story of my life

You attended here for first, second, and third years before transferring to Ilvermory. The school in which, somehow, made it to the Cup finals, bringing you back here to Hogwarts for the final match.

But, instead of sitting with your classmates, you’re perched in the Hogwarts section. Right next to your oldest friend, Cho Chang, who has kept in contact with you via owl for years.

The crowd goes wild as Lane sails the Quaffle through the hoop, right past the Keeper’s fingers, but something pulls your attention farther down the field, where you catch sight of Draco flying up towards the stands.

He looks over his shoulder, barking an order to his teammate that gets lost to the wind as it brushes his platinum hair from his face, revealing a strong, sharp jaw.

He twists back around on his broom, his jersey pinned to his broad shoulders and narrow waist by the force of the air. His gaze is focused, blue eyes sharp as ice, but he swoops upward suddenly, and then—then you’re looking at each other.

You barely have time to blink, your breath caught in your chest. His eyes narrow slightly, glancing at Cho, then back at you, before a faint buzzing sound reaches your ears and he takes off again down the pitch after the Snitch.

Cho shoots you a look, then tucks her dark hair behind her ear.

“Listen, it’s just the stupid jersey, okay? Trust me. They ditched the Quidditch robes, and everyone's gone crazy, but he’s just the same person he’s always been.”

You hum. “Mean, sniveling, and judgmental?”

“That’s Draco Malfoy for you.”

You turn back to the pitch, watching as he weaves between defenders like a ribbon. Effortless and weightless.

“Hell of a flier, though,” you mutter under your breath.

She sighs. “You’re supposed to be cheering for your school.”

“I am!”

“I don’t think eye-fucking the opposing seeker is exactly team spirit—”

Suddenly, a shrill voice cuts her off. “And here we are at the Quidditch Cup finals!” You glance over your shoulder to see none other than Rita Skeeter up on the platform a few feet away. “Tensions are high, and tonight only one team will—oh? What’s happening?” 

She adjusts her glasses, leaning precariously over the edge, one hand pressed to her chest in dramatic concern. Her quill hovers over her shoulder, its feathered tip angled downward as if it’s looking too. 

You follow her gaze.

Below, Draco is racing towards the ground at a breakneck speed. You rise to your feet in alarm, brows furrowing. He’s going too fast. He’s going to—

Malfoy slams into the dirt, arm outstretched, and you wince as his arm twists at un unnatural angle.

Rita gasps. “A devastating fall for Draco Malfoy! Will he live to see another match? Oh, wait. Wait! What is that in his hand? The Snitch!” She turns to the quill. “Cut that part out. The first question, yes.” The quill rushes to oblige her request, the paper snapping in the air as it scratches something out.

“Slytherin wins the Cup!” she announces, her almost voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. 

Your heart pounds in your throat as you look down again, expecting to see healers rush out, wands at the ready to help the wounded Seeker. But instead, Malfoy’s already on his feet, striding off the pitch. Even from up here, you can see the way his arm dangles unnaturally, the skin of his shoulder rubbed raw. 

The announcer sounds the horn, officially ending the match, just as Malfoy rips off his glove with his teeth. His broad chest heaves with every breath, and as he disappears through the doors under the stands, you catch a glimpse of the back of his jersey.

His last name hangs off him, bloody and torn. 

On instinct, you move towards the stairway, but Cho catches you by the wrist.

“Where are you going?”

You gesture down to the pitch. “I’m a healer, Cho. I can help.”

Rita turns toward you, head cocked, but you keep your eyes on your friend.

Cho’s lips part in surprise. “You’re not serious. He will just go to the infirmary later. He’ll be fine!” 

“He’s in pain,” you say. “This is literally, like, my duty.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

The two of you look at each other for a long moment before, finally, she exhales in defeat and releases you. “Fine. Go. But I want the full story later with details—”

You barely hear the rest of her sentence because you’re already rounding the tent fabric flap and taking the steps two at a time.

Downstairs, underneath the pitch, it’s dark and musty. Lanterns line the corridor, with multiple doors on each side for the players’ rooms and stairwells winding up to the viewing platforms. 

The staircase happens to deposit you in the right spot at the right time, because when you whirl around the bottom step, you bump into something solid and warm.

Draco hisses, leaping back and cradling his shoulder. 

“Watch it,” he snaps, scowling down at you like you’ve injured him further. 

His jersey has completely slipped off his shoulder now, revealing bloody, scraped flesh and a joint that looks painfully out of place. 

Ignoring his attitude, you look around for the nearest room. 

 “Here—” You brush back a curtain and gesture him inside. “I’m a healer. Let me help.”

“About time this place got some of those,” Draco says, but he takes one look inside the cramped room—with its pile of crates, wooden table, and a solitary stray lantern—before brushing past you. “Take your help somewhere else.”

“Your shoulder is dislocated!” you argue, still holding the tent flap open. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He pauses, then looks over his shoulder. Your gazes lock, and his jaw pulses, a strand of platinum hair falling into his eyes.

You jut your chin toward the table. “Just sit down, Malfoy. You’ll be pain free in two minutes.”

He must really be in agony, because he does, finally, follow you inside and take a seat where you tell him to. The room smells like wood and rust, but it’s not unpleasant, and it’s sterile enough for a procedure like this. 

Reaching into the bag hanging across your body, you procure your wand and a small vial. 

Draco scoffs. “You carry that around with you? Just hoping to run into some injured person?”

“Oh, this?” You wiggle the glass in front of his face that’s level with yours. “This little bottle of salve that’s going to heal you right now? I sure do. Aren’t you lucky? Now, take off your shirt.”

