Settling the Score

Frailty, Thy Name is Andy

I've seen Wood without a shirt on before, I really have.

Sometimes he'd take it off during summer practices — along with the Weasley twins, who always got comically sunburned and freckled — and a whole array of gaggling girls would swing by to watch and disrupt everything. I always remember it being a rather dismissive event.

Nothing more than a slight annoyance.

In fact, I'm rather certain Wood's given one of his little pre-game 'Quidditch-is-Life' speeches while putting on the rest of his uniform, and I only ever remember distantly noticing.

Now, however, for some infuriating reason, I'm finding it inescapably hard to notice anything else.

I continually find my gaze drifting over the hard ridges of muscle rippled over his chest and stomach, giving way to broad, toned shoulders on one end and sharply cut hipbones on the other. They stretch and loosen with every bloody movement he makes, and I'm really starting to wish he would just forget how to breathe.

I wasn't exactly all that well-covered, either, draped in a large, oversized sweater with a hem that skimmed to about mid-thigh. It wasn't that it was a suggestive pajama choice by any means, it was just… uncomfortable. The neckline was loose and tended to slip off my shoulder, and my legs were awfully bare.

"So," he began, breaking me out of my hormones-on-acid staring fest as I wrenched my gaze back up to his. The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly at the movement, obviously realizing what I was so enthralled by and gaining a sense of smug amusement from it all.

My distraught gaze immediately narrowed. "So," I snapped back—hell if I'd be conversational.

His gaze briefly flitted to the floor, smile widening somewhat sardonically at the bite in my voice. I knew any hopes he'd had of making this as pleasant as possible were shattered by my tone, and I was satisfied with that. This night was going to be hell for him.

A rather tense, momentary silence filled the room as we both simply stood there, unsure of what to do or how long we were going to be locked in. After a few seconds, I heard a rustling noise, and I glanced over to see Wood flopping down on the dusty stone floor, legs sprawled before him and head propped against the wall.

A prickling sense of irritation washed through me—why did he look so resigned to this? Maybe the door was loose or the hinges were bad, maybe the lock was faulty or we could find something to pick it with? "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Vegetating, or something equally productive," I snapped.

"Yeah, that's it, for the most part," he agreed.

My eyes narrowed. "Well, I'm going to look for a way out."

He snorted. "Don't bother with it, love, I already checked."

"Well, I'm going check again," I announced stubbornly, swiveling around and surveying my surroundings with a calculative air. "And I'm nobody's 'love', Wood—least of all yours."

I could feel the lazy smirk spread over his lips behind me, making my eyes narrow briefly as they scanned. The room was inescapably cramped, lined with shelves and shelves of boxes and buckets. The only light came from a small, rectangular window high in the corner, which only let a few scattered moonbeams into the room.

Sighing, I began to scout out the boxes that looked potentially helpful, looking for things such as bobby pins or anything thin enough to pick a lock. A hammer would work, too, but that was more for dealing with Wood. I did this for about five minutes or so, getting into a sort of rhythm as I carefully rifled through the boxes, until Wood interrupted me.

"Think you can keep it down?" he called from behind me, eyes closed and body sprawled over the floor carelessly.

My eyes narrowed at the comment, and without missing a beat, I flicked my wrist to the side, sending a bucket full of cleaning supplies hurtling off the shelf and crashing against the floor. "Oops."

I could feel his eyes snap open into a glare behind me, but I paid it no mind, taking a few steps back from the shelving and sweeping my eyes over it in general assessment. Nothing of use was within my reach.

"Do you think you could find it within yourself to—oh, I don't know—help?" I grumbled over my shoulder, nodding my head at the higher shelves indicatively.

"Merlin, Wiles, I already looked, there's nothing," he replied irritably, not even bothering with opening his eyes. He looked like he was sodding meditating.

"What the hell are you doing anyway?"

"Just trying to clear my head."

I snorted. "Can't imagine that would be too difficult."

A bitter smile curled itself onto his lips, eyes still closed. "Your charm astounds me more and more everyday."

I tossed him a falsely sweet smile, "What can I say? Your sweet, sunshine-y disposition just brings it out of me." Smile crumpling into a glower as his sardonic grin widened, I swiveled back to face the cramped shelving, wishing Filch had a little more excitement in his life. Maybe then he'd have more than broken rags, tattered mops, and dried up brooms stored in here.

Up in the far left, I saw something thin and rod-like gleaming in the moonlight, though one attempt on my tip-toes was all it took to tell me that I was out of my height league. That looked like it could potentially pick a lock—it was certainly long enough. I scowled, placing my hands on my hips as I gauged the distance. It wasn't completely impossible, I just needed some… leverage.

And my leverage was half-asleep behind me, trying to reach sodding Nirvana.

