AN: Yeah, it's been a while. Here's a longer chapter than usual, figure anyone who's still reading this has earned it. Huge thanks to everyone that has commented, it really really helps me get my ass in gear, and much appreciation for anyone who is just following this in general. Next chapter should be pretty wild, like some gOoD sHiT. We might even be getting a plot line here, so stay tuned and let me know what you think!

"I am not fucking feral?"

Ridley could only imagine what she looked like as the Potions Master parroted her earlier outburst, moving his pale fingers away from the bridge of his nose to steeple them in front of his mouth. An uninvited image of herself in that moment played in her mind, wide blue eyes and gaping jaw just as pathetic as she'd expected them to look. He pinned her with an exasperated stare, the dark half circles under his eyes and heaviness of his hooded lids screaming at her that he didn't have time to deal with the misdeeds of unruly students.

"I hardly thought I could scandalize you, Clarke," he admonished venomously, "especially not with your own words."

Ridley's jaw snapped shut, almost painfully so. Shifting in her seat, she crossed her arms across her chest and muttered, "Well I'm not—um—feral..."

"You could have fooled me," Snape hissed, slamming his hands flat on the desk and leaning forward in his seat. Ridley winced. "Or do you think it's perfectly civil or intelligent in the slightest, to attack your peers because they said something you didn't like—in broad daylight nonetheless?" There was an obvious tension in the small space of the professor's office, a cool thickness in the atmosphere that usually would have had Ridley's stomach doings flips—in fact it had just a few moments ago—but a patronizing note in Snape's voice was enough to spark her temper.

"You make it sound like we were arguing about Quidditch; like he wasn't throwing insults at me when my back was turned!" She tried to sneer cooly, but she knew her clenched fists betrayed her frustration. "Maybe you forget that part where he drew his wand on me, as I was walking away?"

Snape merely rolled his eyes, and Ridley couldn't help but feel a bit surprised as he began to calm down; she'd thought she'd been rather cheekier than the fearsome teacher would tolerate. "He called you feral, Clarke," he droned, tapping a pale slender flinger on the wooden desk impatiently, "and having seen you duel, I know that you are capable of disarming an adversary without injuring them."

"He called me a feral bitch," she corrected, holding up one petulant finger, which received a narrow eyed glare from the professor across from her. "And he fuc—he deserved it."

Sighing, the Potions Master leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his chin. "Not meaning any offense, Clarke," he started cautiously, his dark brows lifting, "but I hardly think Mr. Collins has been the first to call you that." Ridley merely shrugged, acknowledging the truth of the statement but not wanting to agree with him. Snape pursed his lips in thought, "And in all the years I've been your head of house, I've never known you to care about what anyone else says about you, much less be provoked to violence?"

Ridley merely hummed, the anger draining away and being replaced with dread as she sensed an unwelcome heart to heart on the horizon. "Yeah, that's me. Sticks n' Bones."

"Stones."

"Whatever."

There was a steady beat of silence; a tentative ceasefire. Ridley uncrossed her arms and held her hands in her lap, searching for imaginary dirt under her fingernails. She could feel Snape's pointed gaze on her and stifled the urge to wring her hands together. There was a question in his analysis of her, she knew that much. She didn't know if she wanted to answer it.

"I've always cared what people think of me," she admitted softly. "I cared a lot and I didn't want people to know that." Snape's chair squeaked as he leaned toward her, just enough that she knew he was listening. His silence was a prompt to continue in itself.

Her hands were starting to shake, so she hid them in her robe sleeves, gripping the fabric tight like it was some kind of anchor. It wasn't as though she would be telling him anything he didn't already know. Most of the staff were aware of just how messed up she was, and Snape was undoubtedly the one most invested in her case.

