Molly Prewett stood alone over the sink in the locker room of the Hogwarts quidditch field house, muttering to herself as she pulled her hair up in a short pouf of a ponytail.

"I belong out there," she said, tilting her head to check her hair in the mirror. "I have been a starting chaser on this team for three years. We have won two house cups. I am a senior player. I am fast. I am fit. I am captain of this team because there is no one better. I am NOT an imposter."

"Not to mention you're brilliant," someone added from behind her.

Molly spun around, one fist raised, already snarling, "Who's sneaking up on me?"

A tall, lanky redhead stood in the doorway, kitted up in ratty, mismatched quidditch gear. He was backing away, both of his hands held up and his palms out, as if in submission. "Sorry, didn't mean to give you a fright," he was saying. "It's just that your smarts are what really set you apart as a top player. Your head for strategy, it's – "

"Weasley, isn't it?" she interrupted, lowering her fist.

He was grinning. "You know my name?"

She scoffed. "How could I fail to? We must have been living in the same tower for, what is it, seven years now?"

"Only six," he said. "My aunt kept me home for first year, getting over a Muggle disease. Chicken pox it's called. It's not too hard on Muggles but it worked me over. So you feel like my senior – and I respect that so much – "

"Then knock it off, Weasley," she said, realizing she'd need to interrupt him to get him to stop talking. She hiked her ponytail up before flicking a fastening spell over it. "It's awkward enough that you sneaked in and caught me hyping myself up to run tryouts without you kissing up to me like this."

At this, poor Weasley fell into a hopeless fit of stammering and choking, blushing beneath his freckles. "Kissing up – well I wouldn't say – I would hardly – unless – I mean…"

Molly took pity on him, rolling her eyes and speaking over his noisy efforts to find something to say. "Look if you're here for quidditch tryouts, I'll see you on the pitch in just a minute, yeah?"

She slung her broom over her shoulder. It was short to suit her frame, about the size of the first broom Arthur Weasley had ever owned, when he was ten years old. He eyed it as she strode toward him, following the broomstick's line to her face, looking her in the eye.

Weasley – yes, she knew who he was. The one with his hand raised in Muggle studies class all the time. He didn't have much to do with the girls in seventh year – or the boys either, come to think of it. Kind of a lonely boy. She took her first careful look at him. His eyes were blue, and not in that fishy way. They were somehow warm, or at least unembarrassed.

"Thank you for the compliments, but once we're out there," she told him, "I won't be filling the team roster based on flattery. It's all about skills and sportsmanship."

"And smarts," Weasley added, his warm blue eyes blinking rapidly as she came closer.

He still hadn't moved, still stood in the doorway smiling down at her from his truly ridiculous height. She took one fast forceful step toward him, like a border collie herding a big ox.

"Don't listen to them," Weasley said as he stepped out of her way. "Everyone who says you'll be a rubbish player now that your brothers have graduated and won't be protecting you from the bludgers anymore. The ones who say Molly Prewett has another thing coming, now she'll be answering to bludgers for the first time."

She stamped her foot. "Will you shut it, Weasley. Where do you get off – "

"Because they're wrong," he forged on in a quiet voice, as if they were sharing a secret. "Anyone who says that is wrong. You're Molly Prewett, a perfect chaser all on your own. Deep down, everyone knows it, and that's what they're afraid of."

Instead of stamping her foot again, Molly gave a huge sigh. "I haven't got time for this."

With that she turned on her heel in the doorway, the bristles of her broom, batting Weasley in the chest. She heard him exclaim at the impact and she wasn't sorry. Arthur Weasley who'd never spoken more than a sentence at a time to her before today was appearing all of a sudden to say all the wrong things to her in the moments before her debut as the Gryffindor captain…

She shook her head, determined to forget it. No, she was about to choose and train the best team her house had ever seen. She was smart, actually. Weasley wasn't wrong about that. And in about an hour, she would cut him in the first round of tryouts, and then she could get back to feeling herself as captain without his clumsy attempts at inspiration – or whatever that had been.

The Slytherin team was just coming off the pitch as Molly descended the hill and stepped onto the green There was bloody Lucius Malfoy, his jersey marked with a captain's "C" for the first time this year too. Her eyes narrowed as one corner of his mouth curved up in a sneer as they passed each other.

He was nodding at something behind her. "Slim pickings this year, eh Prewett?"

She stopped to glare at him, and as she did, Arthur Weasley crashed into the end of her broom again.

"Watch yourself, Weasley," she hissed at him.

Malfoy couldn't have been more smug about it, snickering as Weasley made his wordy apologies and darted around Molly toward the pitch.

"What was that? Your new star beater? Hoping to replace one of your brothers with the likes of him, are you?" Malfoy said, openly laughing now.

"Maybe I will," was all Molly said, tossing her head and veering around Malfoy.