Wheeling around halfway, I parted my lips to make Wood open his sodding eyes already and wake the hell up, though to my surprise, they were already open. Lazy and heavy-lidded, they were—

…it almost looked like they were—

…like they were flitting down the length of my legs.

But only for the briefest moment. I only had a millisecond to take notice before they flickered back up to my gaze, characteristically dark and noncommittal. I stared at him, expression puzzled and distinctly caught off-guard.

"Something wrong?" he drawled, raising a brow. He had the sodding nerve to look mocking.

"I—no—yes." I'm rather brilliant at this whole formulating sentences thing.

His lips curved at the corners, more so on one than the other, making them lopsided. "Well?"

"I—" want to know why you were staring at my legs "—can't reach…"

His brow furrowed. "Can't reach…?" he trailed off, motioning with his hand for me to continue.

"The box," I clarified, finally snapping out of my daze, "I can't reach the box—it's the one on the top shelf."

His gaze shifted over to the highest rack on the shelving, dragging down the length until it found the box I was talking about. It was shoved all the way into the corner, as inconveniently located as physically possible.

"And you think I can? That about ten and half feet up, Wiles," he pointed out, tone dismissive.

"Yeah, but what's six feet plus five feet and six and a half inches?" I asked pointedly, crossing my arms. He parted his lips to respond, though I promptly interrupted him, "More than ten and half, that's what—so get up."

"You're only five foot six?" he queried with a humorous drawl, stalling on the ground like the lazy prick that he was.

"Five foot six and a half—and for your information, that's fairly tall for a girl," I replied curtly, tossing him a pointed look as he continued to dawdle. "Get up!"

He sighed, rolling his eyes before making a big old show out of standing. He rustled around, stretching and yawning unnecessarily, making the hard ridges of his abs ripple and contract alongside the smooth, tanned curves of his arms. I purposefully averted my stare, scoffing to myself—self-loving wanker.

"Just for the record, I'm six foot two," he drawled somewhat cockily after finally having gotten to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached me.

"Two inches, same difference," I muttered, waving my hand carelessly.

He snorted, coming to a halt at my side. "Yeah, clearly your half an inch is far more important."

"It's all about priorities," I replied arbitrarily, noting that he was still kneading his neck. I raised a brow, but didn't comment. "Alright, so ju—wh—AGH—what are you doing?"

Before I could even complete my pseudo-sentence, Wood had curled his hands around either side of my waist, hauling me up and onto his shoulder.

"I'm lifting you, what does it look like I'm doing?" he retorted, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. Which, if you think about it, it kind of is, but that's beside the point.

"I—yes, well clearly, but—"

He shifted me slightly on his shoulder, causing me to squawk insanely attractively and grab onto his other shoulder for balance. Sensing my unsteadiness, he lifted one hand to the small of my back, bringing the other to my calves and holding them firmly against his chest.

"What—did you have something else in mind?" he asked pointedly as I struggled to stay steady, though I swore I could detect the slightest hint of satisfied amusement in his tone. My eyes narrowed briefly—I hated being treated like bloody entertainment.

"I was thinking more of a 'you kneel down on the ground and I use you as a stool' kind of thing," I gritted out irritably, not at all comfortable with my lack of balance, lack of distance from him, and lack of sodding clothing, "but I guess this'll have to work."

"A simple 'thank you' would be more than enough, really," he muttered sarcastically, carelessly edging his way to the corner of the room as if there weren't one hundred and twenty five pounds of irritated girl on his shoulder.

I wobbled back and forth a bit as he moved, finding it ridiculous that I could handle a five-hundred foot dive on a broom but not a harmless, six foot—excuse me, six foot two—little ride on Wood's shoulder. I tightened my grip briefly as he took a step slightly faster than the rest, perhaps maybe accidentally using a tiny bit of nail.

He hissed shortly, his grip on my calf moving up ever so slightly as he tossed me a glower. "Do you think you could refrain from digging your nails into me?"

"Do you think you could refrain from randomly speeding up?" I retorted tetchily as he began easing to a halt, wondering why this whole situation was messing entirely with my sense of balance.

"I wasn't randomly speeding up."

"You're steps got faster out of nowhere!"

"Barely—"

"Enough to knock me off balance!"

"You're a sodding Seeker, Wiles, I think you can handle it!"

I stiffened somewhat on his shoulder, eyes hardening coldly. His muscles tensed somewhat as he came to a halt, and I knew he realized his mistake. "Don't you mean I was a sodding Seeker?"

My tone was icily cool, and I could feel the mindless bickering mood of the room tense. The question needed no answer, though he probably wouldn't have given me one even if it did. Instead, he simply cleared his throat, motioning to the shelf with a nod of his head.

Pansy, I thought with a darkening scowl, if you're going to do something, you might as well live up to it. Scoffing silently, I tore my gaze back over to the shelf, relocating the box with the gleaming metal rod in the darkness.

It still looked slightly out of reach, but worth a try.