"I used to try so hard to be nonchalant and just be un-bothered by everything, but thinking back, it was just so...exhausting. And—you know— after last year, everyone probably knows anyway...How much I care..." Ridley trailed off, finally facing Snape. His face was inscrutable; she envied his perfect mask of neutrality. And she hated it. "I guess I just don't see the point in pretending otherwise anymore." She took a deep breath, and faced her teacher with a weak smile.

"Gods above Clarke, I'm asking you to stop beating up your peers, not turn off your bloody feelings."

"One moment of vulnerability," Ridley rolled her eyes, now the exasperated party, "You couldn't let me have that— just one." Snape opened his mouth, probably to make some scathing or characteristically venomous reply, but Ridley cut him off, "Furthermore, I am not beating up my peers! I punched my ex-boyfriend in the face because he's a pompous ass who has been harassing my friends and I since the start of term." She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she finished; it never felt quite right talking to teachers about relationships with other students.

If Snape felt any discomfort, he didn't let it show. Rather, he just sighed deeply and reached for his quill. Scratching down something on a nearby scrap of parchment, he simply droned, "Two weeks."

Ridley was confused. Cocking her head to the side, she sputtered, "I beg your pardon?"

"Two fucking weeks," Ridley announced, sinking to the ground with all the grace of a lame moose. She had laid her outer robe out on the grass like a makeshift blanket, and reclining back she rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. Tilting her face toward the sun, she soaked up every bit of warmth she could. The frigid, breezy autumn weather had taken a leave of absence, it seemed, as the sun beat down on Ridley and her friends. No wind teased her hair, nor did a single cloud float across the sky.

Beside her, Molly sat cross legged on a pouf she'd conjured, flipping through a mystery novel. "So he only gave you detention?" She queried, her whiskey brown eyes flicking up from the dog-eared pages. For someone who loved books so much, the Head Girl didn't treat them very well.

"Did you miss the two weeks worth part?!" Ridley sneered, plucking a handful of grass out of the ground and tossing it at her friend spitefully.

Molly scoffed, "Well it's a hell of a lot less than you deserve. You're lucky you weren't expelled."

Ridley shot her a glare, but there was no heat behind it. She supposed her friend was right, there were much worse things than detention with Snape; the first thing that came to mind being detention with Professor Frey. She nearly gagged at the thought.

A sudden squeal caught Ridley and Molly's attention, and they looked to the tree in front of them, where Calvyn and Brinn were duelling in the shade. A victorious whoop came from Calvyn, who was slapped on the back by a chortling Marcus. Brinn was less enthusiastic about the duel's outcome, rubbing the exposed skin of her left shoulder.

"Neering, you ass," she hissed, nursing the blooming red sting on her shoulder, "I'm sensitive."

"Don't I know it," Calvyn laughed, not sympathetic in the slightest. Brinn glared at him, casting a cooling charm on the sting under her breath and stalking off to take a seat on the ground. Marcus shot Calvyn a mischievous grin and followed after her like a puppy, plopping down beside her and leaning against the tree trunk. As Brinn's face lit up, Molly huffed.

"Can no one beat the legendary Calvyn Neering?!" boasted Calvyn, both hands in the air as though he were asking the gods themselves.

"Who's Calvyn Neering?" Ridley snorted as she tried to read Molly's book over her shoulder. The Head Girl caught her peering at her novel and snapped it shut, glaring at Ridley half-heartedly. Ridley simply stuck her tongue out at her.

"What's this?" Calvyn cried, dropping his arms and stalking toward the girls. "Does someone dispute my famed skill? Stand up, naysayer, and face me like a man!"

"I would prefer not to," Ridley replied simply, looking up at her thespian friend with smug defiance.

"On your feet, Bartleby!"

"Go on, Rid," Molly smirked from atop her pouf, "show us what Snape's taught you so far." There was little more that she could do but roll her eyes, especially when the rest of the group were beaming at her in their anticipation.

"So what's the wager, Neering?" She sighed boredly, pushing herself to her feet. Calvyn smirked as she padded toward him across the grass, twirling his wand between nimble fingers.

