Year 3: I'd Rather...
"Hey! Hey, Evans, did you catch the match?" retardo boy calls, jogging up to me. He grins, hair and clothes rumpled in, I suppose, what is supposed to be a charming manner. "Caught the Quaffle. Won the match."
"That's your job, Potter, so why should anyone congratulate on a 'job well done' when that's your position on team!"
"Ah, so you did see, eh?"
"I'd rather see the back of Hagrid's bum than cheer for you in a Quidditch match."
"There's always next game," he says, unconcerned, tugging at his maroon and yellow Quidditch jersey. "Could get you the best seat if you wear this. See? Has my name on it. 'Potter. Keeper.'"
"I can read, idiot," I hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest. "And what, in our horrid school time together, has ever given you the assumption that I'd want to wear your jersey? Honestly, Potter, I'd rather jump off the highest tower on Grounds then wear anything with your name stenciled on it."
"I have another one without my name."
I whirl away with a frustrated growl. "You have got to be THE most thickheaded, egotistical, arrogant, self-righteous, dunderheaded git in the history of---" One of my friends pulls me aside and whispers something urgently in my ear before I'm able to finish. I sigh, turning back to Potter with a defeated air to my voice. "Elizabeth wants you to put in a good word for her with Black. Will ya do that?"
He grins. "Only if you date me."
I look over my shoulder at Elizabeth. "Sorry, mate, you're on your own."