The corner of his mouth curves into a dangerous smirk, but it falters as he starts to peel the ruined jersey over his head. Lantern lights spills over the hard lines of his stomach, cascading over his muscles flexing with the movement. Once the shirt is gone, he leans back on one lean, toned arm, and the smirk is back.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “You can look. You like what you see?”

You sniff once, trying very hard not to let your eyes wander his broad, toned frame. “You sure are cocky for a guy with a dislocated shoulder.”

He shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I be? I caught the Snitch. Won the Cup. And I didn’t even make it off the pitch before I’ve got girls pouncing on me.”

You glare at him, suddenly wishing this ointment had a bit more bite to it. “I wasn’t pouncing on you! I saw you were hurt, and I just…”

The murmur of the crowd outside fills the silence between you, but a peek up at Draco reveals he is not the least bit convinced by your statement.

“…I wanted to help,” you finish lamely.

“How noble.” His smirk grows. “Go on, then.”

You swallow hard before uncorking the salve and lathering your hands with the silky ointment. The bitter herbs bite your nose, a familiar scent after all your time in the infirmary. 

“I’m just going to put this on first to stop the bleeding on these ground burns, and then I’ll set the bone,” you say, your fingers hovering over his skin. 

“Fine,” he mutters, bracing himself. “Get on with it.”

Slowly, you bring your hands down to his warm skin. He hisses, and you jerk back, startled, but he just shakes his head and gestures for you to keep going. You bring your hands back to his shoulder, even gentler this time, fingers gliding over his bicep and shoulder, carefully skimming over his wounds.

Then, you steady his elbow with one hand, and press your wand against his shoulder joint with the other. 

“This might hurt a little, I’m sorry,” you say. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

You keep your eyes on your work, prodding his arm clinically and trying not to think about how it would feel wrapped around you. “Because it’s going to pinch. Ache. Be uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say?”

He curses under his breath, then looks away. “Merlin, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Your gaze darts up in surprise. Malfoy was always telling you to stop apologizing when you were kids. But he remembered that? He remembers… you?

Shaking those thoughts away, you focus on the task at hand, pressing the wand right under his joint. You whisper the spell behind your teeth, and then his shoulder socket slides back into position with a sickening click. 

“Fuck!” Draco gasps, jerking in your hold. “What in Merlin’s bloody name was that?”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Yes, but apologies don’t help! Fuck!” He pinches his eyes closed, blond lashes caressing his windswept cheeks in the lamplight. 

You step back, suddenly unsure what to do now as your hands turn cold, dropping from his warm skin.

“The joint is back in place, but you’ll need to go to the infirmary to get a proper fitted sling,” you say.

He sighs heavily, then tests his arm. His hair glints in the light as he carefully moves his shoulder back and forth. 

“Alight,” he says finally, voice firm and determined.

You squint at him in confusion. “Alright?”

He glances up at you and crooks two fingers, beckoning for you to step back into his space. 

“C’mon then.” His hand finds your waist, and before you know what’s happening, you’re tugged forward across the dirt floor until your chest brushes his. “You’ve tended to me, Healer. Now let’s get to the main event, shall we? The reason you’re really here?”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly gone dry as your gaze drops to his lips, and you watch as they curve up slightly. 

You should be defending yourself right now. Arguing with him that you had absolutely no ulterior motives. But as his breath ghosts over your cheek, you forget how to form words. Merlin, you even forget how to breathe. 

He hovers there, his hand on your hip and his nose brushing yours, for a second. 

But it’s a second too long. 

You close the distance, lips meeting his with a hunger you hadn’t anticipated. Your hands fly to his shoulders to hold yourself steady, careful of his injury even as his tongue flicks against your lips, parting them gently. His answering moan brushes your lips, but it hits you low in your gut. Heat licks up your spine, and you drag him closer, kissing him harder. 

He tastes like salt and mint, and his hair is so soft between your fingers. You hadn’t even realized your hands had drifted there. His knees part another inch, allowing you to step even closer, and his fingers dig into your hips, gliding up to your waist in earnest. 

You’re so wrapped up in the feel of him, so strong and steady beneath your hands, that you don’t even notice the tent flap open and shut somewhere behind you. 

Then, you hear pop, followed by a bright flash behind your closed eyelids. 

You spring apart, panting. Draco’s hands drop from your waist as you whirl around to find none other than Rita Skeeter inside. 

She lowers her camera slowly, a devilish smile spreading across her face while her quill scribbles furiously over her shoulder. 

“Well,” she says, drawing out the word as her gaze flicks between the two of you. “There you are, Mr. Malfoy. We were coming to get a photo of just you, but this will do quite nicely!”

She spreads her hands through the air and looks dramatically toward the corner of the tent, as if picturing a future headline. 

“Malfoy wins the Quidditch Cup and the heart of an enthusiastic fan.”

Her expression turns dreamy, hands clasping under her chin, and then before either of you can stop her, she ducks back out, leaving only the faint trace of perfume behind. 

When you turn back to Draco, he’s glaring at you. 

“Brilliant,” he says flatly. “Look what you’ve done. Now, that’s something worth apologizing to me for.”

You gasp. “Me? I didn’t do anything—”

“My dorm. Nine o’clock.” 

Before you can form a response to that he stands, grabs his ripped jersey, and strides over to the tent flap. But he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder, one lock of hair falling over his eyes.

 “And don’t keep me waiting. I’ve waited for you long enough as it is.”

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