"If I win, you write my next Charms essay" he replied smugly, though Ridley couldn't help but shake her head at his disappointing lack of creativity.

"Alright, fine," Ridley sighed crossing her arms. She could feel her lips turning up into a devious smirk as she continued, "But if I win, I get to read your mail for a month."

His eyes narrowed and Ridley could almost see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. "No deal."

"Oh, come on!" Ridley groaned, "Are you that scared I'll win?"

Calvyn merely shook his head, and turned as if to walk away. That bastard. "Fine," Ridley grumbled, wrinkling her nose, "You can take my next cleaning shift in the fieldhouse."

"Much better," Calvyn beamed, taking a few steps forward and reaching out a hand. Ridley sighed in defeat, and clasped his proffered limb, shaking on it. After releasing her hand, Calvyn bounded back so that there were a good handful of yards between them. With a flourish, the boy bent at the waist in a fluid bow—ever the dramatic—while Ridley merely tipped her head forward lazily.

Assuming a defensive stance, she considered the boy, who was currently blowing kisses to a passing group of giggling fourth year Ravenclaws. The moment they were out of sight, however, his eyes were back on Ridley and shone with an intelligence that he so often made an effort to hide. Calvyn Neering was a skilled dueller, Ridley couldn't pretend otherwise. The pair had always been pretty evenly matched; Calvyn seemingly having been born pre-programed with a plethora of curses and hexes that Ridley had only ever read about. If Ridley won a duel, she figured it was merely due to her quicker reflexes, and a creativity that kept her opponents on their toes. Usually that was enough.

"Scared, Clarke?" the boy taunted, his eyes flashing playfully. Ridley ignored him, quickly eyeing the canopy above them, heavy with dying leaves; the corner of her mouth quirked up.

Absentmindedly, she waved off an incoming stunner, and then quickly dodged a cheeky little jinx of Calvyn's own invention (picture a shower of white glue and seven glitter bombs—the extra fine stuff).

Ridley groaned, quickly dusting off a patch of rainbow glitter that had landed on her shoulder, to the delight of her opponent. Shaking her head, she simply pointed her wand at the boy and cried, "Confringo!" Calvyn's eyes lit up in alarm—they didn't often use especially damaging spells against one another in duels like these—and rushed to shield himself.

In the end it wasn't worth the effort, as the curse went high and exploded along a low hanging branch above him. A shower of yellow and orange leaves tumbled down from the sky, rustling against each other and crunching under Calvyn's feet as he tried to move out of the stream. "And that's why she's seeker everyone, not chaser," she could hear Calvyn snort from the other side of the shower, "because she can't aim for shi—" His proclamation ended with a sudden yelp as Ridley's inverbal knockback jinx hit its mark, and he skidded along the grass on his bottom.

Behind her Marcus erupted into a fit of roaring laughter, Brinn giggling along with him. With a victorious smirk, Ridley turned to her friends and was happy to see that even Molly was sniggering shamelessly, her book abandoned on the ground beside her. Feeling a little smug, she curtsied to her small audience, chuckling as Brinn shouted, "Bravo!"

"So Snape taught you the blasting curse? No—wait—the knockback jinx?!" Marcus sputtered, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion, "I thought we'd learned all that in, like, fourth year?"

Molly groaned as she rubbed at her temples, the picture perfect image of exasperation. "He didn't teach her the spells, Marcus. He's been teaching her to use her environment to her advantage," she turned her stern gaze to Ridley, who's eyes immediately widened, "Right?"

"Um," Ridley stumbled over her words, not overly keen on incurring the legendary wrath of the Head Girl. "Well—yeah, I suppose?"

Molly's attention whipped back to Marcus, who was completely unfazed by her chilly glare. Rather, he was beaming, "Well, that's pretty neat!"

