “I won’t.”

He smiles, pulling his arm out from under me. “You’d best eat something. We need to go soon.”

It takes an hour and a half to get ready. I’d have finished sooner, if not for Nev’s constant ooh-ing and aah-ing at everything from my hair to my makeup to my costumes. His appreciation is adorable—I’d wager that most boyfriends aren’t quite so delighted by the sight of studs and sequins. It only makes me feel guiltier that he can’t watch later. Once I’m done, I feel ready to take this competition on. At least, more ready than before.

He drives slowly to the venue, holding my hand as I visualise my skate sequences in silence. We turn into the parking area, and even from a distance I can see that the paparazzi have returned. In the center of their circle is none other than Cho Chang. Nev doesn’t even give me a chance to comment. He simply drives his Jeep around the building and towards a hidden side entrance.

“How did you know this was here?” I ask.

“Rubeus scoped it out for me.”

True enough, Hagrid is waiting for us by the door. He hasn’t got tickets to watch, either.

“Hagrid says your music has already been submitted. All you need to do is head to the registration booth to have your attendance checked.” Nev reaches for my bag and gently places it on my lap.

I marvel at him, and deep fondness blooms in my chest. “You’ve really thought of everything.”

“I’d make a great PA.”

“You make a great boyfriend,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

“I try.”

Nev rounds the front of his car and opens the door for me.

“What, no step assistance this time?” I joke.

“I don’t think so. Your ankle is plenty strong enough.”

I jump into his arms anyway, and he sets me down gently.

“You’ve got this,” he says. The gentle confidence in his tone—actually, the confidence in his numerous pep talks today—is just what I needed.

I nod. “I’ll see you afterwards?”

“Count on it.”

I know I can.

I give his hand one last squeeze and head inside.

After I register, I go find Coach Olympe.

“Pansy,” she says. “You’ve an hour before on-ice warm-ups begin. You’re slated to perform second to last.”

That’s a good thing. The old me would have loved to close out a competition, but today I don’t want to draw that sort of attention. “How many are skating today?”

“Just two groups of six.”

“Who closes?” I ask because I can’t help it. 

“Chang.”

“Oh. Good.” I won’t have her scores to contend with, at least not at first.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.” 

Coach studies me then. She must be satisfied with what she sees, because she tells me, “Get dressed and start stretching.”

It isn’t long until we’re advised to gather by the rink. The first group takes to the ice—I’m not concerned about them. I’m actually not too concerned about the skaters in my group, either. Other than Cho and myself, they’re mostly unranked. Untested.

Cho, however, is preening in the limelight. The cameras snap photos of her as she blows kisses to her boyfriend, whom I’ve just recognised as Cedric Diggory from the Badgers. And yes, okay, I am jealous. Nev should be here, too.

When some photographers come close, Coach Olympe thankfully blocks their view. “Where is dear Rubeus when you need him most?” she tuts.

We watch the first group finish their short programme, and then it’s my group’s turn to do our warm-up skate.

Upbeat party music blares as we glide onto the ice. I hear the announcers call out my name in the list of others, and I wave to the crowd with a flourish. Cho Chang is called last, and she makes an even bigger deal out of it than I did. 

Honestly, if I hadn’t learned what graciousness looked like from Nev, I might have been upset at her blatant attempts to upstage me. But now she just looks kind of silly.

There are four skaters before me—I need to get as warm as possible and stay that way until it’s my turn. I sprint forwards and then backwards, then launch into a few test jumps and spins. Some neophyte in my group nearly barrels into me, but I dodge her. I take the opportunity to shed my jacket and reveal my short programme outfit for the first time.

The audience near me gasps, and camera shutters click as I turn my outerwear over to Coach Olympe, who’s standing on the sidelines. I allow myself a small smirk. It is a little different from the figure skating standard. And by a little different, I mean a lot.

I’m wearing a little black dress that’s made of very thin, very light microsuede, which is never used in my sport. That's because my garment was designed to emulate a motorcycle vest, from the collar down to the deep, mesh-lined V. Its every hem is studded with light metal hardware. The same detail goes around my waist like a belt, and even down my very short skirt’s slit. My favourite part is the back—it’s got a mesh-lined cutout in the shape of a teardrop. Let Which! Weekly post this on their stories. This is me, and I feel so fucking good in this outfit that I don’t care what they say.