Reaching forward, I extended my hand toward the flimsy cardboard, scowling as my fingers just barely brushed the smooth brown flap. I tried again, brushing the surface yet again, though I couldn't catch hold of enough of the flap to pull the box forward.

"Can we get a little closer?" I called below me, to which Wood took the smallest step in the history of small steps in response.

"That's as close as it gets, Wiles."

I glowered, sighing irritably as I once again reached forward—he might as well have not even moved. Fixing my gaze back on the stupid box, which was so incredibly close, I glared, staring it down. I'm going to get this sodding box.

Throwing caution to the wind, I once again leaned forward, though this time I felt myself lifting off of his shoulder—further and further until the flap was right there, perfectly in reach, right between my fingers, clamped within my grip—

Then Wood's hand quickly swept from my calf to my upper thigh, rough fingers pressing into my bare skin to keep me from losing my balance.

…

And that's exactly what it made me do.

I jolted about five inches into the air, sending both of us completely topsy-turvy as he struggled to regain some sort of steadiness. Stubbornly refusing to let go of the box, which was a horrible plan in retrospect, I accidentally hauled it off the shelf as Wood toppled a few steps backward, completely off-balance.

"Bloody—ARGH!"

It went sprawling backwards into the black abyss, pulling me with it until I had enough sodding sense to let go, though the damage was already done. Wood was stumbling backwards blindly—my hand had somehow made its way to his eyes in the chaos of it all—and cursing uncontrollably, trying to regain his balance and keep me from falling off at the same time.

"Damn it, Wiles—!"

"Sorry! I—shit!"

"Bloody—FUCK!"

He stumbled backwards into the godforsaken box, which sent both of us flying backwards into the darkness in a series of strangled expletives and tangled limbs. Somewhere between falling and making contact with the ground, Wood managed to haul me down from his shoulder, pulling me against his chest in an attempt to break my fall.

We both landed with a painful 'oomph', though mine was considerably softer due to the fact that Wood became a landing mat of sorts. Crashing against him, I was fairly certain I elbowed him in the stomach, though everything was far too chaotic to be completely sure.

The box went flying backwards a few feet before finally screeching to a halt, the rusty rod scraping against the ground with the lovely shriek of metal on stone. It left a ringing, lingering silence in its wake, punctuated only by the sound of my heart thrashing within my ribcage and heavy breathing.

For a moment, we both simply lay there, breathless, aching, and hopelessly entangled. I could feel Wood's chest rising and falling rapidly beneath my body, his hand draped protectively across my waist, breath warm against the back of my neck.

Unexpected goosebumps arose on the exposed skin of my shoulder, as if sensing the dangerous proximity of his lips. If he shifted, even just the slightest bit, they would brush against the skin of my neck, and the thought made my whole body grow inexplicably warm.

After a moment, a low groan rumbled from his throat, vibrating against my skin as he lulled his head to the side, burying it in my hair. "Wiles?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and strangled, murmur sounding precariously close to my ear.

"Mm?" My body felt skittish for some reason—every brain cell in my head was screaming at me to get the hell off him, but my muscles refused to move.

His breathing was raspy beneath me, voice unusually husky and tight, "Could you have possibly picked a worse place to elbow?"

"Oh… right, sorry about your stomach…"

He grunted somewhat painfully, shifting beneath me. "It was a bit south of there, love…"

My eyes widened enormously, lips parting in mortified horror as my body finally jolted back to reality. Within an instant, I had rolled myself off of him, scrambling into a sitting position beside him as he winced. "I—didn't—I mean—it wasn't—"

"Intentional?" he growled raspily, face somewhat contorted. A pained grin twisted itself onto his lips, torturous and wry. "I don't know if I believe you."

Not catching onto the veiled humor in all my flustered idiocy, my expression crumpled, shaking my head vehemently. "No, I swear—I mean normally, it probably would've been on purpose because usually you're being a right prick about everything and I want to throttle you, but this time it was a complete accident—I mean you broke my sodding fall, for Merlin's sake, you were like a human pillow—not that you were all that soft, in all honesty, you were actually quite hard—"

…

So.

I dig myself into holes. I don't know if you've noticed, but I do it quite often, and usually, things get inescapably awkward.

Kind of like right now.

"I… I didn't mean—"

"Didn't mean what?" Wood drawled, voice still raspy—only he could get bloody elbowed in the groin and still have the uncanny ability to pack mockery into every syllable.

Eyes narrowing irritably, I met his gaze.

For a moment, I was caught by the expression on his face; one I saw often, but generally not so close up. He had a dark brow raised, sharpening the cutting angles of his face in the scattered shadows. His lips were curled ever so slightly at the ends, and his dark, wry eyes were lidded somewhat heavily from the fall.

Granted, his features were a bit more strained than usual due to… well, circumstances… but they managed to look just as roguish and infuriating as ever. In fact, they almost looked… suggestive.