"HEY!" came a shout from behind Ridley. Spinning around, she watched a disoriented Calvyn get to his feet, hair a mess of leaves and robes askew on his shoulders. Pointing his wand at her accusingly, he shouted, "It's not over until the fat lady sings!"

" !" came another shrill voice. Making her way up from the greenhouses, Professor Sprout had really worked herself into a huff. As she made her way past the group she hollered, "I KNOW I DON'T SEE YOU DUELLING ON SCHOOL GROUNDS!"

Molly was the first to snicker, snapping her book shut with a soft thud and vanishing her pouf. It dissolved into the air behind her as she made to walk away, the rest of the group getting to their feet to join her. As she passed a dumbstruck Calvyn, she placed a hand on his shoulder that belied her teasing smirk. Softly she hummed, "And what a beautiful voice the fat lady has."

The next few weeks passed by in a pleasant blur; Ridley's two weeks of detention were no more heinous than she had expected them to be, but involved a lot more dirty cauldrons than she would have preferred. Her defense sessions almost made up for it, however, as she and the Potions Master moved beyond their diagnostic duells, and started to practise a handful of complicated charms and counter curses. Most sessions ended with a playful duel regardless, but they were much less formal than their first few classes. She, and most of her peers for that matter, had settled into their classes and fell back into their school year routines. The last breaths of summer had vanished, and the sunny days that Ridley had so cherished at the beginning of term had become few and far inbetween. When the wind howled at night Ridley often caught herself mentally thanking the fifth year Calvyn for the thick wooly socks he'd gifted her for Christmas two years ago; a charms genius in disguise, the boy had charmed the socks to always keep her feet toasty warm.

The only thing more bitter than the autumn weather, was the rivalry between Quidditch teams. With the first game of the season a mere week away, tensions were running high, especially between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw houses. It was a curious match, the cunning and resourceful against the quick witted. Ridley would admit to having underestimated the ferocity of the Ravenclaws in the past, but after enduring the trials and tribulations of the weeks leading up to that first quidditch match of the year, she would never make that mistake again. Sure, she'd faced the aggression of Branson Collins—a Ravenclaw through and through—but she'd simply chalked that up to him being an ass-hat. She'd never had any real problems with that house before, no one did. If one were to believe the passionate sermons of the legendary wizard preacher, Calvyn Neering, the proud intellectuals of Ravenclaw were interested in only three things; how smart they were, how much smarter they were than everyone else, and getting smarter than the person they were five minutes ago. After witnessing the fervor and precision with which said house completely ruined Ridley's week, however, she would have to disagree. That sort of commitment required a definite personal interest, and she had a feeling that a certain Ravenclaw Head Boy with a superiority complex was behind it.

It started out as relatively harmless pranks—dungbombs tossed into the prefects' bathroom and hiccuping jinxes cast during class presentations—things that Ridley and Calvyn thought were absolutely hilarious in third year. But the Slytherin's didn't take kindly to being the butt of a schoolwide joke, and pretty soon the Hospital wing was filling up with battered and bruised students of all houses. Ridley dared not leave the common room without her wand in hand, having already been accosted by an assortment of Ravenclaw underclassmen. Under her bed, she'd hidden her most prized possession, her broomstick. Concealed with disillusion charms and more wards than you can count on one hand, the Wind Whistler 7 Ridley had received as a Christmas present in fifth year was undoubtedly safe from the machinations of Hogwarts' vengeful Quidditch fans. If only she could say the same for the members of her team.

"No, no, no!" Ridley groaned, rocking back on her broomstick and tugging at her hair with both hands, "Davis, you have to pass to Kempsford first, then you shoot after she passes it back to you!"

Davis looked at her blankly, already holding another quaffle in his hand. Tossing it up in the air and catching it again he reasoned, "But why would I do that, when I could just shoot from here?" He punctuated his argument with a toss of the quaffle towards the middle hoop, a good ten yards away. The red ball soared and the shot looked promising, before it went a little too wide and pegged the side of the hoop, landing in the sand below with a hollow thud.