In the final minute of our warm-up, I practice the tougher elements of my short programme, but keep the transitions and dance elements to myself.

The music fades out, and the announcer asks us to clear the ice.

The first few skaters go by in a blur. Their scores don’t even register to me. I don’t want to see them. Coach Olympe pulls me aside as Eloise Dumont, the up-and-comer skating before me, finishes up her programme.

“I have not wanted to interfere much with you and your processes,” Coach says. “You and I do not share the same history that I do with my other trainees.”

I nod.

“But believe me when I say you’ve got it,” she continues. “You’ve worked very hard—and while this is obviously only the beginning of a long climb, I hope you enjoy yourself out there.”

“I want to, Coach.”

“Do you remember what you said to me before? Why it was you chose this song? I asked you what story you wished to impart. And you said—”

“That I’m on top of my game. And that I’m not afraid to fall.” I still don’t believe it entirely, but I have to believe I’ll get there.

She nods. “You’re only forgetting two more things.”

“What?” I blink.

She pulls out a tube of red lipstick and my matching set of fingerless leather gloves. “Your armour.”

I take them gratefully. What's one more little ritual?

Soon the announcer is calling my name. “From Gryffindor City, Pansy Parkinson!”

I plaster on a confident smirk and skate out onto the ice, playing up the audience as I make my way to the center of the rink. I look each of the judges in the eye and assume my starting position.

Three spins, three jumps, and a step sequence. Those are the seven required elements of the short programme. I close my eyes. They’re going to get it and more. In two minutes and forty seconds I’m going to tell them the entire story of how I got back here today.

The first slow strains of the electric guitar sound, and I stand still, drumming up anticipation. At the first drumbeat, I’m off, skating backwards into my first combination.

When all is dark and there’s no light

Lost in the deepest star of night

I see you—

Triple lutz, triple toe. It was the last jump of my Olympic run—the combination that broke my ankle. I’m a little shaky on the landing, but I power through. 

Your hands are shaking baby

You ain’t been sleeping lately

There’s something out there,

And it don’t seem very friendly, does it?

I skate my way across the rink like I’m a broken doll. My gait is deliberately uneven, and I swing my hips so I fall into a low, slow, swooping spiral that looks like I’m close to toppling on the ice. Hydroblade.

Result.

There’s something much more powerful

Than both of us possessing me—

I press down hard on the back of my blade and jump into a flying camel spin, bending over sideways as I touch my head to my raised skate. My face morphs to convey the desperation I felt at the beginning of my recovery, and I reach out for something—for help that didn’t seem to be there when I needed it most.

I’ve got to get to grips

I don’t want to feel like this

I cannot eat or sleep—

I skirt the edges of the rink, and glide backwards into a double axel.

I land it.

—I’m going crazy in this hazy fantasy

Aw, but I ain’t going down at all—

The chorus swells. I drop my leg and weave across the rink, tossing my hair around like Celestina Warbeck as I dance through my step sequence. I draw from my inner rock star, as Tonks calls it, leaning deep into a slalom to gather momentum—

So take your hands off me

Tonight I’m breaking free

This is the night.

—and I race down the rink to slide across the ice on my knees.

I can barely hear my music over the sound of the crowd. I don’t care. This isn’t for them—it’s for me. And I’m far from done.

The music slows. I think of Nev, of seeing him for the first time at his hockey game. Of how meeting him turned my world on its axis. 

The change is in the air

And nothing will ever be the same—

I pull a sharp hockey stop and skate backwards, jumping into my spin combination. I reach my arms and one leg out behind me—a camel spin—and lower myself into a sit. Round and round I go, contorting my torso so I can extend my arm high above me. I switch legs and kick the other out to increase my momentum, mounting into another dizzying spin sequence. I pull away, skating backwards to the refrain.

And in the morning when I wake

I walk the line

I walk it straight

Tonight I'm breaking free.

I ready myself for my triple lutz. I wait for my lyrical cue to explode, thrusting my toe pick into the ice and propelling myself into the air. I spin three times mid-air—

This is the night.