He lunged to stay in front of her. "Or maybe you've found yourself a boyfriend at last. A proper one."

"Get out of my way, Malfoy."

"Gladly, but tell me where I can find you later," he said, not budging. "McGonagall is adamant there be no more brawling between our teams this year. So she says we need to work out our practice schedules to ensure there are no conflicts."

It was Molly who was sneering now. "When did she say that?"

"She did. Trust me."

Molly shouted a laugh and skipped around him, storming onto the pitch and calling the Gryffindor squad hopefuls to order. "Right, everyone take a warm up lap. Make contact with anyone else's broom and you're out."

The practice lap ended without collisions, a good sign that most of the people trying out were worth considering and not just there for a laugh. Molly had them land and sign up for the positions they favoured. Then she divvied them into teams and set the first two on each other. Everyone stood back, slightly awed as Molly Prewett unclasped the school's quidditch ball chest herself for the first time. It was rather a great moment.

Unfortunately, Lucius Malfoy and the Slytherins stayed to make sure the atmosphere didn't stay great for long. Of course they did. Molly suspected her own team would have been doing the same during Slytherin tryouts, before she arrived. All of them but Weasley, who'd been in the fieldhouse sneaking up on her.

Where was Weasley, anyway? Oh there he was, on his broom, beater bat in hand, squinting in the sunshine, racing around after the chaser like he couldn't tell a bludger from a quaffle. Blue eyes are rubbish in bright light. Everyone knows that.

"What is he doing?" Molly muttered, raising her field glasses to see him better.

Maybe the Slytherins noticed who she was following, and maybe that was why they started to chant.

"Weeeeasle Beeee. Weeeeasle Beeee…"

"Come on, Weasley," she whispered to herself.

"Don't you see it, Prewett?" Lucius called over the rail at the foot of the stands. "Weasley's trying to play like your brothers, trailing the chaser to protect them from the bludgers so they can fly as if there aren't any bludgers at all. Only he's not up for it. Not up for it by a long shot."

"Shut it, Malfoy!" she shouted, surprised at herself.

At the sound of her voice, Weasley seemed to notice the Weasle-Bee chant at last, and realized it was meant for him. He squinted into the seats only for a moment before finding Molly standing at the base of them, gripping her field glasses in both hands, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide.

And as all of this passed, as a bludger careened into his side.

Everyone had expected the sickeningly familiar thud of a bludger making its impact against a human ribcage. What they heard instead was a hard crack ringing out over the pitch. At the sound, a loud groan went up from the players and the spectators, followed by laughter from the Slytherins.

Molly squeaked in horror, dropping her field glasses in the grass and sprinting out to where Weasley lay splayed on the pitch. Really, why didn't they keep Skele-gro on tap out here? With a crack like that, Weasley must have broken at least one rib, maybe six.

She broke through the ring of people that had gathered to see how bad it was just to find Weasley sitting up and waving everyone away, rapping on his shirt with his knuckles.

"It's a chest protector," he was saying. "Muggle athletes wear them under their clothes during dangerous sporting events. See, I'm quite unharmed. It worked like a charm – better even than a charm, actually. Sorry to alarm everyone."

He didn't have the sense to blush until Molly gripped the hem of his jersey and hiked it up to his armpit, exposing the dingey white plastic of some kind of armour underneath it. "Muggle athletes?" she repeated. "Arthur Weasley, you brought Muggle equipment to a quidditch practice? Are you off your head?"

He blinked his blue eyes at her, looking up from where he still sat on the grass. "It's not against any regulations I could find," he stammered. "I did check."

The rest of the hopefuls began voicing their disapproval as Molly dropped his shirt back into place. "If you want to keep playing today, you need to get rid of it." She extended her hand and hoisted Weasley to his feet with strength that surprised even him. "Take it off, Weasley. They're right. It isn't fair to everyone else. Then report back here."

She sent her second round of teams into the air while Weasley got himself sorted. It was sound, but lacklustre play, uneventful enough for Malfoy to lean over the rail at the bottom of the stands for more taunting.

"Has our hero gone home already, Prewett?" he said.

Molly took a deep breath and didn't turn around.

"It was quite touching, you know," Lucius went on, "the way you ran out to rescue him just now. Dead romantic."

Molly had been so intent on looking straight ahead, not giving Malfoy the satisfaction of seeing her turn around, that she jumped and gave a little cry of surprise when Arthur Weasley tapped her on the shoulder.

Before she could stop herself, she'd batted him on the arm. "Will you stop sneaking up on me!"

Weasley looked to either side of her, apologizing, but also wondering how it was possible to sneak up on someone standing in an open field. "Right, so I've taken off the chest protector and – and the rest of it," he said.

Molly's eyes widened. "There was more Muggle protective gear?"

