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And I Went Tumblin’ Down

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Blaine adores his boyfriend. Has done since before they started dating. But, as he’d heard Oliver Wood say on far too many occasions to be considered healthy, nothing is more important than quidditch. When Cedric Diggory had died, murdered at the hands of Lord Voldemort at just seventeen, they’d sought to replace him as late as possible before they were forced to give up on the season altogether.

Sebastian, as Slytherin captain, had boasted for days about how lucky Blaine surely must be, to be dating a quidditch star such as himself. Because of that arrogance, sometimes endearing but also much too annoying much too often, Blaine has taken it upon himself to show his boyfriend up. To prove that they could both be excellent players. Being seeker, however, was more than he could’ve hoped for.

It’s his second game of the season, the first won narrowly against Ravenclaw, and Sebastian hadn’t stopped grinning since they began hovering over the pitch. They didn’t make contact much, Blaine racing around the stands in search and Sebastian swerving between other players in an attempt to throw the quaffle through any of the Hufflepuff hoops. He’d always liked to watch the other play, but he didn’t care for losing either.

Glaring at Draco Malfoy from a distance to great for it to be noticed, he tried to tune out Luna Lovegood’s commentary. He did like the girl; her airy demeanour a nice change from the constant pleasantries from his Hufflepuff friends and Sebastian’s snippy remarks, but sometimes she was just absurd.

Malfoy had a better broom, more experience, but Blaine wanted to show his boyfriend up desperately so he wasn’t going to let him win. The only advantage Blaine had was his height, much shorter than the blond boy’s, and a lifetime of dealing with Cooper telling him he could do better. As an only child, Malfoy didn’t have that advantage.

“Smythe scores,” Luna interrupts his thoughts, the cheers from the Slytherin stands suddenly invading his senses from all sides. “Seventy-forty to Slytherin.”

“Get your head in the game, Anderson.” Tina Cohen-Chang yelled as he flew passed with the quaffle in hand. She was his best friend but, when one spends every summer with Oliver Wood, they become insanely focused on quidditch when it’s being played.

He follows her moves as she grazes past Sebastian, his boyfriend sliding out of the way right at the last second, and throws the ball through the middle hoop. The Slytherin keeper, Hunter he thinks, shouts as she flies away and, with much more force than is necessary, pelts the quaffle towards one of his chasers.

He catches a glint of gold near the Gryffindor stands, nearly imperceptible against their house colours, and leans over the handle of his broom. Malfoy, ever paying more attention to his personal opposition than the actual game (especially when he was against Potter), follows him, diving towards the ground quick as his broom will allow.

He pulls away the second it disappears from his line of vision, Neville Longbottom smiling shakily at him when he stops, and turns around to circle the pitch again. Sebastian winks at him as he zooms past, chasing Tina in a bid to distract both of them.

They continue like that, each team scoring just to build up points. The snitch is nowhere to be seen but, when Potter starts to glare at the area surrounded Madam Hooch, he suspects that he and Malfoy are the only people unable to see it.

Eventually, his body hovering near the Gryffindor stands to avoid the impending bloodbath near the Slytherin goalposts, Potter shouts, “It’s next to the faculty box,” and both he and Malfoy race to that end of the pitch.

It’s close, but he’s more aerodynamic than his opponent, and he drags himself forward just enough to grasp the fluttering golden ball in his fingers.

He doesn’t hear Luna announce Hufflepuff’s win, doesn’t hear Sebastian yell at him to watch out, before Malfoy smashes right into him, both of them flying off their broomsticks mid-air to the floor below.

*

His eyes are heavy and there’s a full throb in his wrist when he eventually comes to. Someone is muttering by his bedside, something tickling the sides of his face lightly and he wonders, not for the first time in his life, whether he somehow got a cat while sleeping.

“Out of the way, Mr. Smythe,” he hears, the soft tickle shifting away as soon as the words are uttered. “He’s starting to wake up.”

He blinks his eyes open, the pain just verging on unbearable, and Madame Pomphrey is hanging over him, muttering about quidditch and potions and the ministry being incompetent. He can’t even think to disagree.

“Mr. Anderson,” her voice barks, harsh compared to the stillness before. “You broke your arm when you fell. You need skele-grow.”

“I-“ he coughs drily and a cool glass of water is pressed into his left hand, the one he didn’t wish would stop hurting. “What happened?”

“What happened? What happened?” Her voice is shrill and he can hear light laughter from his right. “That good-for-nothing sport is what happened. You took a fall and now I have to patch you up and I still think it should be banned for all the injuries it causes.”

“Can you just give him the potion, ma’am?”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, boy,” she glares to his right, but she does adjust him so he can drink the potion. He coughs and splutters and wonders if maybe she has a point about banning quidditch if this is what he gets. “Keep an eye on him, would you?”

“Of course, ma’am,” she’s replaced by Sebastian straight away and he tries to smile and his boyfriend to tell him that he’s okay. “You scared me half to death.”

He laughs, or thinks he does at least. “I’m sure you were fine.”

“I told you you were too small to play quidditch.”

“Shut up.”

He pats the bed next to him, using his left hand to pull himself closer to the edge. He wants Sebastian as close as possible because, even though he’s fine, he was worried about him and they both deserve some comfort right now.

“She’s keeping you in overnight. Just a precaution but...”

“Yeah.”

They fall into silence and there’s some sniffling from a few beds away. It could be Malfoy; it could be someone else entirely.

“Do you want me to send Trent up to see you?” Sebastian asks when Madame Pomphrey informs him that he absolutely has to leave. Curfew is almost over and, unless he wants a detention with Professor Snape, he better get going. He shakes his head. “I’ll just see him at breakfast.”

Madame Pomphrey coughs to gain their attention, giving Sebastian a look that could cut glass. When she walks into her office, the door still open but closes enough that they’re afforded some privacy, Sebastian leans down to kiss him. It’s short and sweet and it tells him as much about his concern as it does his libido.

They were going to be fine - quidditch stars or not.

Probably not.