—and I land it. 

The guitar solo wails, and my god, I’m having fun. 

I lean back into my layback spin, reaching for my free skate. I clutch the blade… and slowly pull my leg over my head. I assume the tear-drop shape of a Biellmann spin to the crescendo of the electric guitar.

This is the night.

I pull my leg higher into a standing, spinning split. Voilà, my Biellmann becomes a Candlestick. My absolute fucking signature. The song comes to an end. I thrust my toe pick into the ice and stop precisely before the judges at the very last note, my arm thrust victoriously in the air.

This is the night.

My heartbeat is loud in my ears, but it can’t drown out the roar of the crowd. I take a bow. To the left. To the right. To the back. And once more to the judges. Qualifiers are not the venue for the audience to throw stuffed toys—in fact, there are no sweepers here—but one makes its way to my feet nonetheless. It’s a lion wearing a familiar white and red jersey, and when I pick it up and see where it came from, I see Nev standing right by the rink. He’s beaming with pride. 

How…?

I follow him with my eyes as I make my way to Coach Olympe. She’s looking very pleased with me, even when I murmur about my errors in the opening minute of my routine.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, handing me a bottle of water. We make our way to the kiss and cry. “You did splendidly for a first run.”

When my scores come up, I’m in first place. Of course, Cho Chang is still set to skate, but she doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t even think I’ll watch.

We return to our seats, and it’s only a matter of time before Nev joins us.

He’s grinning broadly. “Wow.”

“Shut up,” I grin back. “How did you even get in here?”

Nev scratches his beard. “I guess it helps that I’m, er. Recognisable.”

“You got in because you’re a celebrity, just say so.”

“I got in because I’m Pansy Parkinson’s boyfriend.”

“Sure.”

“It’s true.”

That makes me laugh. Nev is a shit liar.

“There are plenty of photographers here,” he observes. “I can make myself scarce.”

“No.” I take his hand and squeeze it tight. “Don’t.” Having Nev around is more important than anything the papers might say about us tomorrow. 

“Okay,” he says. “You were incredible.”

“Don’t get too excited. I’ve still got the free skate after this. And then we’ll see.”

“This programme you just skated… It’s just as you described.”

“I'm glad you got to see it.”

Coach Olympe clears her throat. “Chang’s scores are up.”

I peer at the board. She’s outscored me by a little on the executed elements—unsurprising, given my own errors. But while she’s in the lead, it’s not impossible to catch up.

I retreat into the locker room to change, and zip my jacket up over my next costume. Then I spend the remainder of the waiting time explaining the finer points of my sport’s scoring system to Nev. I teach him the differences between the jumps and spins, breaking down the first group of competitors’ free skate routines as we go. He’s incredibly attentive, which I find surprising. I tell him as much.

“Of course I want to appreciate what you do. You’ve done the same for me.”

Soon it’s my group’s turn to warm up again. I make the most of it, because I’ll be cold by the time I’m called on the ice. That’s the problem with the free skate—each skater is given four minutes to complete their programme, but that means a much longer wait before I have to complete the more physically taxing part of my competition.

My free skate is, to me at least, a little less special than my short programme. It’s the same nocturne I had some trouble connecting with in the beginning, though I've made peace with it along the way. It’s worth more points overall, and if I land all my big jumps in the latter half of the program, I could stand to reap a healthy number of bonus points.

When I’m warm, I unzip my jacket and bring it to Coach and Nev, who are standing together rinkside.

Nev is staring at my costume with a strange expression—and I don’t get it. I mean, he’s already seen it on the hanger. It’s just a simple, white long-sleeved dress with small, white pansy appliqués along the faux off-shoulder neckline. The flowy chiffon skirt stops above my thigh, and I wonder if it’s too short. Is that why he’s staring? My other costume was shorter! 

“Do you not like it?” I ask him when warm-ups are over.

“No, I…” he trails off, ears reddening. “I like it. A lot.”

I glance down at myself, unsure. “Then why are you looking at me funny?”

He clears his throat. “I… er. I’ve never seen you in a white dress, is all.”

Oh?

Surely it’s much too soon, but…

“Does it… remind you of something?” I ask.

“Maybe. It's not so much something I’ve seen before, but something for… uh.”

