Chapter Eight

Following Marcus's appearance at her flat, it had taken Hermione several more days to recover from the flu; and though he hadn't returned, he had continued to keep himself in the forefront of her mind. She had awoken in the early hours of the morning still on the couch — his signature scent having claimed more territory in her life as it clung to her hair, clothes, blankets, and the upholstering — with a small plate of toast and a bowl of peeled and salted grapefruit waiting for her. True to form from the last time they had spent a night together, he had left a note for her as well. Unlike his eighteen year old self though, he had actually left details of his whereabouts — quidditch practice ahead of their Sunday match. Not that she cared anymore than was required of her as his fixer. In fact, the note with her breakfast and the subsequent thrice daily missives he sent filled with recounts of his day and asking after hers and her health only worked against his favor.

Ten years ago after he took her virginity, the bloody muppet couldn't be arsed to have given her more than two sentences that answered absolutely nothing. Now however, as he paid her through the nose to manage his worthless reputation — she and Blaise unashamedly charging him twice as much as they would anyone else with his same case — he wrote to her seemingly every chance he had, regardless of how short her return letters were or if she bothered to send one at all. That, compounded with his maddening memory when it came to every detail about her and how easily she had given in to his touch and presence while fever ridden made her about as angry as the nesting Hungarian Horntail Harry had faced in their fourth year.

Not that it bothered Marcus any. He simply walked around as if they didn't have a decade's long festering wound existing in the chasm between them. More than that, he acted as if he were the injured party and not the perpetrator in what had led to their downfall. He remained outwardly unphased through it all. Even as her admittedly erratic pendulum of emotions and behavior towards the senseless, sequoia-sized wizard, had Blaise and Adrian constantly treading around her with reminders of it all merely being in preparation for their coming act, driving her further into her anger.

Ironically, the only person who seemed to not unwittingly be driving the rusted knife in her heart a little deeper, giving an occasional twist as needed, was Lavender; the person who of the three closest people in her life had the most reason to be warning Hermione off of whatever games he was playing. Though that wasn't to say she had let up on being a harpy towards the wizard. No, he was still very much public enemy number one in her books and she never missed a chance to let him know. In fact, her hatred of the man ran almost as deep as Hermione's own. Possibly even more so. But that was Lavender; a slight against her friends was a slight against her and unlike Hermione, she was not the most forgiving of sorts.

However if Hermione were being truthful with herself — something she reluctantly strived to do, especially where he was concerned — her renewed and impassioned anger had started before she had even seen the note that morning or received the ones to come over the last four days. Yes, she laid a lot of it at Marcus's feet and placed heaps of blame upon his uncaring shoulders, but she recognized that at least this time, some of the jerking and tugging that was occurring to her heart was of her own doing. She had been weak that day when he turned up at her door and waltzed into her flat and life like it was exactly where he had always belonged. Too exhausted from the constant aches in her body, her cough interrupted sleep, and too clouded in her head from the cocktail of over the counter muggle remedies she was indulging in, she didn't have anything left with which to hate him.

Adrian had provided her entertainment all morning, breaking up the zoning slips in her mind when she couldn't focus on her work or the new novel he had thoughtfully selected and purchased for her, but Marcus had been… Marcus; her Marcus. The thoughtful, caring, tactile, openly expressive one, who had made it far too easy for her to lose her heart to.

He knew exactly what she wanted and needed without her having to ask or explain. He understood that while ordinarily she loved reading, when sick, she simply wanted to lay about in front of the telly. He knew things like her soup and fruit preference; that she possessed a delicate stomach when under the weather and couldn't manage overly seasoned or fragrant foods; even having never been to her flat, he knew where things would be kept in her kitchen and living room from the few school holidays he had spent with her and her parents, choosing to be with her in a world previously unknown and experienced to him over being with his own family. He swept in and fit into her life as seamlessly as he always had; the door of their picture perfect past getting wrenched open for her to fall through and believe for a single day that she was experiencing the life she had been meant to live.

It had opened a window and gave sound to a voice in her head that until then she had been able to keep silent believing it to be whispering lies. Now she wondered if with how deeply she had closed herself off, if she had done more harm to herself than good and she hated him for it. She had been content with her life, had felt fulfilled with her work and her friends. But thanks to him and the allowance she had given without even thinking of putting up a fight, she was left to reevaluate the absence of love in her life. An absence that occurred not only from her lack of belief in such a thing for the greater populace, but from her inability to control herself against the need to measure anyone, Marcus included, against the teenage love of her life.