But then again, given the subject matter, they had every right to. "Don't be thick, Wood—you know what I'm referring to," I muttered, snapping out of my observational moment as I shuffled to my feet.

"No, I," he began, grunting as he struggled to prop himself up, "I actually don't, Wiles—care to elaborate?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, once again averting my gaze from his stretching and contracting muscles—they were really becoming a bit of a problem. "Not really."

His smile twisted sardonically. "You sure know how to thank someone for saving your life."

My eyes veered into a roll, "Wow, that's not melodramatic at all."

He cocked his head to the side slightly, torso propped up by his elbows. "You know, you're really terrible at saying thank you," he observed, tone unexpectedly critical. Something had shifted in his gaze—from teasing to somewhat judgmental.

I snorted derisively, "Maybe because I've never had anything to thank you for." The retort was sarcastic, though deep down, I knew he had a bit of a point: he had just taken a fall twice as hard for me.

I didn't know why, exactly—he certainly didn't seem to care about my health when he made me do all sorts of insane exercises as punishment for petty infractions—but the fact was that he did, and I was going to have to say thank you one way or another.

"No—remember that one time in the Observatory when I fixed your telescope for you?" he asked, raising a brow critically.

My gaze flattened, eyes growing cool. "You mean when you called me a petty princess whose only chance of getting back on the team was by trying out again, and even then it wasn't likely?" I arched a sharp brow, lips pursing. "Vividly."

"Fine," he sighed, lifting his palm in mock surrender. "Touché."

"I certainly thought so."

He scoffed tiredly, bringing his hand back up to his neck and wincing as he rubbed it. "You know, I really don't understand why I try to argue with you."

"Me neither, in all honesty."

"That's not a compliment, Wiles," he clarified, locking his gaze with mine, "it just means you always obscure my point entirely by throwing in some irrational detail and focusing on that instead."

"Yeah, I can see how mentioning the fact that you told me off that night was just an 'irrational detail' that had nothing to do with the argument," I agreed sarcastically, to which he merely sighed, shaking his head.

"Nevermind, forget it—seeing the bigger picture is clearly not your forte."

"And creating a sound argument clearly isn't yours."

He lulled his head back, veering his eyes skyward irritably. "I said forget it—just let it go."

I snorted sardonically. "Yeah, easy to say when you're losing the fight."

"Alright, whatever, fine."

"So you admit—"

"Wiles," he interjected sharply, cutting his silencing gaze over to mine, "just drop it."

I held his glare for a moment, forcing my lips shut. My tongue was itching for the last word, jaw clenched and comebacks racing through my head, though I somehow managed to keep them at bay. I didn't want to give him any more reason to patronize me.

"Thank you," he finally muttered, tilting his head to the side as if to unclench a kinked muscle.

"You're welcome." I couldn't help it—my mouth has a sodding mind of its own. He merely tossed me a look, gaze flat and condescending, before glancing away and bringing his hand back to his neck.

I watched him knead the muscles in his neck for a moment, knowing I had to thank him one way or another before the night was over. If anything, just to prove him wrong—I could bloody say thank you.

Deep down, I knew I was being horribly immature about this whole thing—he took a fall for me, after all, there was no getting around it—but it was just that fact that it was… well, Wood… that was making it so sodding difficult.

"What'd you do to your neck?" I found myself asking, impatient with the silence and needing time to stall.

"I haven't exactly been sleeping all that well for the past few days," he explained, wincing as he hit a particularly sore spot, "I've been up trying to think of new game plans now that you… well…"

He trailed off, sensing that the topic could get tense and instinctively steering away from it. "I just haven't been sleeping well."

He inhaled sharply as he hit a knot, eyes narrowing into a wince, and I simply rolled my eyes, striding over to where he was sprawled and kneeling down behind him. "Move," I muttered, smacking his hand away from his neck pettily and bringing my hands to his shoulders.

He seemed surprised at first, back tensing under the touch of my fingers, though after taking his shoulders into my palms and applying a fair bit of pressure, he slowly began relaxing into my grip. He certainly wasn't exaggerating about how tense his back was—he had knots clenched deep within his muscles that were stiffening his whole body.

My brow furrowed as I concentrated on his neck, kneading known pressure points with my fingers. A barely audible groan of pleasure rumbled from his throat as I hit a particularly stiff area, making my lips curve with satisfaction. "And you said I couldn't say thank-you."

He lulled his head to the side as I loosened the knot, clearly enjoying it. "I've always been a fan of show, not tell."

I merely rolled my eyes, continuing to ease the stiffened tension in his neck as I focused on the areas I knew stress affected most. He groaned yet again, eyes falling closed. "Where'd you learn how to give such a damn good massage, Wiles?"

"It's not about the massage, really," I replied, shifting forward to apply more pressure on the base of his neck, "it's just about knowing where pressure points are. My mum's a Biology teacher, so I know my way around the human body."

