Step Right Up! Everyone's A Winner!

"Show the little lady how much she means to you! Win a stuffed animal for her to take home!" yelled the sweaty bald man standing by a ring toss.

"Everyone's a winner!" claimed the stooped-shouldered man in dirty corduroys.

"Guaranteed to win!" shouted the heavily tattooed woman pacing between a dart covered counter and a wall of balloons.

"It's easy to play! Watch how I do it," the man, who from even 10 feet away smelled strongly of fish, in front of the basket cajoled as he tossed a ball neatly into it.

Draco was a bit overwhelmed by the filthy muggles constantly calling to them as he and Hermione walked around the pier. No, not filthy because they were muggles, but genuinely filthy people. Even a neophyte, such as himself, could plainly see that the games were rigged; the odds of winning were miniscule. And the prizes were rubbish. Yet, there were people lined up at nearly every booth, trying their "luck".

Hermione and Draco walked with ales and bags of mini doughnuts in hand, munching on them as Draco contemplated the mystery of muggle fun fair games. Hermione promised him a fabulous dinner after this excursion. It would have to be better than these dry doughy things, which were only marginally edible when washed down with his drink.

The sun was nearing the horizon; the day had been warm and humid, and Hermione was enjoying the breeze coming off the sea. She'd decided to bring Draco to Brighton to walk the promenade and enjoy the atmosphere. Hermione pulled her wand out of her pocket to secure her hair up in a messy bun when it began to stick to her neck. Any Muggle noticing it would think it a decorative piece of wood, similar to the chopsticks many women used to hold up their hair.

She wore a white sun dress with intricate chocolate brown embroidery on the bodice. It only came to mid-thigh, a bit shorter than she would normally wear. She was thankful for the light cardigan she wore over it as she enjoyed the cooling air. On her feet were strappy dark leather sandals. Draco had on chinos and a light blue polo, which managed to be casual enough for the atmosphere, while still whispering posh.

Hermione recently discovered wealthy purebloods often employed a personal shopper to bring Muggle clothing into their homes, allowing the elite could avoid the non-Magical world altogether, yet still buy and wear Muggle clothes to "fit in". The situation did not surprise her one iota.

Draco tossed his half-eaten snack in a bin as they passed by. "So, I can't use magic to cheat against the games that cheat people out of their money?" he asked rhetorically.

Hermione grinned. "No, I want to see you use some skills."

"Oh, I have skills galore, witch," he smirked, letting his gaze slide down to her chest first, before admiring her bare legs.

Hermione patted him on the arm condescendingly saying, "Sure you do," before she turned away to keep on walking, while he stood stock-still.

Her quick wit and sarcasm delighted him, but when she managed to deliver something so dryly he second-guessed himself…

"How about a wager?" he drawled, quickly catching back up to her side. "My skills here against yours earns the winner unlimited use of the loser's bedroom skills later tonight? We play each game of skill and see who wins the most."

"You're on," Hermione agreed, whipping to face him with her hand held out to shake on it.

"Cocky little thing, aren't you kitten?" he noted with a raised eyebrow as he shook her hand.

Draco was shite with a water gun. He got the hang of it, but not quickly enough to beat Hermione. Her water-powered race horse defeated his by a wide margin. She walked away from the game with some sort of hinged metal clip with feathers cascading down on strips of leather from one end of it.

"Luna would already have this stuck in her hair," Hermione mused, twirling the bright pink dyed feathers before Draco's face. "What do you think?" she asked, holding it up near some tendrils which had escaped her up-do, acting as if she would use it to pull them back.

Draco gagged and snatched the offending item away. Hermione giggled and refrained from telling Draco the other ways she could imagine her whimsical friend using the clip.

The mention of Luna gave him an idea. After his poor showing in the first round, he quickly altered his game plan.

Hermione admired Draco's muscles when he threw a baseball much harder than she could hope to do towards the three bottles stacked up behind the counter. Hermione gave up disparaging Quidditch years ago; the proof of its usefulness stared her in the face whenever she admired the forms of her friends who still played regularly.

"Nargles," he covered up the word with a cough into his hand as she wound up to throw.