"Merlin's tits," Ridley whined, rubbing at her temples; it had been a long day. "That's it, practise is over."

Five teenagers sighed with relief, and sped towards the ground, desperate for showers and much needed sleep. Ridley was too stressed to feel relief at the prospect of a steaming shower and soft bed; her left-wing chaser couldn't understand the simplest of drills, the other two refused to speak to each other, the newest beater was in the hospital wing with a nasty case of Mumblemumps, and her other beater was Calvyn—no explanation needed there.

Speaking of Calvyn, "Hey, Neering!" Ridley shouted at the retreating back of the boy as he tried to sneak his way back to the castle, "Has someone forgot that they took my cleaning shift?"

With a groan, the boy sluggishly turned around, head lolling to the side, "I didn't realize that was tonight. Can't it wait til tomorrow?"

"Hooch will have my head if it doesn't get done tonight, and I have to find a new beater for next week's match," she tutted, not the slightest bit sympathetic for the boy who'd repeatedly called her a Pansy-Ass all through practise, "So hop to it!" Reaching into an inner pocket in her quidditch robes, she pulled out the key to the fieldhouse and flung it at her friend with a smirk, "Happy trails!"

As she walked away from the pitch, she could hear Calvyn grumbling and the rattling of vexed bludgers in their crate. With a huff she pulled her hair out of her face, piling the springy brown curls into a bun atop her head and hoisted her broomstick over her shoulder. Gods above, a hot bath would be nice right now. Her robes were sticking to her clammy skin, and her whole body was aching.

The sun had well set by the end of practise, and the stars were finally starting to peek out from the darkness. A halfmoon guided her way back to the castle, illuminating the grounds in a faint silvery light. The grass was already wet with dew, dampening her feet as the moisture seeped in through her trainers and the wind had started to pick up, whistling through the trees and nipping at her cheeks. She flexed her bare hands, trying to get some blood flowing through her chilled fingers. She should have brought those gloves she'd nicked from the fieldhouse a few weeks back.

Wait—Ridley came to a slow stop, narrowing her eyes at her pale hands and frankly grubby looking fingernails—I did bring those gloves! She could remember grabbing them off of her cluttered bedside table before heading out for practise, and then setting them down on a trunk in the fieldhouse so she could pry open the latch on the bludger case with her fingernails. She must have forgotten to pick them back up after. Chewing her lip, she looked back at the fieldhouse, a small stone building off to the side of the quidditch pitch, then longingly to the castle, where she could sit in front of the fire in the common room while she drafted her list of potential beaters. Every fibre of her being wanted to sink into her favourite green velvet armchair and wash her hands of the mess that was tonight's practise, but those gloves were a rare steal around here, and she'd left her warmest pair at home. The last thing she wanted to do was send an owl asking her mother to send her irresponsible and scatterbrained daughter a measly pair of gloves. The effort she'd use trying to remain civil with the woman who birthed her could be put to a million better uses—such as taunting Calvyn Neering.

Spinning on her heel, Ridley purposefully strode back to the fieldhouse. She'd get to the common room ten minutes later than she'd wanted to, but so what. She had only got a quarter of the way back to the castle, so it didn't take long for her to backtrack, and within minutes she'd sidled up to the wooden door of the fieldhouse.

In the room beyond she could hear a muffled string of curses that made Ridley smile. As she pushed open the door with a creak, she caught sight of Calvyn dragging the bludgers' case across the uneven wooden floor by one handle. At the sound of the door opening, his head whipped up, his eyes wide in alarm. Recognizing her, he merely groaned, straightening up and arching his back with a pop, "Oh it's just you."

Ridley smirked, "Just me. You looked a little startled, there."