“Someday?” I smile.

“Someday.” He smiles back, looking relieved. “I’ll wait.”

It’s reassurance I didn’t realise I needed, knowing that Nev doesn’t just want to be here for me for now. He wants what I want—something to look forward to. Together.

In this moment, I suddenly remember that my free skate music was playing back when I first met Nev. And in this moment, I find all the meaning that I’ve been craving... until now.

When I begin to skate, it shows.

If anyone asked me about my free skate two months ago—hell, if anyone asked me this morning, I would have said my choreography was lacking. That perhaps the likes of Granger and Percy could do this number more justice together than I could on my own. That’s why I can’t immediately explain why I feel whole as I perform it today. When I make each turn, it’s as if I have a partner gently guiding my direction by my waist. When I jump, it’s as though someone were lifting me up to new heights.

I’m halfway through when it hits me. It’s only now that I finally understand this nocturne… maybe because it’s only now that I finally understand myself. If my short programme was about coming to terms with the past, my free skate is about reimagining my future. With each swell and turn of the music, I find myself skating with courage and certainty, and just… deep, pure peace.

It feels right. Instinctive. Like skating on good ice. Like I can trust it enough to do my best skating. To cushion my every weakness just that little bit more.

Thanks to Nev.

No doubt about it, Nev is like good ice.

He’s my good ice.

I finish my final jump on legs and ankles that feel strong. I feel strong. And happy. And finally, finally unafraid.

I hear nothing as the music fades out. 

I don’t remember doing my bows. 

I don’t remember sitting in the kiss and cry.

Or what Coach Olympe says as she jostles my arm.

I don’t even see my scores.

All I know is that I’m gonna be okay.

As I run, skates and all, into Nev’s arms, all I know is that I have something to tell him.

Right now.

“Guess what?” I tell him breathlessly.

“You’re in first place?” he asks, grinning broadly. “Cho Chang’s going to have to skate really bloody well if—”

“No, no. I don’t care about that.”

“What is it?”

I shake my head hard. He doesn’t get it. “I love you,” I nearly shout. “Nev, Neville, I love you.”

He laughs in disbelief. “Is that all!”

“Is that all?” I echo. “This is a very big deal!”

“I’ll say.” He flashes me a smile so big, his dimple is deep in his cheek. I tiptoe to kiss it.

“Take me home,” I demand. I’ve been wanting to tell him for ages, but I didn’t know how. I’m going to need time to translate my on-ice epiphany to him in proper words, and if I want to do it right, I need to do it now.

“Pans,” he reasons, “your competition isn’t over yet.”

“Nev. You’re talking to the girl who missed her Olympics podium. Coach can claim my medal. I don’t care if it’s gold or silver. Please take me home.”

Behind me, Coach Olympe clears her throat.

I whirl around, mortified.

“Don’t think I will permit this in the future,” she says. “Go. And send Rubeus to drive me back.”

As Nev and I hightail it to his Jeep, I consider that I’ve got a long way to go. But I’ve had a taste of what’s possible, and it’s made me bold, eager to take the future on. I can keep on skating. And falling. And getting back up again. Because from here on out, I’ve got my good ice.

FIN

CODA

Buzz.

Buzz buzz.

“Who is it?” I ask Nev blearily. The curtains are drawn shut in my hotel room, where we’ve been holed up for the last few hours.

“It’s your phone,” he says, withdrawing his arm from around me to reach for the offending device. “Percy.”

“Hang up,” I say. “I’ll fill him in later.”

“That’s not nice,” he laughs. He accepts the call. “Hello?”

“NEVILLE!” Percy’s shriek is so loud, Nev has to hold the phone away from his ear. “I NEED TO SPEAK TO PANSY!”

Nev puts us on loudspeaker.

“Yes?” I ask. “We were taking a nap.”

“How can you be taking a nap??” Percy demands. “You won! Olympe told me!”

I look up at Nev and grin. “I know I did.”

FIN 2.0 (For now!)

Chapter Text

FOUR YEARS LATER

“How big are you!” Ginny coos at my son Ollie, who’s babbling with excitement on my lap. He’s always liked people in a way that surprises me and Nev, and Ginny is his second-favourite person after Draco. He hasn’t taken much of a shine to Granger, though. Maybe it’s because she’s far too eager to win his affections.

