Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Well, I can claim the plot, and the box of cereal I'm eating as mine.
A/N: One of my favorite drabbles out of the very few that I have written. I know that it isn't exactly the perfectly following protocol for a drabble, as I believe it has more than one hundred words, but whatever. I'm absolutely in love with it, and I hope you'll be too!
Oliver Wood knew Hermione Granger. He had known her when they saw each other at the Quidditch World Cup in her fourth year. He had known her when she began working at the Ministry when she was twenty and he was about to turn twenty-four. He had known her when she began to go to all of Ron's games when the Cannon's played Puddlemere, Oliver's team.
Oliver saw her, sitting at her desk, twenty-one and absolutely breathtaking. He extended a hand from where he sat in a small wooden chair, facing the Cursebreaker.
Hermione's own smaller hand reached out to grasp his Quidditch-calloused on in what both thought was a friendly handshake, nothing more, nothing out of the ordinary.
Flushed skin pressed against flushed skin, womanly curves against toned muscle. A tongue tracing a pattern down her torso, stopping to flick over an erect nipple or to dip into the indent of her bellybutton. Small hands grasping his shoulders, nails digging into his back, bound to leave tell-tale marks, as he thrust into her, slow and deep. Tongues battling for dominance, stroking and sucking, kisses only broken so she could moan in ecstasy before coming, screaming his name.
Oliver also knew Hermione from one passionate, drunken night.