"What?" she eyed him suspiciously after the ball went a bit to the left.

She grabbed another ball and took aim.

"Nargles," he stage-whispered, leaning slightly towards her, just as she released the ball. It once again went off-center.

Draco had the temerity to innocently stare into Hermione's cinnamon-colored eyes and claim he'd gone easy on her after he handily beat her.

Draco was familiar with darts – the billiards room at Malfoy Manor contained a board. Unfortunately for him, Hermione possessed the same advantage.

Before Hermione threw her first dart, she glared at him with slitted eyes, daring him to repeat his distractions from the previous game. He stared back at her with a blank face.

"Were you planning to throw that dart today, or did you just plan to admire me?" he asked with a knowing smile and his hands in his pockets, not a care in the world.

He was sorely tempted to send a mild stinging hex at her. Stupid no magic rule.

She knew he was thinking about using magic to distract her. If only he knew it was enough for him to lick his lips.

They called the game a draw when Hermione stood holding two large stuffed animals. Draco marveled at the sheer ugliness of the cheap pieces of junk.

"What are you going to do with these?" he asked, taking one from her to give it a closer look before tucking it under his arm.

"I'll donate them to Oxfam. It's a charity," Hermione said. "They have resale shops to raise money to fight poverty."

"Do you do charity work in both worlds?" Draco stopped walking to turn and look at her. He knew what her answer would be.

"Of course I do," she answered quickly, without thinking. "My parents donate most of their charitable gifts and efforts towards international dental aid organizations. Dental care in most of Africa is nonexistant. I sometimes help them with projects. I recently switched to donating my resale items to Oxfam; they're a newer group. I also like Make a Wish Foundation. It's a group that arranges "wish-granting" experiences for critically ill children."

"I think you know most of what I do on the other side," she said, carefully alluding to the magical world on the packed boardwalk.

There was a tension to way Draco held his mouth; it showed in a thinning of his lips. "I don't know why it hasn't ever occurred to me - I could be using my money to help more people than just, well, you know," he lowered his voice near the end, taking her hint to be discreet.

"You have nothing to be embarrassed about," she stated in her typical brash style.

Some people Draco grew up with would have noticed his guilt, if they knew what to look for. His mother certainly could recognize it no matter how he tried to hide it.

Pansy was pants at reading his tells when they were young. Perversely, it was one of the reasons he'd dated the black-haired beauty for nearly three years at Hogwarts. He'd been such a prat to think a suitable life partner was someone from whom you could always hide your lying, cheating, evil ways.

Either way, no one Draco associated closely with for the first 20 years of his life would have called him out on it when they did notice. You stored the information, to be used at a later date. Back then, he'd not understood why anyone would ignore the rules of power games.

Not that Hermione didn't understand leverage. Oh yes, the surprisingly cunning curly-haired witch certainly did. She used her influence in different ways. It had taken Draco an absurdly long time to see it. The revelation was nothing short of jaw-dropping when it did hit him.

Let's not get too silly though, it definitely remained the Slytherin wizard's default setting to not wear his emotions on his sleeve while in public. These fleeting thoughts caused a smirk to form on his face, a smirk at himself both for the guilt and the needless introspection.

"It's more that I'm ashamed it didn't occur to me sooner than today that I am limiting myself. That's going to need to be rectified come Monday morning." He absently tapped the fingers of his left hand against his thigh; his mind started to whir with thoughts on speaking to his solicitor and his personal accountant. He'd need to confer with Theo too. His corporation already had a charitable arm.

Draco and Theo were very active in the charities they chose. Neither one of the wizards wanted to be accused of just throwing money around to gain influence. The influence came as a perk, no doubt. However, they both served on more than one board and donated their time to help with various projects.

Hermione watched the way his eyes glazed over a bit, staring off towards the derelict West Pier, as he stood in thought.

"Come on," she said grabbing his hand to drag him towards yet another game. "You can think about it all later. You can even research ideas for suitable organizations on my laptop. Right now, I want to kick your arse at another game."

"I think you are confused on what constitutes an arse-kicking," he teased.

