Oliver's Point of View

Watching them on the field, one can't help but admire the co-ordination between Alicia and Katie. Each dive is simultaneous, every increase in speed, however tiny, matched, each play well thought out and instantly communicated, without the benefit of a single word.

It's obvious they have a strong bond. Everyone agrees, Katie is Alicia's best friend, and vice versa. But not everyone knows she's more than her girl friend, she's her girlfriend.

They don't have to kiss in front of me to cement that fact in my mind. Every little thing they do repeats the words over and over in my head "I love her..." That's what Katie said that day, the day I confronted her.

It's not that I have anything against lesbians or anything... it's just that I had hoped Katie wasn't one. I mean, none of the other chasers are, at least not the Gryffindors, though I can't speak for the other houses. Angelina is straight, completely in love with Fred. Alicia is bisexual.

Leave it to me to fall for the one lesbian on the team. Leave it to me to fall for someone who's already fallen as far as someone can, and for someone else.

Seeing them kiss for the first time, I felt my heart break and stomach sink. All hope that it was just a joke or a phase was gone, lost to the fire in Alicia's eyes. I turned away from them, facing instead the brick wall of our changing room.

Katie talked to me about it a day later, promising never to kiss her in front of me again. She didn't know what it was that bothered me so, and I didn't tell her. If I had old, I'd have about a snowflake's chance in hell of even keeping our friendship intact.

So they don't kiss. Even still, it pains me to see them together, or a part. Alicia isn't herself without her. Katie is only half the person I fell in love with without Alicia. It's the little things that bother me when they're together. A bit of lipstick smeared on Katie's collar, matching Alicia's lips; soft whispers in the locker room before a game; the triumphant return to the dormitories, arm in arm, followed by the muffled sounds of an intense night's love making.

I pull the pillow over my head, trying to block the sound. It's hopeless, and I leave, going down the stairs without a word to join the rest of the party, while Fred and Angelina run upstairs, nearly knocking me over, towards their own "Quidditch session."

Sitting on the couch, pounding butterbeers, the pain dulls. I try to get my mind off of her, joking senselessly with George, and telling crazy stories to the first years.

As soon as the laughter ends, my mind goes back to her, and the pain resumes. She's asleep upstairs, tangled in some pretzel like position with Alicia, I bet. She's probably dreaming about her, too.

I can't cry. I won't let myself cry. Crying is for the weak, for the fallen. I'm seventeen, almost a man, too old to cry. A tear runs down my cheek, disobeying my will. It's my own fault for being so stupid.