Hooch/Snape. What was happening in another section at the Quiddich World Cup.
The white-blond woman strode with a confidence that parted the crowd for her - judging from the yells of "Oh my god, it's Hooch!" "All right, Hooch?" "Look! It's the English sensation!" the crowd was making a special effort to part for her. She smiled, nodded, and waved a grey-gloved hand at the yells and waves directed to her, a serene smile on her face as she made her way to the empty seat next to a black-clad, dour man who was watching the furor of the crowd with a slight sneer on his face.
"All right, Snape!" she exclaimed heartily, dropping down next to him. He shifted slightly to give her more room, although she had plenty. A grunt was his reply.
She turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "You don't sound thrilled."
Her voice took on the chill tone that she used with her most stubborn flying students. "I know you love Quidditch, Snape, and you certainly were eager to take me up on my offer of seats, so why are you being so sour?"
Snape looked around. "I didn't know the seats would be so... public."
Hooch sighed. "What, you thought we would be sitting on orange crates and peeping through a hole in the fence on the other side? These are fine seats to see the game." Her face grew stony. "Or is it that you're sitting so publicly next to me?"
"I have no wish for my private life to be made gossip fodder for the halfwit Hogwarts students in attendance!" he spat. "I would like to retain some dignity."
"You're not wearing a sign that says, 'I'm shagging the flying mistress,' Snape," she replied, impatience and... was that some hurt that clipped her words? She shook hands with a passing enthusiastic fan who jabbered excitedly about watching her when he was young, then returned to his search for his seat.
Snape snorted. "I might as well be. When do I ever appear at public functions sitting with a guest like this?"
"Aside from Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy?" She stood. "Well, if you're ashamed of me, Snape, I'll find another seat," she said frostily, and began to walk off. A long-fingered hand flew out and caught her wrist.
"No, don't go." He sighed and pulled her ear to his mouth, speaking softly. "I'm not used to this, Hooch. You're my first lover since... before I was a Hogwart's professor. Respect my discomfort."
She looked him in the eyes for a moment, neither blinking. Slowly, she nodded, and sat down. "Very well. I will treat you like a colleague and no more in public, and you in return will not treat me like a pariah."
A pause. "Agreed."
The announcer called for order. "Ladies and gentlemen. . . welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!" It didn't seem possible for the crowd to scream more loudly, but they did. Feet pummeled the grandstands with a thunderous noise. "And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce. . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"
The veela danced seductively onto the field from the sidelines, long silver hair flowing impossibly in a nonexistent wind, their bodies moving with inhuman grace. Their influence was seen as waves of gasps came from the grandstands, and the women in the audience grabbed whatever portions of the men were handy to prevent them from running onto the field. Hooch glanced to one side, and saw Snape regarding the men with self-satisfied contempt.
"Hmm, the Veela seem to have no effect on you, Professor Snape," she said with a grin.
He leaned towards her and muttered in her ear, "It is because I have a blonde sylph in my possession already, my dear Hooch."
She knew very well it was his Occlumency skill that protected him from the Veela, but the rich purr of his voice in her ear brought sharply to mind visions of his hands stroking her face, her stomach, her chest, of those thin lips on her lips, on her... she shivered. "You're good, Professor Snape."
"Of course." He smirked. "I'm Slytherin."