“Come to Auntie Hermione,” Granger beseeches him, hands outstretched. Ollie turns further into my chest. “Please?”

“Call your boyfriend over,” I suggest. “Ollie will come immediately.”

“Draco is my partner,” Granger stresses, “and he’s busy.”

It’s true, I haven’t spoken to Draco once tonight. That’s because Gryffindor Arena is absolutely buzzing—they’re hosting the All Star Weekend this year.

“It’s been too long,” Ginny complains. “I’ve missed watching games with you.”

“It’s that career of yours,” I say with a sniff. “I see Percy and Granger all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Granger says. “Percy says he’s sick of coaching. He wants to see you more.”

“Maybe he’s just sick of you.” I smirk.

“Maybe. But he certainly needs other things to do, more people to pester.”

I turn to Ginny. “You, on the other hand, are far too busy.”

Ginny still plays pro hockey, and the women’s league playoffs are just a month away. It’s also the reason she was late to today’s goings on.

She sticks her tongue out at me, then reaches out to tickle Ollie.

“Careful,” I warn her as Ollie makes a grab for her ring. “He’s been fond of shiny things lately.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Ginny laughs. “I love when people notice my new pet rock.”

I snort. “Does your fiancé know you call it that?”

“Yes. I kept asking Harry for a pet rock until he realised I was talking about an engagement ring. You wouldn’t believe how many pebbles with googly eyes he brought me before figuring it out.”

“Men,” Granger sighs. She sounds more aggravated than fond.

“When’s the wedding?” I ask Ginny.

“I was thinking of a winter wedding like you and Nev, but we’ve got so many kids on my side of the family that having a large-scale wedding in the snow might be tough.”

I picture a horde of snow-drenched ginger children and shudder. “Autumn, then?”

“Or this summer, right after Harry’s season ends. Assuming the Lions make it all the way this year.”

“Their chances are good.” The Lions have been on a wave of success in the last few years, having won another championship just last year. This season is shaping up to be another good one, even if our men are considered veterans now. “What about you? Any thoughts on retiring?”

“Eh, I’m younger than Harry, you know. Though you make me really fucking jealous, living the life and all that.”

“Language,” Granger admonishes her. “Not in front of the baby.”

Ginny cackles. “I’m pretty sure Ollie has heard his mother utter every single cuss word in existence during his nine months in the womb.”

And almost every day he’s spent out of it.

“You’re not wrong,” I say, popping Ollie’s little trapper hat with the lion stuffy atop his head. “Don’t tell Nev.”

“No promises,” says Ginny. “So, are you returning to the ice anytime soon? What’s Hermione been saying about you coaching with them?”

Granger looks at me hopefully, because she and Percy are entirely too in-demand to handle it on their own.

“Maybe I will, part-time for starters. Then maybe I’ll take more work on when Ollie starts pee wee hockey. I didn’t think I’d enjoy doing something that wasn’t just for me, you know?” 

The truth is, I love being a mum. There, I said it. It’s unlocked something in me that I didn’t even know I had. Once, I thought I only had enough love for Nev, but now, I have a bottomless supply for the little family we’ve made. I tell Nev all the time—I love being Ollie’s mum far more than I ever loved skating. It’s really corny, I know.

“Motherhood does look good on you,” Ginny says. “Has it only been two years since you retired? Ollie’s my marker. He’s a year and...?”

“A year and three months old, correct.”

I retired from figure skating when I finally won gold at the last Winter Olympics. Nev and I had been married for just over a year. (I only took his surname after retiring. For my competitive record, that’s all.) We had talked about maybe trying for a baby in a few years, and I was scheduled to replace my IUD right after the Games, but as luck and a vigorous post-win celebration would have it… Well. Ollie was born nine months later, to everyone’s absolute delight. His nickname is short for Oliver on his birth certificate, but anyone can guess why we named him that. (Oliver Wood, however, has been circulating a different story.)