"Yes, but it's all gone now," he said. To prove it he held his arms out, letting her see how much looser his clothing was. Stars, he was skinny, tall and thin, long arms and legs, a full foot taller than her. With that red hair he had to be freckled, like herself, but he must have at least three times the freckles she had to cover all that skin.

What in the stars was she thinking?

She gave her head a shake and called the rest of the team. "Come over here, you lot," Molly said. "You're about to go back up and I don't want you pulverizing Weasley because you think he's playing dirty. So watch while I check him myself. Arms up, Weasley."

He jumped as Molly clapped her hands over shirt, over his ribs, the impact making the thudding sound everyone expected. For once, Arthur was speechless, his head down watching her inspection of himself. He would have liked to explain to everyone that Molly's search of his person was actually a Muggle police maneuvre called "frisking." But his mouth was suddenly dry, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. All he could think about were how small and warm the hands on him felt, pressing at his ribs and shoulders, and how it was a good thing Molly Prewett had no idea where else on their bodies Muggle athletes tended to wear protectors.

Molly whistled through her fingers and the second round of hopefuls came back in. "Alright," she was saying. "Kingsley, you're on the team again this year, obviously. I don't need to see any more from you. I'll go up as chaser myself for a bit. Gives me a different perspective."

Up they went.

Except for the quaffle, the balls were all still in play. Molly signaled Kingsley to toss it back in and the game was on again. The three other chasers on the pitch hung back, assuming Molly would take the quaffle herself. Something about it infuriated her and when she got hold of it, she pitched it hard at her fellow chaser's head.

"Fight for it!" she called.

A wicked smile cut across opposing beater Mundungus Fletcher's face. He hadn't been playing well enough to make the team and he knew it. "She wants a fight, does she?" he snarled.

He and Arthur Weasley were the clear choices for being cut, and he may as well go out with a bang. As soon as he was close enough, Mundungus cracked a bludger hard in Molly's direction.

She had been hanging back, letting the other chasers handle the quaffle as she called out instruction to her keeper.

"Prewett!" Someone yelled.

Molly saw the bludger and zipped to get out of its way. It missed her body but made a hard collision with the end of her broom, just above the bristles. The impact spun her around in a shower of wood splinters. She was spiraling toward the ground, voices shouting from every direction, some people telling off Mundungus and others calling out a blur of useless advice on how to get control of her destroyed broom.

The ground was coming up fast. She dropped the broom away from herself, not wanting to make her landing on a heap of splinters. Her eyes clenched shut and she turned her head and brace her jaw for the crash.

And then she was no longer falling but rising. An impossibly long arm had hooked around her waist and she was tugged backward, away from the ground and onto a broomstick, held there, snug against the lean chest of another flyer.

Molly opened her eyes to warm blue. Arthur Weasley – he had dropped his bat and swooped down to catch her as she fell. Now they were turning in a gentle circle around the outer edge of the pitch as the crowd cheered.

"You alright?" Weasley said.

She wriggled in his hold, scooching more securely onto the broom. The grip of Arthur's arm didn't loosen, and with his interference, all her repositioning served to do was bring her in closer, against his unarmoured chest, the pounding of his heart palpable against her back.

"Yes, of course I am," she said. "It's not like I've never fallen off a broom before."

"You haven't while I was supposed to be protecting you," Weasley said. "Sorry about that."

She scoffed. "You snatched me out of thin air, Weasley. There's no need to apologize. But next time, hold the opposing beaters back with your bat BEFORE they attack me."

"Next time?"

"Now do put me down. This is already extremely embarrassing."

"Of course. Of course."

They alighted on the grass, the rest of the players gathering round. Arthur was still steadying Molly on her feet as she flicked a glance at the stands to see the Slytherin hecklers trudging away. Weasley took his hands off her but didn't move, looming over the scene as if to dare anyone to try to hurt Molly again.

"Right," she said. "That will do it for today. First round of cuts will be posted on the Common Room notice board before curfew tonight."

The crowd dissipated, some of them cuffing Mundungus as they went.

Arthur stood shuffling from foot to foot. "You need help rounding up all the equipment? I think that one bludger especially ought to be checked. Mundungus's arm isn't that good – "

"No, Weasley," Molly said, not angrily but wearily, almost sadly. "Thank you for stopping my fall. You've done far more than enough today. Just go. Please."

He looked crestfallen, his eyes focused on his feet. "I didn't mean to show you up."

"Well, you did. My debut as captain and I turned into a damsel in distress."

"I couldn't let you fall," he said. "Even if I had thought it through, and realized how it would have looked to everyone, I couldn't have stopped myself from catching you."

Molly shook her head, coughing out a pained laugh.

