Meh. Disclaimers. I seriously wouldn't even begin to imagine these two are my own so much so the life they've taken on.

Cheers to the reviewers; angelface04 – I can but try and keep you happy : ), hpfan000 – thanks for the review, and I do agree, danger.angel is another great AJ author…, and thanks to wayweird and angelina-fan – hugs!

I'm editing each chapter as I go, adding a little here, and curbing a little there, so bear with me. xo

ACT 2 - MONTAGUE

She had wrapped him up in the packaging of her guilt, and decorated him with the ribbons of her lies. Montague was the antithesis of everything that she stood for and he revelled in it.

He had wanted her from the first game of the season, when she had shoved him so hard during a Quidditch match that he actually had to grip onto his broom reasonably tightly to hold on. They had just been rivals before that. Souls that had brushed against each other occasionally, piquing an obnoxious interest in the other, but never enough to spark.

It was a first for him, and had intrigued him enough to belt her hard on his next shot at her. to leave her hanging precariously on her broom. Her team had sworn and raved, and she had just narrowed her eyes at him, promising retribution and more.

A challenge if ever there was one, and Montague was never one wary of throwing the gloves off if asked.

It had also made him look at her more closely – on the premise of sizing up the competition, he had promised himself. Made him notice the lithe form, the glinting eyes and the perfect, wide smile. Made him watch when she bent over to laugh at someone's joke at the dining hall and admire the smooth, contoured line of her figure, albeit if from behind a Daily Prophet or a heavy textbook.

"So if you had to pick one of those birds to shag, which one?" Flint flicked his gaze over to the girl's study table. Their heads were clustered over a scroll, and Katie was trying not to giggle. Angelina however, was having no success at muffling her laughter, and it pealed out across the study hall. She clapped her hand to her mouth and flung a startled, apologetic look at Professor McGonagall.

"Spinnet – I reckon she'd be a goer any day – all that blond hair - wouldn't you like to check out if she's a real blond?" Warrington grinned at the boys and grabbed at his crotch crudely while the rest of them rolled their eyes and grinned.

"Yeah, you know you would!" Warrington laughed at them.

Montague still found his gaze irresistibly drawn to Johnson. As if aware of his gaze, she looked around, and rubbed her neck and the side of her face in irritation.

"I'd want to take a crack at Johnson. That girl's got legs for Africa, and an arse you could - " He paused mid thought as Angelina turned her head sharply, caught his assessing gaze and held it. He threw a mock kiss at her and found his lips curling up in a tenuous shit-eating grin – almost of their own accord.

She flipped him the bird.

And threw a kiss right back at him.

It had made him bait her all the more, fling the most abusive taunts her way he could think of, and every time she would laugh and walk away with that superior look, made him feel like the lowest being alive.

Made him bore holes in her head during potions, and then when she would turn, eyes narrowed, he would just try and stare her down, challenging her to Merlin knows what. He never remembered who won.

Made him almost chuck up when he realised that he fancied her – and not in a little way either, in a 'had to have her' way, that made him want to belt Weasley till he couldn't anymore, and thump all the other bastards who fancied her as well.

It had made him feel something inexplicable, something that he had only ever felt once in his life and then refused to feel again, for 'love' was for cowards, and 'fear', well, fear was the splinter that had hurt, only for a second, when he realised it was something stronger than 'fancy' he felt for her.

"So why aren't you running the gauntlet with all the other Gryffin-whores?" He jerked his head over to where Katie and Alicia were pulling Hermione and Ginny off into the corner of the ballroom, mischievous grins wreathing their faces.

"Well, I've already thrown the glove down here, haven't I?" She retorted, and raised her goblet to take a sip of the pumpkin juice. She looked at him over the rim, and gave a secret little smile that he didn't understand. He wasn't sure whether it was tolerant amusement or a knowing grin about a future prank.

He just flicked an insincere smile at her and threw her the finger.

"Yeah, well, I don't want you here, Johnson. So you should just piss off back to your little lair, or whatever you people call it."

"Well, we call yours the snake pit, so I guess lair isn't too far off." She was wearing a red dress, spaghetti straps looping loosely over her shoulders and mesmerised he watched as one slid off. She slid tipsily nearer him, and he tried to maintain indifference, looking with apparent boredom to either side of himself, and supporting himself with his palms flat against the wall.

No one was watching.

His eyes met hers. She was so close to him that the cup was brushing his tie every so often. He'd never noticed, but her eyes were so dark, they almost looked black.

"What are you playing at Johnson?" He tilted his head down towards her, his tone challenging and this side of snide. Nothing more out of the normal than what he normally used with her.

She actually tilted her head up. He was careful not to start back in surprise. They hadn't broken each others gaze for what seemed like an age, his blue one locked on her black.

Her expression cleared and she put one foot back, rocking on her heel. Never breaking his gaze. Then her lips quirked up in a cute half smile.

"Not something I think I'll win, Montague." She muttered, almost disbelievingly, and under her breath, so quietly that he thought he'd misheard it. She turned, and walked away quickly, a slight sway to her hips that he'd never noticed before, leaving Montague to stare after her bare back with a tattooed thorny black rose winking at him behind the cowl of her dress.

"Fuck me." He whispered to himself, trying as always, when it came to Johnson, to fight down that almost overwhelming surge of lust, confusion and dislike that threatened to overtake him.

And later on, dancing with Parkinson, Bulstrode and Greengrass, he found his eyes always distracted back to the laughing figure in red who always somehow managed to stay in his line of vision.

The bint knew what she was doing, that's for sure. And then, watching her apparent disinterest of him, the negligent little thought eased into his head that maybe, just maybe, it was him who was always tracking her, rather than the other way round.

And that thought, well, that thought just made him want to hurl.