"You certainly do," he drawled thoughtlessly, neither of us really catching the subtly sexual undercurrent running in the exchange. "So your mum's a muggle?"

I couldn't help but grin sardonically, an image of my mother swimming in my head. Same dark, curly hair, same impetuous attitude, same utter abhorrence for high-heeled shoes, "She's as muggle as it gets."

"Why do you say that?"

My grin widened into a smile, fingers still dutifully kneading. "Well, she's completely clueless about magic—I mean, she knows I'm a witch and everything of course—but her outlook on life is so sodding scientific that she couldn't possibly try to even understand this world."

Wood nodded slowly, idly listening. "What about your Dad—is he a muggle too?"

"No, not at all," I responded, slowly easing my hands away from his neck and venturing downward, "he came from this uptight pureblood family that I'm pretty sure he has nothing to do with anymore."

"You're pretty sure?" he repeated, tone somewhat skeptical as he rolled back his shoulders, stretching them out. "Wouldn't you know?"

"I don't actually see him all that much, in all honesty," I admitted, not exactly sure why I felt so at ease at the moment, talking about my family life with Wood of all people, "he and my mum were only together for a little bit before… well, before they couldn't stand each other any longer, really."

"Sounds sort of rough."

I shrugged, spreading my hands across the broad width of his back, "Not really, I was little—I mean, I would've liked to have him around more growing up, don't get me wrong—but you just… get used it. I actually see my step-mum more than I see him, because she's really big on the whole family thing. After she had a son, she couldn't have anymore children, so she likes to pretend I'm the daughter she never had. She's thrilled by how girly I turned out," I added sarcastically.

He nodded yet again, parting his lips to say something, though a sharp hiss promptly cut through his words as I reached a pinched nerve. I eased my pressure somewhat, trying to lessen the brief pain, though I couldn't help but raise a brow at the state of his back. "Have you even been sleeping in a bed, Wood?"

He snorted sardonically. "Bed—what's that?"

I shook my head, feeling oddly motherly as I continued to work my way down, now reaching the center of his back. "You really need to get to bed earlier—or at all, really—your back's a wreck."

"I dunno, maybe I should just be nice to you more often—then you can be my own personal masseuse," he drawled, and I could sense the grin curling the ends of his lips as I snorted.

"I wouldn't count on it," I replied, upping the pressure of my fingers slightly, "though I'm a fan of the whole 'be nice' plan."

"Oh, c'mon, Wiles, I'm niceto you—"

I practically choked, my fingers coming to halt on his back. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not," he replied indignantly, swiveling halfway on his torso to face me, "there are plenty of times when I've been nice to you."

I let my hands drop from his back, crossing them over my chest instead. "Name one."

"Well," he began, gaze leaving mine as he racked his brain for an answer, "there… I mean, there's that time when… or no, wait…"

My lips curled into a flat smirk. "That's what I thought."

"Just hold on—if you're going to put me on the spot, you have to give me a second," he demanded, brow furrowing as his stare flitted downward, determined and pensive.

I merely watched him struggle to dig something up, satisfied expression settled over my features. Perhaps now he'd gain a sense of just how much of a prick he could be.

Suddenly, his gaze shot back up, triumphant smile in place. "Third Year."

My brows shot up disbelievingly. "Third Year? You had to go all the way back to Third sodding Year to find the last time you were nice to me? Does that tell you nothing at all?"

"It's not 'that last time I was nice to you', Wiles, it's just something I happen to remember at the moment," he retorted, tone slightly irritated.

"Well, what exactly did you do, then?"

His grin returned. "I helped you up."

My brows knitted, eyes flickering with confusion. "You helped me up?"

"I helped you up."

"…from what?"

"It was Third Year—your Second Year, I s'pose, and it was our first Quidditch practice. You were the team's brand new Seeker, and like the epitome of grace that you are, you fell on your arse barely five minutes into the whole thing. Of course, I, being the gallant, debonair gentleman that I am—"

"—helped me up," I concluded, vaguely remembering the moment—if he hadn't of mentioned it, I wouldn't of even realized it had been him who offered me a hand. "That was back before we even knew each other, Wood."

"Exactly," he agreed, though a hint of teasing was crinkling his eyes. "I had no idea how big of a stubborn cow you'd turn out to be."

I pulled a 'ha-ha' face, rolling my eyes, though the corners of my lips lifted slightly. "Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises."

Wood snorted, muttering something along the lines of 'Right."

Something about his tone made my eyes narrow—it was unexpectedly patronizing. "What?"

His gaze flickered back over to mine, frank and somewhat amused. "Well, nothing, it's just you're one of the most predictable people I know."

My eyes narrowed further. "How am I predictable?"

"I'd tell you, but you'd only get angry and deny everything."

"No, I wouldn't," I tossed back, tone distinctly irritated.