"I feel – protective. It doesn't make sense but – no, sorry," he said. "No excuses. I'm just – sorry." And with that he took his broom and sped away up the hill, pacing back toward the castle in long strides. She watched him go. Flaming Arthur Weasley who was content for them to ignore each other for six years was suddenly, unwantedly protective of her, all long, strong arms and warm eyes and heart.

"Not for long though," she muttered to herself as she used her wand to summon the snitch no one had even come close to catching. By curfew tonight, Weasley would be cut from the team, and things could go back to normal.

Not long after, Molly stood in the empty field house putting the last of the equipment away. There was nothing left but the ruin of her broomstick. She was biting her lip, wondering if there was any point in trying to have it repaired when Malfoy came back.

He was still dressed for quidditch, leaning against the door jamb, his arms folded. The sun was setting, golden light coming through the windows and illuminating that ridiculous hair of his like a Veela's.

"You know, Prewett," he began, drawling at her from across the room. "I was only joking when I suggested Weasley might be boyfriend material."

Her face flushed. "Shut up, Malfoy."

He took two steps into the room, his arms still folded. "Though that was quite the drama between the pair of you out there today. Right out of a romance novel."

She turned her back to the table where her broom lay, boosting herself up to sit on its edge, facing Malfoy as he stepped further into the room.

"No, I don't suppose you'd know a bloody thing about romance, would you," she said, leaning back slightly on the palms of her hands.

Malfoy shrugged, a smile playing at his mouth. "Now, Molly – "

"No, you've got no need at all for romance," she went on, louder than before. "I read the announcement in the Prophet on the train. You've gone and got engaged to that fifth year girl in your house. My Uncle Ignatius's grand-niece on his wife's side, the lovely child bride Narcissa."

Malfoy's smile faltered. "It's not an engagement. It's an intention. Nothing's changed – yet."

She swung her feet, cocking her head, playing at being careless. "Whatever it is, it's all done now."

"It's not," Malfoy said, walking hard at her in spite of her kicking feet, both his arms around her waist, his face in hers, his lips brushing hers as he whispered. "Cut Weasley from the team."

It wasn't a request but an order, one he strengthened as he opened his mouth and kissed hers.

Stars help her, Molly kissed him back. She always did. Since summer holidays, it had been months since she'd met Lucius Malfoy in the field house like this, in secret – months since he'd last touched her. Now one of his hands was spilling her hair out of her ponytail while the other was hot in the small of her back, arching her spine to press her against himself. And she wasn't twisting away but throwing herself into his embrace.

Yes, he was awful, and she'd missed him terribly all the same. He was more contemptible this year than he'd ever been. But he was also a weakness of hers, a delectable vice. She had no idea what kept bringing him back to her. Nor did she know how he got himself to smell so good, or why the silky slipping of his hair between her fingers made her so hopelessly stupid.

Molly held his head and kissed him harder than he usually liked, willing herself to take what she could from him without melting into him the way she always did. She had never kissed a man with an underaged intended fiancee he hardly knew before, and it felt like the kind of thing he needed to be punished for.

But the hardness of her kiss provoked and challenged him. Lucius hummed in his throat and drew her deeper, licking at her lips to soften them, stepping between her knees, beginning to lean over her, lowering her onto the table.

That was what woke her up. She tore her mouth from his with a click. "I need to leave."

"Cut Weasley," he said again as he stood up, breathless, his forehead against hers, his hands still holding her close.

Molly let herself lean against him, breathing his breath, desperate to keep from sinking back into kissing him. It was a terrible habit, a craving she'd been satisfying ever since Easter break last year. She might not have the willpower to end it one her own, but she might be able to maneuvre herself into a situation where he'd never come near her again. And it was Lucius Malfoy himself who had just given her a clue as to how.

She sat back. "No. I'm not cutting Weasley."

Malfoy blinked. "But he's rubbish."

"He's not," she said, dropping her hands from his hair without trailing them over his chest the way she'd have liked to. "Arthur Weasley's dedication to protecting his chasers is equal to my brothers.' You were absolutely right. All he needs is some practice and fine-tuning."

Lucius let go of her. "That is the stupidest thing I've heard yet this term. You can't possibly…"

Molly was leaning back on her hands, swinging her feet again.

Lucius made a sound very much like a gag. "Oh, so – No. You're not dating him. Of course you're not."

"Not yet I'm not," she said. "But I do fancy tall men. And I don't mind if they're on the overly pale side. You know that."

Lucius turned in a circle. "Weasle Bee – he didn't even save you out there today. I did. I shouted your name in time for you to get out of the way of that bludger. Weasley – no, he's a complete joke."

Molly hopped down from the table. "And you are an all but married man. So it has nothing at all to do with you." She stepped up to him, her face upturned, her hair loose and tousled, proof of his own desire taunting him. Her hands made no move to touch him. "Also, it's high time you grew up and stopped calling people childish names. Good evening, Malfoy."

She trotted away, leaving her mangled broom behind her.