There was nothing to be done for it now though as she got ready to meet Blaise and Lavender for the short journey over to Montrose. In just a few hours she would need to be on her game and ready to sell the idea of being completely taken with the Magpies' lead chaser. An act she couldn't do properly if she allowed herself to continue to be hung up on who the wizard had been when his name had only been spoken with disdain and jeers and not with the reverent awe of being a sports and sex god. Tucking everything away as she pulled the gold zipper up her whiskey tanned, leather boots over her ripped, white jeans, she fussed with her emerald colored cable knit jumper until the slouch of the shoulder lay just right to reveal the yellow, lace straps of her tank. Everything about her outfit spoke clearly to the support of her host for the match – William Fitzgerald who had become a client of Golden Fire Solutions when seeking assistance in orchestrating a less than gentlemanly takeover of the Kenmare Kestrels quidditch team from his father.

Fluffing her riotous curls — which until Marcus's declaration of personal preference for such wild features, she had taken to taming into soft, large waves or a sleek, shiny blow out — her fingers caught on the long chain of her necklace reminding her to remove it. It would be the first time since it had been left for her that she would go without the double knotted promise ring. She hadn't even taken it off while on the run and in hiding with Harry and Ron.

Worrying the ring back and forth along its chain, Hermione studied herself in the mirror above her entry table, wondering not for the first time why she sought solace from it as one might prayer beads. It was a glaring marker of one of the most devastating days of her life and yet she couldn't part with it. She had dutifully worn it on her finger, uncaring of who saw, in the first weeks and months as she awaited word from Marcus. When that word hadn't come and Adrian had stopped relaying the details of his friend's life in Spain that the papers were not privy to, she had moved it to the chain it now spent most of its life on. It hadn't been until after the war when she had finally become comfortable in her own skin enough to begin wearing plunging and wide necklines that she had carved out an innocuous spot for it on her charm bracelet. She had tempted fate enough though with his return to her life and knew it was time she finally did what she had been promising herself she would for years. Lifting it over her head and untangling it from her hair as it got caught in the ends, she dropped it in her muggle coin jar without hesitation and collected her oversized purse, heading out into the hall to lock and ward her door.

However as she moved the ring of her keys around her fingers and walked down the hall towards the stairs, she stopped. Dropping her shoulders as she looked up at the ceiling and huffed, she turned around and headed back even though she was already running behind schedule. Cracking her door open and blindly fumbling around, she found the chain and extracted it from its purgatory, instead transfiguring it into an additional keychain and attaching it to her already overly adorned set.

"Valentine's Day," she promised, "I will follow through with leaving it behind for good on Valentine's Day," setting a fast pace through her building that turned into a run when she hit the streets.

Arriving at the Apparition spot closest to their offices out of breath and fifteen minutes late as always, she was greeted with Blaise clapping his hands and excitedly proclaiming that his ploy of lying about their meet up time had worked. Huffing both from exertion and annoyance, she rolled her eyes before joining he and Lavender in placing a finger on the cracked Christmas ornament turned Portkey as it started to glow.

Landing with more grace than she had the first several times she had traveled through such means at the grassy, beachside stadium of the Montrose Magpies, she was uncomfortably reminded of the 1994 World Cup. Though she had been to several professional matches, including the 2002 World Cup, since that horrific event, the crowds of people and tents filled with unknown travelers still managed to put her on edge.

"Don't worry," Lavender soothed in her ear, her voice soft and calming despite the surrounding chaos that threatened to swallow the sound. "Blaise has got us. He won't let anything happen."

Letting her wand slip free of where it was holstered under her left sleeve, she held it with a white knuckled grip and nodded, "I know. I just feel better when I know I'm prepared and on guard."

"I understand," the blonde replied, tugging the hood of her cloak over the side of her face that was heavily scarred as several witches walked by and openly stared at her, showing less tact and decorum than the children that accompanied them.

Taking his wife's hood and slowly pulling it back to reveal her face, Blasie peppered her cheek and neck with kisses, growling, "Fuck 'em. You're more beautiful than they could ever hope to be," lacing his fingers though hers. Then grabbing Hermione's right hand, he said, "Let's go, little soldier," in place of fortifying words, blazing a path through the crowds of people to the stadium and the relative safety of the visiting owner's box.

After being welcomed by Mr. Fitzgerald and taking up an arrangement of seats near the edge of the box despite her fear of heights and a death brought on by plummeting from so many stories above the ground, the beginning of the game passed easily enough. What little she had seen of Marcus's flying at the start, had her stomach falling through her bum. So she happily conversed with their former client over watching the match, thankful for the distraction he provided.

She had seen him play numerous times both against Harry in competition and against Viktor in fun, but no less competitive, pick up matches with whoever happened to be at the pitch. Watching him on a professional field though with years of honed experience was entirely different. Even with her limited knowledge, she recognized skill and raw talent when she saw it. He was made for the game and her feelings for him aside, she knew his ousting — however much he had possibly brought it upon himself — would be a loss not only for him but for the sport. The only other time she had seen such finesse and artistry on a broom had been watching Viktor play. He possessed a certain magnetism on a broom that in spite of her desire to remain focused on anything but the game, had her eyes drifting to him more and more.