While I’ve been contemplating my next move, Nev’s just signed on to play with the Lions for a couple more years. Players’ careers tend to be longer in hockey than in my sport, and good thing too, because Nev’s only gotten better with age. This year is the third time he’s been selected as an All Star, right along with Draco and Harry. (Yes, Potter and I are proper first-name friends now.)

The three of them are on the ice right now, lined up for the Save Streak segment of the Skills Challenge. They aren’t playing, but the All Star goalkeepers are. While players take turns attempting shots at the net, the goalkeepers must complete the longest possible save streak to win. I’m not too interested, but Ollie is having the time of his life. Silly baby, he doesn’t even know what’s going on.

When that’s done, Nev calls me over, signalling me to bring our son along. When I hand Ollie over by the rink entrance, he squeals in delight, reaching for his father.

“Dada,” Ollie babbles. “Dadadaaa.”

“Hey there, buddy,” Nev says. “All bundled up, huh! Wanna come with me?”

“Of course he does,” I say. Ollie loves his daddy, and Ollie loves his hockey.

“Back in a bit.” Nev’s eyes drift down to my—well, his—jersey, and he smirks.

I smirk back. “Bye.”

I return to Ginny and Granger, and we watch as Nev skates Ollie around the rink. Ollie waves to Nev’s teammates and even high-fives his opponents.

“How is it,” Ginny marvels, “that you of all people popped out the sweetest hockey baby ever?”

Nev plants big kisses on Ollie’s fat cheeks and makes him giggle. Fondness warms my chest.

“The sweetness is all Nev.”

Ollie clearly takes after his father, but his happy demeanour is helped a lot by Nev’s consistent presence. Nev spends as much time with us as he can—no easy feat, considering how often he’s on the road during the season.

It turns out that a semi-long distance arrangement was much easier when we didn’t have a baby to juggle. We’d argued about it in the beginning—I didn’t mind staying home, but Nev took issue with not spending time with us. He also encouraged me to return to the ice if I wanted to, in part because getting pregnant post-Olympic win meant I had to cancel my exhibition shows. Though I reminded him that I was retired and that Ollie was a welcome break, he's still done everything in his power to come right home after his nearby games. He’s even made arrangements for Ollie and me to join him on their longer stints away.

It’s still difficult, but it also turns out that a lifetime’s worth of experience and skill in packing competition gear is transferable to baby bags as well. Nev also does his fair share of parenting, no matter how long a day he’s had. In the end, I know Nev was right to push. I’m really lucky for him and Ollie both.

“Ollie really is the sweetest,” Granger says. “I just don’t understand why he loves Draco so much, and not me.”

True enough, Ollie has left his father’s arms to sit in Draco’s, and Draco looks just as befuddled as Granger probably feels.

“That’s because Draco doesn’t try so hard,” I explain.

“I’d be surprised if he tried at all,” she grumbles.

“Are we still talking about my son?”

“No, it’s Draco. It’s just…”

Ginny wiggles her ring hand suggestively.

“Oh,” I say. Granger’s concerns on that topic are something I’m aware of, but she doesn’t discuss it with me often. She's afraid I'll become overprotective of Draco again. “Hasn’t he asked you, like, three times before?”

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “And you said no every time.”

Granger sighs. “There was that whole thing with his dad, you know. But Lucius is in prison now.” For aiding and abetting gang crime, among other things. “I finally told Draco I was ready, but he ignored me.”

“Maybe you should wear his jersey,” I suggest, indicating my own attire. It’s been four years, but it works just as well as it did the first time. “Nothing drives Nev crazy like seeing his name on my back.”

“I’ve tried that. It only served to inflate his head even more.”

“Don’t worry,” Ginny says, snickering. “Malfoy loves you. Your time will come.”

“I guess. But… Ugh! Even Coach Olympe and Rubeus got engaged before I did!” Granger complains.

I snort. Turns out my sulking all those years ago had produced another unlikely outcome—our very posh coach had somehow fallen in love with my bodyguard. Now he goes wherever she does. Last I heard, she was coaching in Mahoutokoro, and Hagrid had trimmed his beard.

I look on as Draco ruffles Ollie’s hair and places his hat back on his head. When the lights begin to flash over the ice, Nev returns our son to me and skates his way back to his team’s bench.

When I get to my seat, Granger and Ginny are huddled over the event schedule.

