By Jayde
Anger. Hate.
It was a tizzy of emotions. A fight broke out in the centre of the Quidditch pitch following the game.
He beat me.
I noticed as we rolled around on the pitch, throwing punches and insults at each other that he smelt of cigarettes and ginger and that pie we had for dessert only hours ago.
I wondered fleetingly if he knew that cigarettes would stain his pretty teeth.
He split my lip with a punch and suddenly stopped, standing up from me, eyes wide, face bruised and beaten (I expect that mine looks much the same) and he runs for the entrance of the pitch. I wondered for days why he ran.
Skip ahead, three months. The Quidditch Final.
Gryffindor verus Slytherin, and not a soul in Hogwarts isn't curious as to the outcome of the match, because if Slytherin wins that means they'll regain the house cup and if Gryffindor wins, that means they'll win again for sure.
I wasn't concerned with Quidditch or house cups. All I could think of was the smell of cigarettes and ginger and that pie we had for dessert all those nights ago.
He's filled my mind and my fantasies. He's become my obsession. Each night I dream about him and I call out his name in my sleep.
My desire to watch him from the stands is in vain, because Ron looks at me like I've gone mad when I ask to skip the game. He tells me I'm the only Seeker for Gryffindor and he'd rather forfeit than try to replace me with only two days before the game.
He thinks I'm afraid of losing again.
I'm not. I want to watch him play.
I watched him when he played Ravenclaw, and he was beautiful. His whole mind was focused on the game for once, because he wasn't playing against me and he didn't have to worry about trying to best me. He was, for once, just playing the game.
He looked so very different when he wasn't trying to hurt me. He looked almost… content.
Now, though, my mind focuses on the game ahead, and I throw myself into the last two days of practice. Ron is amazed. I catch the Snitch after only a few scant minutes each time, but I'm too embarrassed or too afraid to tell Ron that I won't be as focused during the game.
I wonder if he realises what's going on. The way Ron looks at me now, like he knows some deep, dark secret that no one else knows and I realise that he must know because he sleeps in my dorm and must hear me scream out his name every night.
The Snitch couldn't be found for hours, the game lasted well into the night and the teachers had to magically illuminate the pitch for the game to continue. Finally, after eight hours, the damned Snitch appeared out of nowhere in front of my face. My reaction was a fraction of a second too slow, though, and he had it in his hand again.
Skip again, to after the game. We fought again on the pitch and he still smelt the same as I remembered him, except he smelt a bit more like spiced apples than the dessert we had eaten that night but the ginger and the cigarettes were still there.
He split my lip again, but I wouldn't let him leave. I grabbed his arm and kept him there, straddling me, his eyes wide in disbelief.
"You smell like ginger and cigarettes," I told him.
He glanced around him, as if he was afraid that this was one big Gryffindor joke and that Ron and Hermione were going to jump out of the shadows and make fun of him. Silently, he sat atop of me for a long time, as if he was considering, pondering almost, what I had said.
"You smell like mint and soap," he replied, before pressing his lips gently to mine and wrenching his arm out of my grasp. "Midnight, tomorrow," he called over his shoulder as he walked away, "right here. And don't be late!"
I pressed my fingers to my lips, disbelieving, and in almost a daze I stood and stumbled off the pitch. Tonight, I thought, grinning, my dreams will be filled with cigarettes and ginger.