Draco proceeded to win easily at tossing the large balls into the baskets. She'd informed him the orange spheres were unimaginatively named basketballs. He had watched the demonstration by the fairground worker carefully, noting the way the man flicked his wrist.

"The physics of it were intuitive from tossing a Quaffle through Quidditch rings," he announced to her back as she stalked away towards another game, while he stood holding yet another plush monstrosity.

In return for that insight, Hermione turned around to stick out her tongue at him.

"Very mature," he called after her.

Hermione out-shot him once again when they used a pellet gun to shoot a paper star.

He'd tried to pull her attention away with a languid stretch and a small humming noise, just to make sure she looked his way as his shirt pulled taut. She'd given his form a bright smile of approval before turning back to the target, dismissing him easily to concentrate. Drat.

Draco watched her do some strange Muggle ritual where she blew air over the end of the gun, twirled it around her finger, and pretended to stick it in her pocket.

She noticed his eyebrows knit with a bit of consternation. "I'll explain later, pawdner," she drawled in a poor approximation of a John Wayne accent. Not that Draco knew the difference.

Shite. Now they each had a stuffed animal under both arms.

"Go in the loo, shrink them down, and slip them in my hand when you come out. I'll shrink mine too, and put them all in my purse," she suggested. When that was taken care of, they continued on down the line of games.

The ring toss required no strategy or skill, just a bunch of blind luck, they both agreed.

"You realize this really should be illegal, yeah? It's basically stealing."

"No, everyone knows most of the games are nearly impossible to win, or that you spent a lot more money than the prize is worth if you walked away with one. Well, everyone over the age of seven, at least," she said.

It was the same with the small ball toss; there was no way to aim for the mouths of the little glass jars all packed together. Either the little white ball, which Hermione told Draco Muggles called a ping pong ball, bounced in, or it didn't.

Hermione cheered her ball on every time she tossed one, acting like she could will it to go where she wanted. If he didn't know better, he would think she was nudging it with her magic.

The sun had now set and the bright lights from the amusements all around them were dazzling. The salty scent of the sea rose around them with the incoming tide. It thankfully overpowered the smells of grease and burnt sugar emanating from the food vendors.

A different vibe began to set in, families with young children giving way to teenagers and young adults. The voices moving with the crowd were rougher and more often laced with profanity.

Hermione's stomach growled as they walked up to the final game. Skeeball was a game where she could run hot or cold, there was no consistency for her. If she could get in a groove, Draco wouldn't stand a chance.

She realized the poncy git sensed her unease. Of course he did. He then set about making it ten times worse.

He started up a dirty monologue of all the skills he planned to make her practice later that night.

The list places he expected her to use her tongue proved quite extensive…

Halfway through the game, he surreptitiously adjusted his hardened cock. Hermione smirked. His little ploy was working a bit against him, too.

They both ended up with weird little mirrors featuring names Draco didn't recognize written in neon-colored script. The mirrors made their way into her purse along with everything else they'd collected. He couldn't begin to fathom what sane person would actually pay money to own these items.

"My superior skills have been proven," he told her with his chest slightly puffed out, now that they'd given each game a go.

"What?! Your luck today is the only thing superior. I won more of the games which require actual skill. And, I never resorted to cheating!" she argued.

"My tactical use of words can not be construed as cheating. I never once touched you or used magic. I would also like to point out that merely winning more games necessitating actual skill versus luck wasn't the wager. We agreed it depended on who won the most games. That would be me."

The stupid bastard looked so smug, Hermione thought.

They continued to bicker regarding who was the true winner of their wager during the taxi ride from the promenade to the restaurant. They stopped in a part of the city he was unfamiliar with and Hermione paid their driver. Draco stepped out first, holding out his hand to help her from the car.

Hermione was thinking about how much she appreciated his manners. Holdovers from his aristocratic upbringing.

Draco was thinking on how things had changed since they started dating. A year ago, he'd never considered setting foot in the taxis he then thought of as Muggle death traps. Hermione assured him a ride on the Knight Bus was far more likely to maim a wizard.

