Disclaimer: None of the characters re mine. Cheers to JKR for wonderful peripheral characters we can play with.

Should say a thanks to luckylily for inspiring me with her fantastic fic, Mark of Montague, and some of the other great Angelina writers out there – redcandle17, quiddie15, puddlemere surprise and cupiditatis. Cheers, people : ) and enjoy.

ACT 1 - ANGELINA

She was the good girl made to be broken.

That was always how she liked to think of herself. The perfect Gryffindor. The perfect Quidditch captain. The perfect student. The perfect daughter. The list went on and on for miles in Angelina's head. So she reasoned it out that one little mishap was allowable.

When it became two, she put it down to a hidden weakness that was foreign to her, one that she wouldn't succumb to again.

When it became three she knew that she wasn't the girl she thought she was.

And when it became four – she knew she was in some serious trouble.

"You can't walk away from this - you're trying to run, Johnson and it's getting you no where but a dead-end, sweetheart." He had said it quietly, while they were lying in his bed in London over summer vacation, his words slightly mumbled as he only lifted his lips occasionally from her skin.

She had sat bolt up right and demanded that he stay away from her, that he stop looking at her like that, and Merlin forbid if he ever thought about touching her again.

He had just smirked, one of the many things that enticed her to his sugar and salt personality, and pressed her hard into the bed for an unbearably sweet kiss. "I'll never let you go, Angelina." Each word murmured softly against her skin and punctuated with kisses. She felt the small smile curl his lips rather than saw it. "At least, not without a scene."

That was him in a nutshell, all hard edges, and when you least expected it, his personality chucked a curve ball at you.

Angelina Johnson was a chaser. In all senses of the word. She went after what she wanted and got it. Always. And if it didn't happen that way, she would tweak it so the outcome was to her liking anyway. Being a chaser – she always liked the game. And when it was dangerous, and with a person she hated, all the more fun for her. It was a secret vice that no one knew about her, and one that she hid well, coated in the competition of Quidditch and house rivalry and tempered by the wilder antics of some of her house mates.

"Ange, come on – we're going to miss Hogsmeade if you don't get you arse into gear!" Katie was already pulling Alicia along by her coat as she looked back at Angelina, standing indecisively at the doors of the main hall. Fred and George had already taken the first train in, eager to begin their mischief – after all, a whole day to be had away from Hogwarts – away from any real form of authority…

"I better not go…I've got that Potions essay to do…and some plays to run over."

"Ange," Alicia sang out, "all work and no play, is making you a very dull girl."

She just grinned, stuck her tongue out at them and closed the door. They all knew there would be trips to Hogsmeade a plenty once exams were finished. The smile slipped off her face as she felt a hard, sinewy arm snake around her waist and a voice, low and velvety in her ear, "if only they knew the games you play, Johnson, if only they knew."

And later, lying in his bed, looking at him out of the peripheries of her vision she sees herself falling into something she can't stop. Or won't. And for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.

Casting her eyes down the Gryffindor table she caught the glance Fred was slewing her way. She held his gaze for a couple of moments and then dropped her own. He excited her and at the same time made her feel like she was still waiting for something more. He was sweet, funny, irresponsible – a boy in all senses of the word and he adored her. She slung her eyes hard right and caught the gaze of her arch nemesis. Her dearest enemy. He raised an eyebrow tauntingly and dropped an eyelid at her teasingly. She felt the flush creep up her neck, and slipped her hand up, hoping to staunch it somehow and stop it filtering through.

Bastard. He was nothing but a filthy bastard who was a sadist. A bastard sadist. That's what she would call him the next time she was alone with him. She imagined his smirk of amused surprise that the perfect girl would stoop so low as to swear. He would find it funny and laugh at her until that riled her up even further.

They say that opposites attract. She was scared that if she looked at them closely enough, they would come to the conclusion they weren't that opposite.

He sighed and looked at her, his fingers massaging his temples as if the thought of her with him gave him a headache. Which it probably did. She surmised with a little inner smirk. He tapped the spoon idly against the table, lost for words. Which wasn't that unusual when the subject had nothing to do with Quidditch.

"Do you know what you're doing, Ange?"

"Yes."

"You know who his family is?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the others would kill you if they found out?" Here, her composure broke and she looked at the soft brown eyes, full of compassion at her predicament and - could that be understanding? In the eyes of the boy who almost hated Slytherin's more than he loved Quidditch?

Yes." She whispered softly, and watched as Oliver lay his hand over hers, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"And I know it would kill you if you let him go now, Ange. You're too far gone, love." He sighed again, and slung his arm companionably around her shoulders, pulling her in close.

"Yes…I know." And the little inner smirk dissolved, the inner lip wobbled and bit itself, as it tried to prevent the telltale tears that always came with a revelation of unexpected compassion from an unexpected ally.