"I thought one of my inferiors saw me partaking in manual labour, my godly reputation was on the line" he said boredly, crossing his arms and staring at her with a petulance Ridley could only dream of conveying. She wanted to roll her eyes and remind him of how everyone their age remembered him screaming as ran around the grounds with a puffskein latched onto his nose back in second year—she'd never heard of a god screeching.

Instead she deadpanned, "Nice to know you don't consider me your inferior."

"Everyone is my inferior."

That did make her roll her eyes.

"So did you come to give me a hand," Calvyn asked hopefully, as Ridley moved across the threshold, and padded over to the large storage cupboard where the school quidditch equipment was kept. On a dusty old wooden trunk beside it, she spotted her newly acquired leather gloves and plucked them up. Waving the gloves at Calvyn, she merely replied, "Nope, just grabbing these."

Calvyn groaned, and half-heartedly kicked the wooden crate that held the bludgers. Incensed, the bludgers inside sprang awake and trembled in their box. Ridley sighed, "There really isn't that much to do," stuffing the gloves in her pocket, she pointed to a disorderly rack of Cleansweeps on the far wall. "Just straighten out the school brooms and make sure the bludgers and quaffles go back in the cupboard." Waltzing past the grumbling boy with her prize in hand, Ridley finally let herself look forward to a fireside seat in the common room.

"But it won't open," Calvyn whined, stomping over to the cupboard and jiggling the handle in demonstration, "I'll just leave them in front of the door."

"No," Ridley shook her head, "Hooch will throw a fit if they aren't put away. You just have to wiggle the handle from side to side a bit."

Calvyn's face screwed up, "Everyone at this school is a wizard, why can't anyone fix a bloody door?"

"Merlin's tits!" Ridley shouted, patience finally wearing thin. A nice squishy chair by the fireplace was calling her name, and this boy she called a friend couldn't open a damn door. "Just open it!"

Grabbing the door handle and giving it a wiggle, Calvyn snorted, "For someone who talks about tits so much, I'm starting to wonder—" An explosion of glittering pink smoke burst from behind the door as it swung open. The pair yelped in surprise, and Ridley watched in shocked awe as the cloud enveloped Calvyn, obscuring his form so that she could only see his trainer clad feet. The cloud had an iridescent shift to it; pink as Ridley looked at it head on, but a pearly white as she moved her head. After a moment of curious silence from Ridley, and a haggard coughing fit from Calvyn, the smoke began to dissolve with a faint sizzling sound. Humming in thought, she watched the shifting mist disappear, leaving her baffled friend in its wake. As the last particles winked out of existence, she queried, "Hey, are you alright?"

Calvyn blinked, and then rubbed at his eyes, "I—Well—I think I'm okay."

He stared at her, his gaze intense and body unmoving. His stillness made her uncomfortable, Ridley was used to seeing the boy fidgeting or fixing his hair or shaking with laughter. This boy in front of her was not the Calvyn she knew. His blonde eyebrows drew together as if he were confused and he rubbed at his eyes again with a groan.

Taking a tentative step forward, Ridley asked gently, "Calvyn, are you sure you're okay?"

With a deep breath, Calvyn ran a hand through his hair and let his shoulders relax, "Yeah, I'm good." There was an easy smile on his face, and he was holding himself in the same arrogant manner as he usually did. Ridley would have been relieved, if it weren't for the sparkle in his eyes.

She took another step closer, this time examining him with a critical gaze. She took him in from his coiffed hair to muddied shoes. Something wasn't right with this picture.

"Oh, Ridley," he cooed, reaching for her right hand. Lacing their fingers together, he chirped, "you're so adorable when you're suspicious."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, "What the fu—"

The words froze in her throat as she felt Calvyn's other hand rest itself on the back of her neck, his fingers threading themselves in the hair at the nape of her neck. Oh Gods, don't let this be happening. Like a deer in headlights, Ridley was powerless to do anything as she watched one of her best friends swoop in, and before she knew it she was kissing Calvyn Neering.

No, Calvyn Neering was kissing her!