He looked up at the restaurant sign and noted it was an Ethiopian establishment.

"Oh, hell no," he stopped walking, digging his heels in like a child when she grabbed his arm and went to tug him towards the door.

"What?" she asked in an exasperated voice.

"I am not sitting on the bloody floor to eat dinner."

"You lived in Japan."

"Right. Which gives me extra reason to not want to sit on the floor to eat dinner. I've put in my time."

"Come on," she said, tugging on his arm once again.

"I only ate on the floor in Magical Japan," he whispered, while making sure on one stood close enough to hear them, "where they have cleansing and sanitizing charms. I have no idea how Muggles keep their floors clean enough to eat off of."

"Chemicals. And, it isn't like you are going to be eating directly off the floor, now is it?" she asked him.

"Who knows in a hole in the wall place like this?" he asked, gesturing towards what was obviously not a hole in the wall establishment.

"Additionally, Japanese people are not heathens. They use chopsticks. Ethiopian people eat with their hands. Their bare fingers touch everything and then go straight into their mouths, Hermione." He sounded desperate now.

She just rolled her eyes.

"Why can't we go somewhere civilized? Like a nice little French place? I know one with sublime Bouillabaisse," he wheedled.

She sighed. He almost had her with the mention of Bouillabaisse.

He looked through the window into the restaurant, eyeing a patron ripping off a piece of injera to scoop up the disgusting dish known as wat (which he had never tried, but he just knew it tasted as horrible as it looked), and shuddered.

Hermione realized Draco was going to be insufferable if she managed to drag his dead weight through the door. Gods.

"Fine," she grumbled in a tone of voice which indicated it certainly was not fine. "Take me to your French place. But, don't blame me when they don't have a table," she said, pointing a finger at him with a harsh look on her face.

Of course, a table magically appeared for Draco. Well, not actual magic, since the restaurant was Muggle. Yet, the host clearly recognized him.

The couple had ducked into a public loo to transfigure their clothes a bit for the dress code, before appearing, sans reservation, at the establishment. Hermione simply elongated the hem of her dress. Draco employed a bit more creativity to create a suit and tie.

Hermione was currently doing a poor job of pretending to suffer through a first course of duck pâté. She didn't want to admit that his restaurant choice could possibly be better than hers. Draco had Pissaladiere tartlets in front of him and she wanted to steal one. The Perrier-Jouët Champagne the sommelier recommended paired beautifully with her appetizer. Draco's body language said he felt much the same.

"How did you get to be so good at shooting a gun?" he asked suddenly, thinking back to their earlier activities. He hoped to break her out of her sulk.

"Give me a tartlet, and I'll tell you," she bargained.

He transferred one to her plate and quickly scooped up a slice of pâté and a cornichon, without a word, before pulling his hand back to his side of the table.

"When Harry, Ron, and I were on our extended camping trip, I had to find ways to keep awake when it was my turn for night watch. One of my frequent distractions was conjuring a target on the trunk of a tree and transfiguring a stick into a gun. I would shoot silently at the bullseye, checking my marks after a set number of shots."

There wasn't much Draco could say about her statement, so he simply acknowledged it with a pursing of his lips and a nod. It had been quite some time since conversation between them seemed this stilted.

Luckily, their server came to clear their aperitifs and serve the next course. Both had opted for a salad.

After enjoying a few bites in silence, Draco looked at Hermione with a smirk.

"So, are you ready to concede my victory yet?"

"You mean your ill-gotten semi-success dependent upon trickery? If that is what you are speaking of, then no." She took another bite of her salad. It contained greens she would normally associate with spring rather than mid-summer; the chef must have a supplier from further north than many establishments. The peppery bite of watercress was a welcome addition.

"You are the sorest loser I know," the blonde said.

Hermione snorted. "Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

"I know when to graciously acknowledge defeat," he returned primly.

Hermione nearly sent bubbly Champagne back up and out her nose as she choked.

"Not two weeks ago, I saw you stub your toe after kicking a Bludger in anger, then hop around like an idiot for a good full minute, after losing a match fair and square, you liar."