“Move,” I say, squeezing myself back between them. “What’s next?”

“Hardest Shot,” says Ginny. “Malfoy’s playing, yeah?”

“Yes,” Granger confirms, so we turn our attention back to the rink.

The rules are simple: four players have two attempts to strike the puck as hard as they can into the net. The fastest, and therefore the most forceful shot wins.

“How’s Malfoy’s slap shot?” Ginny asks.

“Pretty good,” Granger says.

Roger Davies from the Eagles is up first. He scores a decent 102.3 miles per hour on his second try.

Cedric Diggory, who now plays for the Beauxbatons Ombrelunes, follows. He fumbles both times and scores a measly 92.3.

The Wolverines’ Viktor Krum goes third, and he gets 105.6 on his first try.

“Malfoy’s gonna have a tough time topping that,” Ginny remarks. “Hell, I bet even Krum can’t top that.” True enough, it’s Krum’s better attempt of two tries.

Granger is bound to ruin her skirt from all her wringing, so I hand her Ollie to distract her. It works, sort of. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Finally it’s Draco’s turn. He rises from where he’d been kneeling on the ice and readies his stick for a leftie strike. He throws a glance in our direction, and we wave our arms and cheer.

On his first attempt, he gives the puck a mighty whack and lands it at 104.4.

“Not bad!!” Ginny hoots. “Go Malfoy!”

He lines up for his second attempt. He launches himself towards the puck and sends it flying into the net—105.7. That should do it!

“Yes!!!” Ginny shrieks. I cheer as well, but I keep one eye on Ollie, who’s being jostled on Granger’s lap.

The announcer begins to call his time and his victory, but Draco’s waving his hands high and shaking his head.

Ginny squints. “What’s going on?”

Draco has skated over to the referees, seemingly to argue about something.

“Did he do it wrong? Is he asking them to let him do it again?” Granger asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

We watch with bated breath as Draco makes his way to the media booth and whispers to the announcer.

“What is he doing!” Granger cries.

Ollie fusses in her arms.

“Hush,” I say. “Don’t make me take my son back from you.”

“No!” She holds him tighter. “You can’t!”

During our moment of distraction, Draco makes his return to the center of the rink. In one hand, he’s holding his stick. In the other… a microphone. My brows shoot up.

“All right, folks,” he drawls slowly, and I can't quite discern his tone. It sounds careful. “Settle down.”

The crowd goes quiet.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I’ll make this quick. I could take this win right here, but it wouldn’t really be the Hardest Shot.”

The crowd protests, though I doubt anyone knows what he’s on about. I mean, I don’t.

Draco waits for them to settle once more. Then he turns in our direction and gets down on one knee.

Everyone gasps and begins to titter.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

“Hermione Granger,” Draco says, and next to me, Granger stills. “You’ve turned me down at least three times while you were awake, and countless times while you were sleeping.”

Granger’s a sleep talker? Somehow that checks out.

Some camera zooms in on her shocked expression, and she lifts one hand to cover her wobbling mouth. Meanwhile, Ollie gurgles at seeing himself on the Jumbotron.

“A couple of months ago,” Draco continues, “you told me you were ready. I checked every night to make sure you weren’t just saying that.”

“You did?” she whispers next to me.

“I did,” he confirms, as though he heard her. “Last week, while you were sleeping, I asked you how you’d like me to do this. And you told me—”

“—at All Star Weekend,” they say simultaneously.

I turn to her. “Really?”

Granger nods. “I had a dream about it. Or… I thought I was dreaming.”

“So now,” Draco says, “I need to ask. Would you lift Ollie’s hat?”

“What?”

“Lift it! Lift it!” people begin to chant. The hockey players clack their sticks on the ice.

With a shaky hand, Granger checks under Ollie’s trapper, and true enough, there’s a little ring box balanced on his head.

Granger opens it, and sitting inside is what I recognize to be his mother’s humongous diamond ring. Oh, Draco. Extra as always.

Ollie grabs at the ring, but I take him from Granger right on time. She doesn’t even notice.

“Granger.” Draco's voice is more tender than I've ever heard it. His eyes are beseeching. “Hermione.”

She stares at him in disbelief, her eyes shining.