He raised a brow. "Kind of like that—but just forget about it."

"No, I want to know how I'm predictable." Something told me nothing good could come from pressing the issue, though I found myself doing it anyway.

"Well, for one thing, you never let anything go," he said pointedly, tossing me a look as I parted my lips to deny. Catching the implication, I managed to snap them shut irritably, to which he merely smirked. "Very good."

"Wanker."

"You always want the last word," he continued, lips curving further at my struggle not to say anything, lest I prove him right. "You're also ridiculously easy to get a rise out of—you get stroppy about the most predictable things."

"Wha—no I don't—"

"Viper has a better Brislow Dive than you do."

"ARE YOU SODDING KIDDING M—"

Wood's lips curled into an instant smirk, brow arching mockingly. My lips snapped shut tightly in anger, eyes burning—I was quickly coming to the conclusion that I didn't like this little game. Clearing my throat, I tried to keep my temper from flaring, restricting my tone to one of forced politeness. "What I meant was: I'm not in agreement with your opinion."

"Right, of course."

"In a complete non-stroppy way."

"Sure."

"Yeah."

"Great."

"Mm-hmm."

"Is this you not trying to get the last word?" he asked, clearly amused.

I bristled, tilting up my chin indignantly. "I just like closure, is all."

He eyed me with a skeptical look of amusement, shaking his head briefly. "Call it what you'd like."

I bit down hard on my tongue to keep a retort at bay, letting the window for the last word go by without speaking. After a brief silence, I raised a brow. "So, is that it, then? Because, really, you haven't proved anything."

He smirk widened as he tilted his head to the side, gaze scrutinizing. "Well, I know for a fact that you can't take a compliment."

My eyes narrowed, mood getting steadily sourer with every word. "What are you talking about? Of course I can take a compliment."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

"You have extremely pretty eyes, Wiles."

I scoffed by default, my body immediately reacting negatively—he merely smirked. "No, Wood—feeding me a line in order to prove yourself right doesn't qualify as a compliment."

"Who says I was feeding you a line?"

I tossed him a tetchy look, though he ignored it as yet another brilliant example of my predictability struck him. "Oh, right—whenever you're angry, you do this strange thing with your mouth where you—well, I don't know how to describe it, really, but… actually, you're doing it right now."

My gaze flattened. "Imagine that."

"You also can't take a joke for the life of you," he continued, undeterred by my spiraling irritation. "I've lost count of how many times you've snapped at me for something I was completely kidding about."

"A direct reflection of how devastatingly funny you are."

"And you're relentlessly sarcastic—I can practically predict your responses by now," he pressed on mindlessly, tone infuriatingly patronizing. "Oh, and you're always stroppy in the mornings."

"How would you even kno—"

"And in terms of Quidditch, I mean…" he trailed off, not even noticing the instantaneous sharpening of my gaze. My whole body tensed as a slow smile spread over his lips—this was dangerous territory. "I can call your every move, Wiles."

My shoulders were tense and stiff; when he was my captain, he had every right to dole out constructive criticism (although it was hardly ever constructive, really)—but now that he'd so graciously given up that right, I was not about to take a slew of insults. Quidditch was still quite the sore subject with me, and calling a player predictable is practically the worst insult there is.

"Not necessarily to other teams, just to me," he explained casually, either gloriously unaware of my spiraling anger or unable to bring himself to care. "After four years of being on the same team, your moves have become so easy to read—high risk, low chance of a positive outcome."

My skin was starting to prickle with simmering anger. "Right, because I never won you a game, Wood."

"Oh, no, no, don't get me wrong, you pull it off," he corrected, raising the palms of his hands, though a derisive sort of chuckle rumbled from the back of his throat. "Granted, I have no idea how."

I almost choked out a disbelieving laugh. Was he kidding? Talent, maybe? Skill? Practice? Did he honestly not recognize anyof those? "Yeah, I can't possibly imagine how I've had any success," I gritted out.

He nodded vaguely in agreement, clearly not catching the sarcasm. "I mean, you're extremely all-or-nothing—but somehow, you almost always manage to get 'all' rather than 'nothing', it's uncanny."

"Somehow," I echoed, tone bitingly bitter. "Somehow, because it's completely inexplicable, right?"

"Pretty much, I mean, to pull such sporadic maneuvers and get lucky every time is rather unheard of," he prattled off, oblivious to the instant fire that roared to life in my eyes. Get lucky? Sporadic? Did he have any idea how much bloody time I devoted to perfecting those so-call 'random' techniques? All the midnight hours, the burning muscles, the sweat and blood it took to 'get lucky' every bloody time?

"You know what—"

"But I mean, besides that, even at practices you're predictable," he continued, moronically ignorant. "You're always five minutes late, you always tie your hair up instead of paying attention as I break down the warm-ups, and you always screw up them up because you weren't listening."

