A1, B6, C7, D4 and E2 pleaseee! Congratulations! LOVE YOUUUU! ❤
A/N: I looooved this idea, made it Quidditch bc what else could sporty mean at Hogwarts, hope that's ok :D
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The Bludger had come from absolutely nowhere, hitting you so hard you’d heard your shoulder pop out of its joint before the pain had even had a chance to register. If it weren’t for Hadley grabbing your other hand and hauling you onto his broom, you’d be nothing but a yellow and black smear on the green of the Quidditch pitch by now.
It takes the Matron a good twenty minutes to clear you, sending you away with a large jar of thick, noxious bruise cream that – thanks to your usual slew of Quidditch injuries – you’re entirely too familiar with. Bludger hits are just like that, all those charms make the bruises last for weeks.
You make your way back to the Hufflepuff common room to find the corridor outside in absolute mayhem, the barrel door half-hanging open as students clamber in and out, Butterbeers in hand and reedy music blasting from an indiscernible source, the flagstone floor littered with bottle caps, crumpled cups, and whizzing paper confetti that splutters bright sparkles when anyone stands on it. It's not just Hufflepuffs, you can see Slytherins and Ravenclaws in the crowd, too – it seems that despite your premature exist from the game your teammates still managed to crush the Gryffindors, and the whole school is seeing fit to celebrate. A huge cheer goes up when you round the corner and your heart hammers a bit with the sudden attention.
Hadley’s beaming face appears before you as he shoves Crockett out of the way (impressive, considering the Slytherin captain is at least 180 pounds of extremely intimidating muscle). “How’s the shoulder?” Hadley bellows over the deafening music and raucous clammer. Someone forces a Butterbeer into your hands.
“It’s fine!” you shout back, leaning in to hear him. “Just badly bruised!”
You grin and tug your Quidditch shirt off your shoulder, showing him the very ugly yellow-green bruise with its purple edges stretching over your skin.
“That’s a good one!” Hadley nods, impressed.
But your attention is elsewhere. You’ve caught sight of a face in the crowd, his eyes fixed on you and his expression carefully set. He doesn’t have to push people out of his way like Hadley, it’s like people move from his path on instinct.
“Tom,” you say a little nervously when he’s finally in earshot, “I –”
But Tom doesn’t stop moving closer until he’s right in front of you, his hands coming up to rest on your arms. “You’ve been to the hospital wing?” he asks as his brow creases, his dark eyes roaming over you attentively like he’ll only accept his own evaluation that you’re okay.
“Don’t worry so much, Riddle, it’s hardly the first time a Bludger’s popped a joint,” Hadley snorts from beside you, lifting his own Butterbeer to his lips.
You catch Tom’s eyes flicker in annoyance, but his expression is polite enough when he looks to your teammate. “You’ll have to permit me to worry, Hadley,” he says with all the appearance of a wry amusement. “Though I do believe I owe you my thanks for preventing a much more serious injury.”
Hadley shrugs good-naturedly, throwing you an amused smirk over Tom’s shoulder the second he returns his attentive gaze to you. “Are you alright?” Tom asks quietly, his hands tightening on your arms.
“I’m fine,” you say gently, smiling at him as you place a reassuring hand on his chest. “Hadley’s right, you worry too much.”
Tom’s lips tighten slightly, his grasp turning even more brittle, and he exhales slowly like he’s suppressing the urge to push you away from the crowd right there and then.
“Come on,” you say with no small amount of fondness, taking his hand and turning back down the corridor. “Let’s go.”
It’s not hard to slip away from the party, and the second Tom shuts the door of the Room of Requirement before you he turns to you with something very serious in his eyes, something heavy and penetrating that makes you freeze where you stand before him.
He steps closer, his fingers gently sliding under the strap of your sports bag still slung over your good shoulder, travelling slowly up the band, lifting it from you and placing it with great control on the ground beside you. You watch, entranced, as he slowly curls his fingers under the hem of your Quidditch shirt and he pulls it up. You lift your arms, wincing a little when the movement hits your bruised shoulder.
Tom’s eyes flick to yours at your reaction, expression unchanged, and he proceeds even more carefully as he draws your shirt over your head and lets it fall to the ground. His gaze drops to the bruise and you watch him assess the colourful stains, his brow furrowed. His fingers come up and hover just above your skin. He doesn’t look happy.
“I’m alright,” you say quietly. “It’s just a bruise.”
Tom meets your gaze and your heart gives a tremour in your chest. The dark weight in his eyes only makes his beauty more hypnotic. There's something dangerous to that, you think distantly. “It’s very frustrating, you know,” Tom says smoothly, his lingering fingers lifting from your shoulder to brush your hair back so gently that it sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m quite powerless from the stands.”
“You’ll just have to trust that I’ll be fine, then,” you say over your racing pulse. Tom’s other hand has slipped around your waist and you’re wondering if the Room will summon the bed that pops (impulsively) into your thoughts at his touch.
“You were thrown off your broom,” he says very dryly, arching a brow.
“And I’m fine,” you grin, slipping your arms around his neck.
“It’s a team sport, Tom, it’s not like I’m out there by myself,” you smile with a roll of your eyes.
He doesn’t seem very convinced, his palm settling against your cheek as he exhales again, long and strained, his expression still heavy and conflicted.
“Trust me,” you murmur, nudging him slightly.
Tom’s eyes flick between yours for a second, dark and muted. “Alright,” he says quietly, and he leans in to kiss you.