“Do I win the Hardest Shot or not?”

She slips the ring on and stands up. “Yes!”

The stadium erupts into cheers. Draco drops his stick and makes his way over, out past the boards and up the stands. Granger meets him mid-way, and they smooch and smile for the entire crowd to see.

“Blech,” I say. Ollie cheers along with everyone else.

“Come on,” Ginny says, poking my side. “You liked it.”

“Only because she did,” I insist. Otherwise I would be cringing so hard. And here I thought Nev and I were cheesy as hell.

I look across the rink to where Nev is tapping his stick on the ice. We meet eyes, and he sends me a dimpled smirk.

 My jaw drops, and I narrow my eyes at him. He knew!!! I try not to be offended that he didn’t tell me.

“Did you know, too?” I accuse Ollie.

He pulls at my hair with a giggle. “Ma-ma.”

“Little traitor.”

He giggles some more.

Draco carries Granger onto the ice. He grabs his trophy, and they let the media take a few photos before he skates her off to who-knows-where.

Finally, I guess.

“Look at us,” Ginny says with a happy sigh. “We’re making lives of our own off the ice, huh?”

I have to smile. “That’s true. You’re still an Ice Weasel, though.”

“Shut up, Longbottom.”

“Touché.”

The day winds down, and I text Nev to pick me and Ollie up at the private lounge for players’ families. There are miniature hockey sets littered about, and I’m busy trying not to let Ollie put a dirty toy stick into his mouth when Nev arrives.

“What have we got here?” he asks, resting a hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t know,” I grouse. “I only see a man who keeps big secrets from his wife.”

“Don’t be upset. Draco told me just this morning.”

“You could have said! When you returned Ollie to me!”

“Oh, but where's the fun in that?” Nev’s wearing a shit-eating grin. He knows I’m not actually upset. He reaches for my chin. “Besides, you’re still very cute when you’re grumpy.”

“Psh.” I swat his hand away. “I am happy though. For Granger. I don’t think I could have waited that long for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I really wanted to marry you. Happy?”

He chuckles. “Very. I’m glad you did.”

Blithely, I say, “I don’t regret it yet.” I don’t think I ever will.

Nev leans over to blow a raspberry into Ollie’s cheek. “Hey buddy. Were you good for Mama today?”

Ollie waves his free hand goodbye, then rubs it over his eyes in a chubby little fist.

“He’s a bit cranky,” I say. “He hasn’t taken his nap.”

“And what about his Mama?”

“She hasn't taken her nap either.”

“Here,” he says. “Give him to me.”

Ollie whines, brandishing the little hockey stick in his other hand.

“Oh, you want to play some hockey, huh?”

Nev picks up a toy puck and places it on the table before them, a foot away from the miniature goal. Then he sways with Ollie in his arms so that the stick hits the puck into the net.

“Score!” I laugh. Ollie musters a little smile and finally allows me to take the stick from him. I suppose he’s in a good enough mood to drive home now, so Nev gets points for that.

“Atta boy.” Nev holds our son closer. “All better?” he asks me.

“I suppose.”

“Thanks for coming to watch today. It must not have been easy with Ollie.”

“I came for the extra babysitters,” I joke.

“Really?”

“No, of course not. This is important. You passed on All Star Weekend last year.” Ollie had been just three months old then, and Nev wouldn’t leave us to go play.

“Still,” he says. “If you ever need any help—”

“You’re right there,” I finish. “I’m good.”

Nev pulls me close with his free arm. “Someday, Ollie and I will watch you skate. Or coach. Whatever you want.”

I smile, but say nothing. It’s an ongoing discussion—we’ll see.

“So,” Nev asks, picking up Ollie’s baby bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “How about I cook us dinner so you can rest? Or, I can give Ollie a bath, put him to bed, and then…” he tugs suggestively at the jersey I’m wearing.

“Even if you have your All-Star Game tomorrow?”

He shrugs. “I can sleep in.” That’s our unspoken rule. “Besides, my wife is a far more appealing prospect.”

I roll my eyes and grin. That had been my motive when I put his jersey on, anyway. “Oh, all right.”

“Let me take you both home.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

FIN FOR REAL THIS TIME