My eyes were burning as his lips curled into a subtle smirk. "Blimey, that was aggravating. And that's not even getting into the strategy meetings—sodding hell, you make the same comment about later practices every single time. You don't even bother with changing the wording, either, you just spit it right out in between suggestions that are actually practical…"

I was practically seething by this point—nothing about having December practices at six in the sodding morning was practical, especially during weekdays, when we had tests to study for and classes to go to. Enough was bloody enough—this just turned into an excuse for Wood to sit there and rattle off insults.

"I mean, really—the way you act with me, with your friends, with Quidditch, it's all so damn easy to read, you're like an open book," he observed, scoffing in amusement. "In fact, I dare you to do something unpredicta—"

I don't exactly know what snapped within me. Maybe it was the blatant challenge he was issuing, maybe it was pent up anger from my emotional meltdown, and maybe it was just long, long overdue—but before he could even finish his sentence, my hand had collided against his cheek, cutting through the room with a slicing crack.

"Predict that!" I snapped, letting my building anger and aggravation flood over me as I pushed myself off the floor, shuffling to my feet.

"Fucking hell, Wiles!" he growled, his eyes—bright amber and clearly incensed—snapping back over to mine. He too got to his feet, stance tall and demanding of an answer. "What the hell was that for?"

"Oh, let's think about this, shall we?" I wondered over-brightly, scrunching my face in mock-thought. "You sit their like the self-righteous git that you are, insulting every aspect of my personality that you can think of—what I gathered was irrational, immature, no sense of humor, bitchy, irresponsible, and frivolously stubborn—then you have the sodding nerve to call me a predictable Quidditch player, which happens to be one of the worst bloody things you can be as a Seeker, since the whole damn point is to keep your opponent guessing, and then," I trilled, though my expression promptly flattened into one of total disdain, "you did what you always bloody do."

"And what's that?" he demanded, still preoccupied with the fact that I'd actually slapped him.

"Undermine me," I growled coldly, gaze level with his. "During practices, during games, during anything even resembling a conversation, you find a way to take something I've worked hard for and value and turn it into something that means nothing—something I manage to 'get lucky' in from time to time."

Recognizing the use of his own words, his stubborn retort dissolved on his tongue, and his head began shaking quickly. "No, I didn't mean that yo—"

"This isn't the first time, Wood," I cut in, running right over his words. "You do it so often, it's almost predictable—you know, predictable, your new favorite word? In fact, maybe it's time to analyze you, and find out just how predictable youare."

"Wiles—"

"Don't even try it—you got your chance to tear me apart, and now I'm sure as hell getting mine," I growled, seeing the flicker of hesitance in his gaze—he knew this couldn't go anywhere good. "You're predictably a prick every time you're near me, you predictably criticize everything I do, and you predictably go into sodding convulsions if you're not in total control of everyone and everything around you."

His brow furrowed, though he surprisingly remained silent. "You're obsessed with forming a game-plan and sticking with it no matter what, because the idea of deviating from it or bending the rules a bit would never even cross your bloody mind," I ranted, tone sharp and accusing. "In fact, you absolutely refuse to recognize anyone's success unless they got it by following your little plan—you see no value whatsoever in taking risks, throwing caution to the wind!"

"Wiles."

"And you know what? That doesn't really work for me, because I happen to like a bit of risk! Taking chances makes things more exciting," I spelled out for him, tone caustic. "And if you think I haven't caught onto the fact that you loathe that about me, that you seethe inside whenever I catch the Snitch by pulling a move that isn't in your precious little playbook, that involves a bit of danger, then you really aren't giving me enough credit." My gaze slitted coldly, "Not that that'd be anything new."

His eyes were darker than usual as they bore into mine, lips curved into a deep frown. "Are you done?"

"No," I asserted, not really having anything planned but just going with it. "In fact, I'm nowhere near done. You take yourself way too seriously, Wood, and that excess of bloody self-importance makes you treat others—namely me—with far less respect than they deserve. You think leadership means having a death grip on everyone around you, epitomizing responsibility and never letting loose, but you know what?" I asked, taking a step closer, eyes fiery.

His stare was shadowed and hard as it held mine, the angles of his jaw line tense. My eyes were galling slits, "One of these days, something's bound to happen that you won't have any shred of control over, something that you can't just get rid of by kicking off your little team—and you're going to learn the hard way that this isn't 'The World According to Oliver'," I growled, eyes trained on his, "this is reality—and it doesn't give a damnabout what you have to say."

For a moment, we merely stared at each other. Tension hung in the air like old, velvet curtains, thick and heavy and swallowing. The intensity of the room was far too intoxicating to be uncomfortable—we were swallowed in it. Wholly and completely consumed.

Wood's eyes were burning with something that I couldn't quite decipher—it was something completely unprecedented, something that made his eyes molten. I knew none of the things I was saying were pleasant to hear, but at the same time, a faint sense of intuition told me there was more to that particular expression. Something slightly more… well, just, more.