"Angelina should have been called out on that foul!" he said rather hotly, still feeling the sting of an unfair (in his eyes) loss.

"And showing up to the following week's match wearing a vintage "Potter Stinks" badge is a hallmark of a well-mannered loser, I presume?"

"That was rather inspired, wasn't it?" Draco asked, further reclining in the restaurant's ridiculously luxurious chair, with a self-satisfied smile.

"Do you have some sort of secret stash of embarrassing Harry Potter memorabilia squirreled away?"

Draco stared at her, before carefully taking a long sip of his water.

"You do!" Hermione hissed, her eyes narrowing as her spine straightened. "Where is it? What's in it?"

"I only happened to coincidentally stumble upon the badge while assisting my mother with a project at the Manor."

"So your stash is hidden in your old bedroom, is it? Under your bed? In the back of your bottom bureau drawer?"

"If I had a secret stash of items capable of being used to humiliate a certain former nemesis, or two, or three, I certainly would not leave it out in the relatively open space of under my bed," he scoffed.

The arrival of the main course interrupted them. Once again, they'd each chosen the same dish, the Bouillabaisse. Draco liked that this particular French restaurant eschewed the tradition of serving the soup and seafood portions separately. He enjoyed the developed flavors gained by mixing all of the components at they cooked.

Their conversation ceased until after the sommelier poured a Chardonnay to accompany the rich seafood stew.

"Remember that time when we made a bet and I won? Yeah, fun times…" Draco said a few minutes later, as he set aside an empty mussel shell atop a growing pile of various shells.

Hermione was busy sopping up the tomato-based broth with a perfectly crunchy piece of bread spread with rouille. She eyed a langoustine for her next bite. Honestly, dating Draco made Piyo workouts a necessity. She'd discovered the mixed Pilates/Yoga regimen just a year ago and now couldn't imagine life without it.

"Remember that time you cheated to win? Oh yeah, you've done it enough times so they must all run together now," she said with too much vigor.

Hermione sighed. She wasn't even sure why they were fighting, beyond the fact they were both competitive and stubborn.

Draco heard her sigh. He didn't have to use Legilimency to know her thoughts. He didn't want to give in. He felt he legitimately won their bet. He also didn't want to fight. He scooted his chair as far forward as far as he could, and nudged his foot against hers under the table. The flirty move garnered him a small smile.

She slipped her foot up his leg, rubbing it provocatively against his thigh, straining towards a part of him that was just as surely starting to strain against his placket. Her face reflected nothing of what was going on below as she took another bite of her seafood. She caught his eye and winked as she swallowed.

Saucy minx.

By the time their server came to offer dessert, Hermione's knickers were wet with anticipation. She'd decided to share a picture in her head with him – the little clip won at the boardwalk attached to one of her taut nipples, while Draco hovered over her, using the feathers to tease her other puckered peak.

Draco asked for two crème brûlées to go, not caramelized; they could do the honors later at her flat.

He regrettably pushed her foot, which had long since found its way to his aching length, away from rubbing it. He would need a few minutes without the stimulation if he wanted to walk out of the restaurant with his dignity intact.

The took a cab to her flat. Hermione felt sure it was the longest, quietest cab ride of her life. The air remained thick with unresolved tension, and not just the sexual sort.

The click of the front door shutting them into the foyer of her flat seemed to finalize her decision.

"Ok, whatever. You're right. You won," she finally admitted with a huff.

"Holy shite!" he whisper-yelled. "Give me your handbag!"

"Why?" she started to ask as he rudely grabbed it out of her grip before she could even decide if she wanted to hand it over.

He pulled his wand out from his pocket, opened the clasp on her purse, and gleefully said, "Accio empty vial." Unsurprisingly, one came up from the depths and landed neatly in his waiting hand.

Draco handed the purse back to her, uncorked the stopper on the little glass tube, then put his wand against his temple. He pulled away a silvery thread and placed it gently in the vial. After putting the top back on, he stashed it in an interior jacket pocket.

"I'm going to treasure that memory for years to come," he sighed.

"Oh dear God."

A/N: Special thanks to Dramione84 for looking over this chapter for me!