She was so captivated by his play that Mr. Fitzgerald startled her as he chuckled, "Be careful with that one. He has so many notches in his bed post, I'd be surprised if the thing is still standing and you darling, are just his type."

No sooner had her former client spoken in her ear to be heard over the roar of the stadium under a made goal, was Marcus zooming by and halting his broom alongside where they sat as the whistle blew to announce a break in game play for the wireless.

Don't do it, she silently pleaded, already seeing their work go up in flames as his ocean eyes glinted with a long lost emotion. We have a plan.

It was the same look he had worn when they were in school and Justin had interrupted their study session to ask her to go with him as his date to the coming Hogsmeade weekend. A look that as the Hufflepuff left with a cloud of gentle rejection making him hang his head, had her yanked beneath Marcus on the couch before she could blink. His breath hot and electrifying along her skin as he possessively sought out her consent between sucking nips along her skin and growled declarations of, Mine. Her eager response, a breathless whimper that had seen his head disappearing under her skirt to bring her the first orgasm she had ever experienced by someone else's hands — or mouth as it were.

For the most part, he had always been secure in their relationship despite the secrets they kept about it. However when that jealous and possessive streak within him would flare to life, he turned wild and unpredictable in the best of ways. Though now as Marcus volleyed the quaffle back and forth between his large hands with a sea of camera flashes going off around them, she would reclassify the trait as turning him wild and unpredictable in the worst of ways.

Stopping his agitated movement as his eyes glanced down to where William's hand rested chastely at her elbow, he lobbed the quaffle into the stands several rungs above him to the cheers of children and jumped off his broom with a skip. Following his predatory movements and sinking back into her seat as he continued to approach her, Hermione braced her hands along the armrests, her breath vanishing as his warm, lightly worn, leather gloved hands glided up her arms and her vision swam with only his face, everything else blurring as if it were unimportant.

With her lips partially parted and having been moistened by her tongue at some point, she quietly reprimanded, "We had a plan. I wrote it and cleaned it up of all my smudges. You agreed."

"That was before I saw that wanker flirting with you and touching you, angel," he whispered back, his nose tracing along the line between her ear and her jaw. "You have always been mine and will always be mine and it's time everyone, you included, remembered that."

Then, with no further delay from him and an embarrassing lack of objection or resistance from her, he kissed her for the second time since returning home to her as she had always wanted and was loath to admit. Unlike the last time though, there was nothing fleeting or taunting about the press of his lips on hers.

He kissed her with a raw, consuming passion that poured years of lost feelings into her. His hands no longer content to act as a cage around her body, came up to thread his fingers through her hair while guiding her to stand. His tongue tangled and mingled with hers as effortlessly and divinely as it had when they were younger.

The way they kissed made her toes curl in her boots, her stomach flutter, and her pussy flood with liquid heat. Even for as ruthlessly as she had been ripped from his touch and his love, her body still answered his call, coming alive for him in a way she never thought she'd feel again. And as she blindly followed where he led, swept up in the renewed awakening of having him again, she came to stand under his hunched over body until he was lifting her up with weightless ease, her legs wrapping around his narrow hips until she felt the outline of his hardening cock teasing the seam of her jeans, a moan escaping her to be greedily swallowed by him.

It was only as the flashing cameras began to blind her through her closed lids and the roar of the stadium overpowered the rush of blood in her ears did she finally come back to herself.

Running her hands affectionately through his short hair, she gave a sharp tug, forcing him to release her from their kiss. Seeing his full and swollen lips, she forced her attention to his dilated eyes and ran a hand along his cheek for the cameras before hissing in his ear, "You know I've killed before, right? What the fuck were you thinking? Are you trying to ruin my life as well as yours?"

Chuckling as he smiled like a besotted devil, he set her back on the ground and replied, "I've been playing by your bloody rules for the last ten years, Hermione, and frankly, I'm fucking sick of it. It's past time to change the game. And with the whole world watching, I just did and this time, you won't be able to easily walk us and our history back."

With a bruising kiss to the crown of her head, he walked backwards to his broom before looking at William, his gaze turning glacial as he threatened, "Don't ever fucking touch my witch again. Otherwise, I won't leave destroying you and your team on the pitch," before falling backwards to be caught by his broom and race off to his side of the stadium, the cameras still flashing in his wake.

Looking at Blaise who had come to her side, she muttered, "I'm going to kill him. I really am."

"I'll help you hide the body since Lavender can't lift something that heavy these days."

Resting her head on her shoulder, the pregnant blonde in question, asked, "So, does anyone want to wager how long he's been planning this?"