"So, in conclusion, Wood," I managed to say, finally breaking the ringing silence, "it seems to me that you're really bloody predictable. In fact," I paused, gaze slitting, "I dare you to do something unpredictable."

The buzzing sense of satisfaction that came along with giving someone the telling-off they'd been asking for started to flood my veins, though something about the off-beat, inscrutable expression in his eyes was stilting the feeling. Why did he look so bloody troubled? I just did exactly what he did to me, but it seemed like I'd hit a target that was a bit deeper than intended. What it was, I had no idea, but it was there.

It almost made me even angrier—he could insult me without a care in the world, and I try to do the same, and a looming sense of guilt tries to shatter the soaring feeling of vindication. It almost wasn't even worth it, to let my anger overcome me and let it all out if I was going to feel this. I didn't it know what the feeling was, exactly, but it most definitely exhausted me. I'd just had enough.

After a moment, his gaze flitted downward, his lips parting to say something, though he promptly froze.

I raised a brow, guarded yet still somewhat alarmed by the sudden movement. "Wh—"

"Shhh," he demanded, raising a hand to silence me. My eyes narrowed, though curiosity got the better of me as I fell silent.

"…my sweet, are you leading me to good-for-nothin' miscreants? The students here, Mrs. Norris, they're vermin—vermin for you to play with, if I be havin' it my way…"

My eyes widened slightly as I recognized the wheezy voice of Filch, the gnarled Caretaker who put dung beetles over children on a likeability scale. A surge of adrenaline shot through me—meddling and sadistic though he was, he could get us out of here, he could get me out of here; out of this mess, away from this jerk, just out!

"OI, FIL—hmmphf!"

My eyes incensed for probably the seventy-fifth time in the past hour as Wood's hand came crashing down over my mouth, muffling my cry for help as he met my outraged glare with his own. "Are you mental?" he hissed. "If Filch finds us in here, we'll both get detention for months!"

Wrenching my head to the side, I managed to free my mouth from his hands, glare still in tact. "You know, at this point, detention sounds like paradise compared to a whole night with you," I snarled, barely hesitating a moment before throwing my head back and yelling "FIILL—mmmm!"

This time, his hand clamped over my mouth with far more force, his other hand pulling me against him roughly so that he could better counteract my angry struggling. "Damn it, Wiles, don't you get it?" he growled into my ear, voice low but furious, "I get detention for a month, I can't play during the Slytherin final—hell, I can't even help the team bloody practi—"

Before he could finish, I jabbed my elbow back, hitting him square in the lower ribs and throwing him off just enough to free myself from his grasp. Deep down, I knew his points were logical, but I just wanted more than anything to get out of the stale, cramped room—seeing a window of opportunity to escape induced a frightening sense of claustrophobia, like it was either now or never. I'd take the full blame if I had to, I just wanted out, damn it!

"FIIILLLC—" I tried again, though before I could finish, Wood had wrenched me backward by my wrist, my back once again crashing against his chest.

"Shut the hell up, Andy!" he whispered harshly, keeping me pressed against him as he made to once again block my mouth, though I easily dodged it as I screamed again.

"HEEELL—"

Unable to muffle the noise enough, he grabbed my chin, wrenching it to the side roughly to meet his gaze. The abrupt motion cut me off, though it was more than just surprise that kept me silent for a moment longer.

His face was dangerously close. Far closer than it had ever been, even that time when we were fighting over my diary in the dormitory, and it made my pulse grow jagged. His eyes were burning into mine, full of anger and warning.

"Wiles—"

"Doesn't the idea of not being able to play crush you?" I suddenly asked, tone seething. "Doesn't it make absolutely everything seem inconsequential, because everything you've worked for amounts to nothing?" My voice shook with anger as I spoke, hoping for once, now that his position was at stake, he would realize just how much he'd taken away from me.

His gaze flickered momentarily, holding on to mine, though he promptly began shaking his head. "This is beyond you and me, Andy—there's no time to find another Keeper, the match is next week."

I merely held my glare, knowing the decision I was making was a selfish one, but at the same time, one that did to him exactly what he'd done to me. One that he bloody deserved. "Don't flatter yourself, Wood—they'll survive." And with that, I screamed bloody murder at the top of my lungs.

Word cursed violently under his breath, struggling to silence me, though it was to no avail—my voice was resonating off the walls. He was still angling my face with his hand, frustrated and furious, though after a moment, his eyes flashed with something glinting. Impulsive. Dangerous.

"You know what, Wiles," Wood hissed lividly, tilting my face close, "you want bloody unpredictable?" Something within me recognized the threat in the fury of his tone, making me hesitate ever so slightly, though right as I took a deep breath to continue screaming, he growled, "Well, here you fucking go."

And just as quickly as my screech began, it ended, for Wood's silencing mouth had roughly captured mine.